“May I never stir if I don't!”
“Well, an' what is it?”
“Why, bekaise he's coortin' Kathleen Cavanagh—now!”
“An' what do I care about that?” said her brother.
“Oh, you thief!” she replied; “don't think you can play upon me. I know your saycret.”
“An' maybe, Dora,” he replied, “I have my saycrets. Do you know who was inquirin' for you to-day?”
“No,” she returned, “nor I don't care either—sorra bit.”
“I met James Cavanagh there below”—he proceeded, still in a whisper, and he fixed his eyes upon her countenance as he spoke. The words, however, produced a most extraordinary effect. A deep blush crimsoned her whole neck and face, until the rush of blood seemed absolutely to become expressive of pain. Her eye, however, did not droop, but turned upon him with a firm and peculiar sparkle. She had been stooping with her mouth near his ear, as the reader knows, but she now stood up quickly, shook back her hair, that had been hanging in natural and silken curls about her blushing cheeks, and exclaimed: “No—no. Let me alone Bryan;” and on uttering these words she hurried into another room.”
“Bryan, you've vexed Dora some way,” observed her sister. “What did you say to her?”
“Nothing that vexed her, I'll go bail,” he replied, laughing; “however, as to what I said to her, Shibby, ax me no questions an' I'll tell you no lies.”