“Sartainly,” said Andy, who drew the lease from his pocket and handed it to her, and—as he was near to her—he attempted a little familiarity, which Matty repelled very unequivocally.
“Arrah! is it jokes you are crackin'?” said Andy, with a grin, advancing to renew his fondling.
“I tell you what it is,” said Matty, jumping up, “I'll crack your head if you don't behave yourself!” and she seized the stool on which she had been sitting, and brandished it in a very amazonian fashion.
“Oh, wirra! wirra!” said Andy, in amaze—“aren't you my wife?”
“Your wife!” retorted Matty, with a very devil in her eye—“Your wife, indeed, you great omadhaun; why, then, had you the brass to think I'd put up with you?”
“Arrah, then, why did you marry me?” said Andy, in a pitiful argumentative whine.
“Why did I marry you?” retorted Matty—“Didn't I know betther than refuse you, when my father said the word when the divil was busy with him? Why did I marry you?—it's a pity I didn't refuse, and be murthered that night, maybe, as soon as the people's backs was turned. Oh, it's little you know of owld Jack Dwyer, or you wouldn't ask me that; but, though I'm afraid of him, I'm not afraid of you—so stand off I tell you.”
“Oh, Blessed Virgin!” cried Andy; “and what will be the end of it?”
There was a tapping at the door as he spoke.
“You'll soon see what will be the end of it,” said Matty, as she walked across the cabin and opened to the knock.