From the foregoing characteristic conversation between Mike Riley and his friend, Ned Flynn, it would appear pretty evident that the blind boy's shaft,
"Feathered with pleasure and tipped with pain,"
was fast embedded in the heart of the latter, or in plainer and not less expressive phrase, he was bothered entirely by Miss Nelly Malone.
During an interval of rest from mowing, the dialogue took place; that over, they resumed their labor; the convalescent "married man" humming a sprightly air, which kept time to the stroke of his scythe, while the poor wounded deer, Ned, came in now and then with an accompaniment of strictly orthodox sighs.
It certainly was a most extensive smite on the part of pretty Nell; and a nobler heart never beat under crimson and gold, than the honest, manly one which now throbbed with the first ardor of a passion pure and unselfish. A short time longer, and they rested again. Ned was sad and silent; and the never-forgotten respect, which makes suffering sacred in the eyes of an Irish peasant, kept Mike mute also; at last, Ned, with a half downcast, whole sheepish expression, said, the ghost of a smile creeping over his features:
"Mike, do you know what?"
"What?" said Mike.
"I've writ a song about Nelly."
"No," rejoined his friend, with that ambiguous emphasis which might as well mean yes. Adding, with dexterous tact, "Is it a song? An' why the mischief shouldn't you; sure an' haven't you as illigant a heart to fish songs up out as anybody else? Sing us it."
"I'm afeard that you'll laugh if I do, Mike."