“Oh, Lanigan, is Reilly safe?—is he set at large? Oh, I am sure he must be. Never was so noble, so pure, and so innocent a heart.”
“Curse him, look at the eye of him,” said her father, pointing his cane at Lanigan; “it's like the eye of a sharp-shooter. What are you grinning at; you old scoundrel?”
“Didn't you expect Sir Robert Whitecraft here to-day to marry Miss Folliard, sir?”
“I did, sirra, and I do; he'll be here immediately.”
“Devil a foot he'll come to-day, I can tell you; and that's the way he treats your daughter!”
“What does this old idiot mean, Helen? Have you been drinking, sirra?”
“Not yet, sir, but plaise the Lord I'll soon be at it.”
“Lanigan,” said Helen, “will you state at once what you have to say?”
“I will, miss; but first and foremost, I must show you how to dance the 'Little House under the Hill,'” and as he spoke he commenced whistling that celebrated air and dancing to it with considerable alacrity and vigor, making allowances for his age.
The father and daughter looked at each other, and Helen, notwithstanding her broken spirits, could not avoid smiling. Lanigan continued the dance, kept wheeling about to all parts of the room, like an old madcap, cutting, capering, and knocking up his heels against his ham, with a vivacity that was a perfect mystery to his two spectators, as was his whole conduct.