“An' is it in conversation with Jemmy Kelly,” asked Bryan, jocularly, alluding to her supposed admirer, “that you perform your own devotions, Miss Hanna?”
“Hanna, achora,” said the father, “I think you're playin' the second fiddle there—ha! ha! ha!”
The laugh was now general against Hanna, who laughed as loudly, however, as any of them.
“Throth, Kathleen,” she exclaimed, “you're not worth knot's o' straws or you'd help me against this fellow here; have you nothing,” she proceeded, addressing Bryan, and nodding towards her sister, “to say to her? Is everything to fall on my poor shoulders? Come, now,” with another nod in the same direction, “she desarves it for not assistin' me. Who does she say her devotions with?”
“Hem—a—is it Kathleen you mane?” he inquired, with rather an embarrassed look.
“Not at all,” she replied ironically, “but my mother there—ha! ha! ha! Come, now, we're waitin' for you.”
“Come, now?” he repeated, purposely misunderstanding her—“oh, begad, that's a fair challenge;” and he accordingly rose to approach her with the felonious intent of getting a kiss; but Hanna started from her wheel and ran out of the house to avoid him.
“Throth, you're a madcap, Hanna,” exclaimed her mother, placidly—“an antick crather, dear knows—her heart's in her mouth every minute of the day; an' if she gets through the world wid it always as light, poor girl, it'll be well for her.”
“Kathleen, will you get me a towel or praskeen of some sort to wipe my face wid,” said her father, looking about for the article he wanted.
“I left one,” she replied, “on the back of your chair—an' there it is, sure.”