"Hasn't he?"
"Not half as much as your poor little heart would have been broken if he had," said the tormentor.
"Bridget! Cousin!" said poor Peg, now enduring much more pain from the sudden revulsion of feeling, "you should not have done this; you have crowded a whole life-time of agony in those few moments past."
"Well, forgive me, dear Peggy. I declare I didn't know that you had the affection so strong on you, or I wouldn't have joked for the world. But now, confess, doesn't it serve you right, for not confiding in me, your natural born cousin? Did I ever keep a secret from you? Didn't I tell you all about Pat Finch, and Johnny Magee, and Jack, the hurler, eh?"
"But not one word about Edward Riley, with whom you danced so often to-night," observed Peg, with a very pardonable dash of malice.
It was now Bridget's turn to change color, as she stammered out, "I—I was going to, not that I care much about him; no, no, Mark is the flower of the flock, and I've a mighty great mind to set my cap at him myself."
Peggy smiled, a very small, but a peculiar, and it might have been, perfectly self-satisfied smile, as she replied: "Try, Miss Bridget, and I wish you success."
"Truth is scarce when liars are near," said Bridget. "But I say, Peg, does Mark know you love him so hard?"
"Don't be foolish; how should he?"
"Did you never tell him?"