“Divil a notion,” replied O'Donovan, “I have of stirrin' my foot till the thing's settled one way or other.”
“Now,” said young O'Brien, when they got into the back parlor, “it's right that you both should know to what length the courtship between Una and Connor O'Donovan has gone.”
“Coortship! Vich no hoiah! sure she wouldn't go to coort wid the son o' that ould schamer.”
“I'm beginning to fear that it's too thrue,” observed the Bodagh; “and if she has—but let us hear John.”
“It's perfectly true, indeed, mother, that she has,” said the son. “Yes, and they are both this moment pledged, betrothed, promised, solemnly promised to each other; and in my opinion the old man within is acting a more honorable part than either of you give him credit for.”
“Well, well, well,” exclaimed the mother; “who afther that would ever thrust a daughter? The girl that we rared up as tindher as a chicking, to go to throw herself away upon the son of ould Fardorougha Donovan, the misert! Confusion to the ring ever he'll put an her! I'd see her stretched (dead) first.”
“I agree with you in that, Bridget,” said the husband; “if it was only to punish her thrachery and desate, I'll take good care a ring will never go on them; but how do you know all this, John?”
“From Una's own lips, father.”
The Bodagh paced to and fro in much agitation; one hand in his small—clothes pocket, and the other twirling his watch-key as rapidly as he could. The mother, in the meantime, had thrown herself into a chair, and gave way to a violent fit of grief.
“And you have this from Una's own lips?”