“Well, Redmond Connors, the carpinther?”
“He’s a close shaver, but not to my taste.”
“Pullilliew! you’ll never be plaised. Have ye anything to say agin Burn, the mason?”
“He’s too great a plastherer to be sincere.”
“An’ what chance has the smith?”
“He won’t forge my fetthers, that’s all.”
“An’ the tailor?”
“Must stitch himself to another.”
Here the dialogue broke off abruptly, for neither the missionary nor the maiden could longer refrain from laughing; the former, though a grave and reverend signior at all times, was perfectly overcome by Kate’s naiveté and archness; and though he was farther than ever from attaining his object, he was in perfect good humour. Miles Kavanagh soon after entered the cottage, and much was he surprised to find his daughter and Mr Costigan tete-a-tete, and on such excellent terms. Nor was the surprise lessened, when he saw the farmer sit it out for two hours longer, still laughing and still joking, as if he and Kate had ever been the best of friends and banterers. At length Mr Costigan heavily arose from his seat, and declaring that he would come again on the same business (he forgot however to speak to Miles Kavanagh about it), he took his leave.
And he did go again and again; and at the third visit Dennis Costigan and Miles Kavanagh retired to an inner apartment. Kate neither knew nor wished to know the subject of their confab; but she observed, that as the farmer was retiring after the last visit, he and her father shook hands as if clenching a bargain. “You’re mighty affectionate!” thought Kate; “I wonder yez didn’t kiss!”