“Good night, Connor; throth my head's a little soft to-night—good night.”
“Good night, Bartle.”
“Connor?”
“Well?”
“Didn't I stand to you to-night? Very well—goo—(hiccup) good night.”
On Connor's return, a serious conclave was held upon the best mode of procedure in a manner which presented difficulties that appeared to be insurmountable. The father, seizing upon the advice transmitted by Una herself, as that which he had already suggested, insisted that the most judicious course was to propose for her openly, and without appearing to feel that there was any inferiority on the part of Connor.
“If they talk about wealth, Connor,” said he, “say that you are my son, an' that—that—no—no—I'm too poor for such a boast, but say that you will be able to take good care of anything you get.”
At this moment the door, which Connor had not bolted, as his father would have done, opened, and Bartle, wrapped in the treble folds of a winnow—cloth, made a distant appearance.
“Beg pardon, Connor; I forgot to say that Una's brother, the young priest out o' Maynooth, will be at home from his uncle's, where it appears he is at present; an' Miss Una would wish that the proposal 'ud be made while he's at his father's. She says he'll stand her friend, come or go what will. I forgot, begad, to mintion it before—so beg pardon, an' wishes you all good—night!”
This information tended to confirm them in the course recommended by Fardorougha. It was accordingly resolved upon that he (Fardorougha) himself should wait upon Bodagh Buie, and in the name of his son formally propose for the hand of his daughter.