“I'm worth two lost people yet,” said Connor, smiling; “mother, did you ever see a pleasanter night?”
“Pleasant, Connor, darlin'! Oh thin it's you may say so, I'm sure!”
“Father, you're a worthy—only your Cothamore's too scimpt for me. Faith, mother, although you think I'm jokin', the devil a one o' me is; a pleasanter night—a happier night I never spent. Father, you ought to be proud o' me, an' stretch out a bit with the cash; faith, I'm nothin' else than a fine handsome young fellow.”
“Be me soul an' he ought to be proud out of you, Connor, whether you're in arnest or not,” observed the mother, “an' to stretch out wid the arrighad too if you want it.”
“Folly on, Connor, folly on! your mother'll back you, I'll go bail, say what you will; but sure you know all I have must be yours yet, acushla.”
Connor now sat down, and his mother stirred up the fire, on which she placed additional fuel. After a little time his manner changed, and a shade of deep gloom fell upon his manly and handsome features. “I don't know,” he at length proceeded, “that, as we three are here together, I could do betther than ask your advice upon what has happened to me to-night.”
“Why, what has happened you, Connor?” said the mother alarmed; “plase God, no harm, I hope.”
“Who else,” added the father, “would you be guided by, if not by your mother an' myself?”
“No harm, mother, dear,” said Connor in reply to her; “harm! Oh! mother, mother, if you knew it; an' as for what you say, father, it's right; what advice but my mother's an' yours ought I to ask?”
“An' God's too,” added the mother.