“Thin was that the way as they said it, Dick? No sinse nor manners but that! An’ every bit of the blessed while they knowed it for my bilinʼ–day! Muckstraw, thin, is Bridget OʼGaghan no more count than a pisonin’ doctor? Hould that handle there, Dick. If iver you stirs it the bridth of one on your carroty whiskers from that smut on the firebar, till such time as you sees me agin, Iʼll down with it arl in your crooked back bilinʼ, and your chilthers shall disinherit it”. Leaving Dick rooted in trepidation, for she was now considered a witch, she hurried into her little bedroom; for she had the strongest sense of propriety, and would not “make herself common”. Then she dashed her apron aside, and softened the fire–glow from her nose, and smoothed the creases of her jet–black hair, which curled in bars like crochet–work. This last she did, with some lubricous staple of her own discovery, applying it with the ball of her thumb. “The hairs of me head”, as she always called them, were thick of number and strong of fibre, and went zig–zag on their road to her ears, like a string of jockeyʼs horses shying, or a flight of jack–snipes. Then a final glance at her fungous looking–glass, just to know if she were all right; the glass gave her back a fine, warm–hearted face, still young in its rapid expression, Irish in every line of it, glazed with lies for hatred, and beaming with truth for love. So Biddy gave two or three nods thereat, and knew herself match for fifty cross–examiners, if she could only keep her temper. As she marched up to the table, with her head thrown back, her portly shape made the most of, and the front of her strong arms glistening, then dropped a crisp curtsey to Sir Cradock without deigning to notice his visitor, the little doctorʼs experience told him that he had caught a thorough Tartar. All his solemn preparations were thrown away upon her, though the biggest Testament in the house lay on the table before him; and a most impressive desk was covered with pens, and paper, and sealing–wax. Dr. Hutton would not yet open his mouth, because he wished to begin augustly. Meanwhile, Sir Cradock kept waiting for him, till Biddy could wait no longer. Turning her broad back full upon Rufus, who appreciated the compliment, she made another short scrape to her master, and asked, with an ogle suppressed to a mince— “And what wud your honour be pleased to want with the poor widow, Bridget OʼGaghan, then”? “Bridget, that gentleman, Dr. Hutton, has made an extremely important discovery, affecting most nearly my honour and that of the family. And now I rely upon you, Bridget, as a faithful and valued dependent of ours, to answer, without reservation or attempt at equivocation, all the questions he may put to you”. “Quistions, your honour”? and Biddy looked stupid in the cleverest way imaginable. “Yes, questions, Bridget OʼGaghan. Inquiries, interrogations—ah! that quite explains what I mean”.