"Well, then," said Kate, "first and foremost, I want you to throw yourself on Father Francis's neck."
"I'll throw myself on Father Francis's neck," said Griffith, stoutly. "Is that all?"
"No, nor half. Once upon his neck you must say something. Then I had better settle the very words, or perhaps you will make a mess of it. Say after me now: O Father Francis, 'tis to you I owe her."
"O Father Francis, 'tis to you I owe her."
"You and I are friends for life."
"You and I are friends for life."
"And, mind, there is always a bed in our home for you, and a plate at our table, and a right welcome, come when you will."
Griffith repeated this line correctly, but, when requested to say the whole, broke down. Kate had to repeat the oration a dozen times; and he said it after her, like a Sunday-school scholar, till he had it pat.
The task achieved, he inquired of her what Father Francis was to say in reply.
At this simple question Kate showed considerable alarm. "Gracious heavens!" she cried, "you must not stop talking to him; he will turn you inside out, and I shall be undone. Nay, you must gabble these words out, and then run away as hard as you can gallop."