“Connor, there's good luck before you, or the bees wouldn't pick you out amongst all the rest o' the neighbors. You ought to hould up your head, man. Who knows what mainin's in it?” “Why, do you b'lieve that bees sittin' wid one is a sign o' good luck?” “Surely I do. Doesn't every one know it to be thrue? Connor, you're a good-lookin' fellow, an' I need scarcely tell you that we have a purty girl at home; can you lay that an' that together? Arrah, be my sowl, the richest honey ever the same bees'll make, is nothin' but alloways, compared wid that purty mouth of her own! A honey-comb is a fool to it.” “Why, did you ever thry, Mike?” “Is it me? Och, och, if I was only high enough in this world, maybe I wouldn't be spakin' sweet to her; no, no, be my word! thry, indeed, for the likes o' me! Faith, but I know a sartin young man that she does be often spakin' about.” Connor's heart was in a state of instant commotion. “An' who--who is he--who is that sartin young man, Mike?” “Faith, the son o' one that can run a shillin' farther than e'er another man in the country. Do you happen to be acquainted wid one Connor O'Donovan, of Lisnamona?” “Connor O'Donovan--that's good, Mike--in the mane time don't be goin' it on us. No, no;--an' even if she did, it isn't to you she spake about any one, Michael ahagur!” “No, nor it wasn't to me--sure I didn't say it was--but don't you know my sister's at sarvice in the Bodagh's family? Divil the word o' falsity I'm tellin' you; so, if you haven't the heart to spake for yourself, I wouldn't give knots o' straws for you; and now, there's no harm done I hope--moreover, an' by the same token, you needn't go to the trouble o' puttin' up an advertisement to let the parish know what I've tould you.” “Hut, tut, Mike, it's all folly. Una Dhun O'Brien to think of me!--nonsense, man; that cock would never fight.” “Very well; divil a morsel of us is forcin' you to b'lieve it. I suppose the mother o' you has your _wooden spoon_ to the fore still. I'd kiss the Bravery you didn't come into the world wid a silver ladle in your mouth, anyhow. In the mane time, we're at the Bodagh's--an' have an eye about you afther what you've heard--_Nabocklish!_” This, indeed, was important intelligence to Connor, and it is probable that, had he not heard it, another opportunity of disclosing his passion might have been lost. Independently of this, however, he was not proof against the popular superstition of the bees, particularly as it appeared to be an augury to which his enamored heart could cling with all the hope of young and passionate enthusiasm.