“Well, Miss Connor,” he asked, “what's the matther? You're cryin', I persave.”
“All, Cummiskey, my mistress is unwell.”
“Unwell! why she wasn't unwell a while ago, when the gardener and I met her and you on your way to the back o' the garden.”
“Oh, yes,” replied Connor; “I forced her to come out, to try what a little cool air-might do for her.”
“Ay, but, Connor, did you force her to come in again?”
“Force! there was no force necessary, Cummiskey. She's now in her own room, quite ill.”
“Oh, then, if she's quite ill, it's right that her father should know it, in ordher that a docther may be sent for.”
“Ah, but she's now asleep, Cummiskey—that sleep may set her to rights; she may waken quite recovered; but you know it might be dangerous to disturb her.”
“Ah, I believe you,” he replied, dissembling; for he saw at once, by Connor's agitated manner, that every word she uttered was a lie; “the sleep will be good for her, the darlin'; but take care of her, Connor, for the masther's sake; for what would become of him if any thing happened her? You know that if she died he wouldn't live a week.”
“That's true, indeed,” she replied; “and if she get's worse, Cummiskey, I'll let the master know.”