"Ah, you little rogue! you were on the lookout, were ye?" cried Peter jocosely. "Well, you are right; it is him. You are the rale lucky girl, Roseen! You'll be the richest woman in the town-land."
Roseen glanced down, apparently wrestling with some inward emotion, and presently observed in a small, strangled voice: "Sure, he is twenty year older nor me."
"What matter?" said Peter; "he'll be all the better able to take care o' you. It's better to marry a man with sense, nor to go takin' up with some young whipper-snapper that would be thinkin' of nothin' but spendin' money and carryin' on with nonsense."
"He's an ould widower," cried Roseen, wrinkling up her little nose with an expression of disgust.
"Well," said Peter, "an' a good thing too; you'll come in for all the beautiful dresses and jewels and things the first Mrs. Quinn left behind."
"I am not goin' to take her lavin's, then," retorted Roseen with spirit. "Neither her jew'lry, her dresses, nor her husband will I have, so there! That's my answer, an' you may tell him so. He may go make up his match with somebody else for me." With a whisk of her skirts and a stamp of her foot, she returned to her butter.
"Come, come!" said Peter, knitting his brows. "Come, come, come!" he repeated, in warning tones; "this won't do, miss."
Roseen tossed her head, and gave her roll of butter two or three little pats.
"If I bid you take Mr. Quinn, you'll have to take him," said Peter angrily.
"I won't, then," retorted Roseen, and she finished off one little roll and fell to preparing another.