Catty. What?—which?
Pat. That your son Randal, Mrs. Rooney, is not of your way of thinking about Honor McBride, may be’s.
Catty. Tut! No matter what way of thinking he is—a young slip of a boy like him does not know what he’ll think to-morrow. He’s a good son to me; and in regard to a wife, one girl will do him as well as another, if he has any sinse—and I’ll find him a girl that will plase him, I’ll engage.
Pat. May be so, ma’am—no fear: only boys do like to be plasing themselves, by times—and I noticed something.
Catty. What did you notice?—till me, Pat, dear, quick.
Pat. No—‘tis bad to be meddling and remarking to get myself ill-will; so I’ll keep myself to myself: for Randal’s ready enough with his hand as you with the tongue—no offence, Mrs. Rooney, ma’am.
Catty. Niver fear—only till me the truth, Pat, dear.
Pat. Why, then, to the best of my opinion, I seen Honor McBride just now giving Randal Rooney the meeting behind the chapel; and I seen him putting a ring on her finger.
Catty. (clasping her hands) Oh, murder!—Oh! the unnat’ral monsters that love makes of these young men; and the traitor, to use me so, when he promised he’d never make a stolen match unknown’st to me.
Pat. Oh, ma’am, I don’t say—I wouldn’t swear—it’s a match yet.