Andy, “knocked all of a heap,” stood in the middle of the road, looking after Dick as he cantered down the slope. It was seldom poor Andy was angry—but he felt a strong sense of indignation choking him as Dick's parting words still rung in his ears. “What does he mane?” said Andy, talking aloud; “what does he mane?” he repeated, anxious to doubt and therefore question the obvious construction which Dick's words bore. “Misther Dick is fond of a joke, and maybe this is one of his making; but if it is, 't is not a fair one, 'pon my sowl: a poor man has his feelin's as well as a rich man. How would you like your own wife to be spoke of that way, Misther Dick, as proud as you ride your horse there—humph?”

Andy, in great indignation, pursued his way towards his mother's cabin to ask her blessing upon his marriage. On his presenting himself there, both the old woman and Oonah were in great delight at witnessing his safe return; Oonah particularly, for she, feeling that it was for her sake Andy placed himself in danger, had been in a state of great anxiety for the result of the adventure, and, on seeing him, absolutely threw herself into his arms, and embraced him tenderly, impressing many a hearty kiss upon his lips, between whiles that she vowed she would never forget his generosity and courage, and ending with saying there was nothing she would not do for him.

Now Andy was flesh and blood like other people, and as the showers of kisses from Oonah's ripe lips fell fast upon him he was not insensible to the embrace of so very pretty a girl—a girl, moreover, he had always had a “sneaking kindness” for, which Oonah's distance of manner alone had hitherto made him keep to himself; but now, when he saw her eyes beam gratitude, and her cheek flush, after her strong demonstration of regard, and heard her last words, so very like a hint to a shy man, it must be owned a sudden pang shot through poor Andy's heart, and he sickened at the thought of being married, which placed the tempting prize before him hopelessly beyond his reach.

He looked so blank, and seemed so unable to return Oonah's fond greeting, that she felt the pique which every pretty woman experiences who fancies her favours disregarded, and thought Andy the stupidest lout she ever came across. Turning up her hair, which had fallen down in the excess of her friendship, she walked out of the cottage, and, biting her disdainful lip, fairly cried for spite.

In the meantime, Andy popped down on his knees before the widow, and said, “Give me your blessing, mother!”

“For what, you omadhawn?” said his mother, fiercely; for her woman's nature took part with Oonah's feelings, which she quite comprehended, and she was vexed with what she thought Andy's disgusting insensibility. “For what should I give you my blessing?”

“Bekase I'm marri'd, ma'am.”

“What!” exclaimed the mother. “It's not marri'd again you are? You're jokin' sure.”

“Faix, it's no joke,” said Andy, sadly, “I'm marri'd sure enough; so give us your blessin', anyhow,” cried he, still kneeling.

“And who did you dar'' for to marry, sir, if I make so bowld to ax, without my lave or license?”

“There was no time for axin', mother—'t was done in a hurry, and I can't help it, so give us your blessing at once.”

“Tell me who is she, before I give you my blessin'?”

“Shan More's sister, ma'am.”

“What!” exclaimed the widow, staggering back some paces—“Shan More's sisther, did you say—Bridget rhua [Footnote: Red-haired Bridget.] is it?”

“Yis, ma'am.”

“Oh, wirrasthru!—plillelew!—millia murther!” shouted the mother, tearing her cap off her head,—“Oh blessed Vargin, holy St. Dominick, Pether an' Paul the 'possel, what'll I do?—Oh, patther an' ave—you dirty bosthoon—blessed angels and holy marthyrs!—kneelin' there in the middle o' the flure as if nothing happened—look down on me this day, a poor vartuous dissolute woman!—Oh, you disgrace to me and all belonging to you,—and is it the impidence to ask my blessin' you have, when it's a whippin' at the cart's tail you ought to get, you shameless scapegrace?”

She then went wringing her hands, and throwing them upwards in appeals to Heaven, while Andy still kept kneeling in the middle of the cabin, lost in wonder.

The widow ran to the door and called Oonah in.

“Who do you think that blackguard is marri'd to?” said the widow.

“Married!” exclaimed Oonah, growing pale.

“Ay, marri'd, and who to, do you think?—Why to Bridget rhua.”

Oonah screamed and clasped her hands.

Andy got up at last, and asked what they were making such a rout about; he wasn't the first man who married without asking his mother's leave; and wanted to know what they had to “say agen it.”

“Oh, you barefaced scandal o' the world!” cried the widow, “to ax sitch a question—to marry a thrampin' sthreel like that—a great red-headed jack—”

“She can't help her hair,” said Andy.

“I wish I could cut it off, and her head along with it, the sthrap! Oh, blessed Vargin! to have my daughter-in-law—”

“What?” said Andy, getting rather alarmed.

“That all the country knows is—”

“What?” cried Andy.

“Not a fair nor a market-town doesn't know her as well as—Oh, wirra! wirra!”

“Why you don't mane to say anything agen her charackther, do you?” said Andy.

“Charakther, indeed!” said his mother, with a sneer.

“By this an' that,” said Andy, “if she was the child unborn she couldn't make a greater hullabaloo about her charakther than she did the mornin' afther.”

“Afther what?” said his mother.

“Afther I was tuk away up to the hill beyant, and found her there, and—but I b'lieve I didn't tell you how it happened.”

“No,” said Oonah, coming forward, deadly pale, and listening anxiously, with a look of deep pity in her soft eyes.

Andy then related his adventure as the reader already knows it; and when it was ended, Oonah burst into tears and in passionate exclamations blamed herself for all that had happened, saying it was in the endeavour to save her that Andy had lost himself.

“Oh, Oonah! Oonah!” said Andy, with more meaning in his voice than the girl had ever heard before, “it isn't the loss of myself I mind, but I've lost you too. Oh, if you had ever given me a tendher word or look before this day, 't would never have happened, and that desaiver in the hills never could have deludhered me. And tell me, lanna machree, is my suspicions right in what I hear—tell me the worst at oncet—is she non compos?”

“Oh, I never heerd her called by that name before,” sobbed Oonah, “but she has a great many others just as bad.”

“Ow! ow! ow!” exclaimed Andy. “Now I know what Misther Dick laughed at; well, death before dishonour—I'll go 'list for a sojer, and never live with her!”