“And that it may be the making of your daughter's fortune?”
“It may, indeed, Masther Hycy.”
“And that there's no other woman of high respectability in the parish capable of elevating her to the true principles of double and simple proportion?”
“No, in throth, sir, I don't think there is.”
“Nor that can teach her the newest theories in dogmatic theology and metaphysics, together with the whole system of Algebraic Equations if the girl should require them?”
“Divil another woman in the barony can match her at them by all accounts,” replied Peety, catching the earnest enthusiasm of Hycy's manner.
“That will do, Peety; you see yourself, mother,” he added, taking her aside and speaking in a low voice, “that the little fellow knows right well the advantages of having her under your care and protection; and it's very much to his credit, and speaks very highly for his metempsychosis that he does so—hem!”
“He was always a daicent, sinsible, poor creature of his kind,” replied his mother “besides, Hycy, between you and me, she'll be more than worth her bit.”
“There now, Peety,” said her son, turning towards the mendicant; “it's all settled—wait now for a minute till I write a couple of notes, which you must deliver for me.”
Peety sat accordingly, and commenced to lay down for his daughter's guidance and conduct such instructions as he deemed suitable to the situation she was about to enter and the new duties that necessarily devolved upon her.