“Jemmy Murray,” said Art, whose pride of family was fast rising, “who am I, and who are you?”
Margaret put her hand to his mouth, and said in a low voice—
“Art, if you love me, leave it to my management.”
“Ho, Jemmy,” said the mother, addressing her husband, “only put your ears to this! Ho, dher manim, this is that skamin' piece of feasthealagh (* nonesense) they call grah (*love). Ho, by my sowl, it shows what moseys they is to think that—what's this you call it?—low-lov-loaf, or whatsomever the devil it is, has to do wid makin' a young couple man and wife. Didn't I hate the ground you stud on when I was married upon you? but I had the airighid. Ho, faix, I had the shiners.”
“Divil a word o' lie in that, Madjey, asthore. You had the money, an' I got it, and wern't we as happy, or ten times happier, than if we had married for love?”
“To be sartin we am; an' isn't we more unhappier now, nor if we had got married for loaf, glory be to godness!”
“Father,” said Margaret, anxious to put an end to this ludicrous debate, “this is the only man I will ever marry.”
“And by Him that made me,” said her father, “you will never have my consent to that marriage, nor my blessin'.”
“Art,” said she, “not one word. Here, in the presence of my father and mother, and in the presence of God himself, I say I will be your wife, and only yours.”
“And,” said her father, “see whether a blessin' will attend a marriage where a child goes against the will of her parents.”