"Well, then, kiss me, and go to bed," replied Bridget. "Ho! ho!" thought she, "there's something curious about Peg to-night. I think what I think, and if I think right, I'm no woman if I don't find out before I sleep." Craftily she changed the conversation, abused the women's dresses, and criticised their complexions, especially the pretty ones. At last, when she had completely lulled the commotion of Peg's thoughts into a calm, she suddenly cried out: "Oh! Peg, I forgot to tell you, that one of the boys we danced with had his leg broke coming home to-night!"
Peggy, surprised into an emotion she found it impossible to conceal, started up, pale as snow, and gasped out:
"Who was it—who?"
Ha! ha! thought the other, the fox is somewhere about—now to beat the cover.
"Did you hear me ask you who?" said Peg, anxiously.
"I did, dear," replied Bridget, "but I'm trying to recollect. I think," and she looked steadily into Peggy's eyes, "I think it was Ned Riley." Peg didn't even wink.
She doesn't care about him, and I'm not sorry for that, thought Bridget, thereby making an acknowledgment to herself, which the sagacious reader will no doubt interpret truly.
"No, it wasn't Ned," she continued, "now I think of it, it was—it was—a"——
"Who? who?" cried Peg, now sensibly agitated, "do tell me, there's a dear."
Not she, not a bit of it, but lingered with feminine ingenuity, now making as though she recollected the name, and then with a shake of her head, pretending to dive back into memory, just as the inquisitors of old used to slacken the torture, to enable the recipient to enjoy another dose.