“Why, do you b'lieve that bees sittin' wid one is a sign o' good luck?”
“Surely I do. Doesn't every one know it to be thrue? Connor, you're a good-lookin' fellow, an' I need scarcely tell you that we have a purty girl at home; can you lay that an' that together? Arrah, be my sowl, the richest honey ever the same bees'll make, is nothin' but alloways, compared wid that purty mouth of her own! A honey-comb is a fool to it.”
“Why, did you ever thry, Mike?”
“Is it me? Och, och, if I was only high enough in this world, maybe I wouldn't be spakin' sweet to her; no, no, be my word! thry, indeed, for the likes o' me! Faith, but I know a sartin young man that she does be often spakin' about.”
Connor's heart was in a state of instant commotion.
“An' who—who is he—who is that sartin young man, Mike?”
“Faith, the son o' one that can run a shillin' farther than e'er another man in the country. Do you happen to be acquainted wid one Connor O'Donovan, of Lisnamona?”
“Connor O'Donovan—that's good, Mike—in the mane time don't be goin' it on us. No, no;—an' even if she did, it isn't to you she spake about any one, Michael ahagur!”
“No, nor it wasn't to me—sure I didn't say it was—but don't you know my sister's at sarvice in the Bodagh's family? Divil the word o' falsity I'm tellin' you; so, if you haven't the heart to spake for yourself, I wouldn't give knots o' straws for you; and now, there's no harm done I hope—moreover, an' by the same token, you needn't go to the trouble o' puttin' up an advertisement to let the parish know what I've tould you.”
“Hut, tut, Mike, it's all folly. Una Dhun O'Brien to think of me!—nonsense, man; that cock would never fight.”