“Close enough, Bartle, but don't be cast down; I'll undertake that my mother an' I will double it--an' as for the fifteen shillings I'll pay them out o' my own pocket--when I get money. I needn't tell you that we're all kept upon the tight crib, and that little cash goes far with us; for all that, we'll do what I promise, go as it may.” “It's more than I ought to expect, Connor; but yourself and your mother, all the counthry would put their hands undher both your feets.” “I would give a great dale, Bartle, that my poor father had a little of the feelin' that's in my mother's heart; but it's his way, Bartle, an' you know he's my father, an' has been kinder to me than to any livin' creature on this earth. I never got a harsh word from him yet. An' if he kept me stinted in many things that I was entitled to as well as other persons like me, still, Bartle, he loves me, an' I can't but feel great affection for him, love the money as he may.” This was spoken with much seriousness of manner not unmingled with somewhat of regret, if not sorrow. Bartle fixed his eye upon the fine face of his companion, with a look in which there was a character of compassion. His countenance, however, while he gazed on him, maintained his natural color--it was not pale. “I am sorry, Connor,” said he slowly, “I am sorry that I hired with your father.” “An' I'm glad of it,” replied the other; “why should you be sorry?” Bartle made no answer for some time, but looked into the ground, as if he had not heard him. “Why should you be sorry, Bartle?” Nearly a minute elapsed before his abstraction was broken. “What's that?” said he at length. “What were you asking me?” “You said you were sorry.” “Oh, ay!” returned the other, interrupting him; “but I didn' mind what I was sayin': 'twas thinkin' o' somethin' else I was--of home, Bartle, an' what we're brought to; but the best way's to dhrop all discoorse about that forever.” “You'll be my friend if you do,” said Connor. “I will, then,” replied Bartle; “we'll change it. Connor, were you ever in love?” O'Donovan turned quickly about, and, with a keen glance at Bartle, replied, “Why, I don't know; I believe I might, once or so.” “I _am_,” said Flanagan, bitterly; “I _am_ Connor.” “An' who's the happy crature, will you tell us?” “No,” returned the other; “but if there's a wish that I'd make against my worst enemy, 'twould be, that he might love a girl above his means; or if he was her aquil, or even near her aquil, that he might be brought”----he paused, but immediately proceeded, “Well, no matter, I am, indeed, Connor.” “An' is the girl fond o' you?” “I don't know; my mind was made up to tell her but it's past that now; I know she's wealthy and proud both, and so is all her family.” “How do you know she's proud when you never put the subject to her?”