The Merrow did not seem much displeased at this mode of conversation; and, making an end of her whining all at once—“Man,” says she, looking up in Dick Fitzgerald’s face, “Man, will you eat me?”
“By all the red petticoats and check aprons between Dingle and Tralee,” cried Dick, jumping up in amazement, “I’d as soon eat myself, my jewel! Is it I eat you, my pet?—Now ’twas some ugly ill-looking thief of a fish put that notion into your own pretty head, with the nice green hair down upon it, that is so cleanly combed out this morning!”
“Man,” said the Merrow, “what will you do with me, if you won’t eat me?”
Dick’s thoughts were running on a wife: he saw, at the first glimpse, that she was handsome; but since she spoke, and spoke too like any real woman, he was fairly in love with her. ’Twas the neat way she called him man, that settled the matter entirely.
“Fish,” says Dick, trying to speak to her after her own short fashion; “fish,” says he, “here’s my word, fresh and fasting, for you this blessed morning, that I’ll make you mistress Fitzgerald before all the world, and that’s what I’ll do.”
“Never say the word twice,” says she; “I’m ready and willing to be yours, mister Fitzgerald; but stop, if you please, ’till I twist up my hair.”
It was some time before she had settled it entirely to her liking; for she guessed, I suppose, that she was going among strangers, where she would be looked at. When that was done, the Merrow put the comb in her pocket, and then bent down her head and whispered some words to the water that was close to the foot of the rock.
Dick saw the murmur of the words upon the top of the sea, going out towards the wide ocean, just like a breath of wind rippling along, and says he in the greatest wonder; “Is it speaking you are, my darling, to the salt water?”
“It’s nothing else,” says she quite carelessly, “I’m just sending word home to my father, not to be waiting breakfast for me; just to keep him from being uneasy in his mind.”
“And who’s your father, my duck?” says Dick.