“A change came o’er the spirit of the” night—the door unclosed—and a square-built man, with a grizzled head and most infelicitous aspect, was seen in the door-way, fixing a basilisk glance on “that fair frail one” who rested on the fosterer’s knee. An interjectional remark from Mrs. Spicer left the identity of the personage indubitable—as she observed, “That’s the ould divil, and no mistake—and maybe there won’t be a reglar shindy!”
Though the gentleman paused in the doorway, he lost no time in opening the conversation.
“So ye’r there, Sally Spicer!” and the remainder of the sentence was couched in language which the Court Journal would pronounce irregular.
“And where else should I be, ye ould, batter’d-out apology for a Christian?”
“Come out o’ that—tramp home—an may be ye wont catch it!”
“Can ye spare another tooth convaniently?” responded his rebellious helpmate.
“I’m waitin’ for ye, Sal!” returned the elderly gentleman, with a mysterious crook of the finger.
