“No, it's not all; she sed it 'ud be better to mention the thing to her father. Afther thinkin' it over she says, 'as your father has the na--(hiccup) '(Saints above!) the name of being so rich, she doesn't know if a friend 'ud interfere but his consint might be got;' an' that's all I have to say about it, barrin' that she's a very purty girl, an' I'd advise you not to be too sure of her yet, Bartle. So now I'm for the barn--Good night, Far--(hiccup) (at my cost, you do it!) Fardorougha.” He rose and proceeded to his sleeping--place in the barn, whither Connor, who was struck by his manner, accompanied him. “Bartle,” said O'Donovan, “did you take anything since I saw you last?” “Only a share of two naggins wid my brother Antony at Peggy Finigan's.” “I noticed it upon you,” observed Connor; “but I don't think they did.” “An' if they did, too, it's not high thrason, I hope.” “No; but, Bartle, I'm obliged to you. You've acted as a friend to me, an' I won't forget it to you.” “An' I'm so much obliged to you, Connor, that I'll remimber your employin' me in this the longest day I have to live. But, Connor?” “Well, Bartle.” “I'd take the sacrament, that, after all, a ring you'll never put on her.” “And what makes you think so, Bartle?” “I don't--I do--(hiccup) don't know; but somehow something or another tells it to me that you won't; others is fond of her, I suppose, as well as yourself; and of coorse they'll stand betune you.” “Ay, but I'm sure of her.” “But you're not; wait till I see you man and wife, an' thin I'll say so. Here's myself, Bartle, is in love, an' dhough I don't expect ever the girl will or would marry me, be the crass of heaven, no other man will have her. Now, how do you know but you may have some one like me--like me, Connor, to stand against you?” “Bartle,” said Connor, laughing, “your head's a little moidher'd; give me your hand; whish! the devil take you, man! don't wring my fingers off. Say your prayers, Bartle, an' go to sleep. I say agin I won't forget your kindness to me this night.” Flanagan had now deposited himself upon his straw bed, and, after having tugged the bedclothes about him, said, in the relaxed, indolent voice of a man about to sleep, “Good night, Connor; throth my head's a little soft to-night--good night.” “Good night, Bartle.” “Connor?” “Well?” “Didn't I stand to you to-night? Very well--goo--(hiccup) good night.” On Connor's return, a serious conclave was held upon the best mode of procedure in a manner which presented difficulties that appeared to be insurmountable. The father, seizing upon the advice transmitted by Una herself, as that which he had already suggested, insisted that the most judicious course was to propose for her openly, and without appearing to feel that there was any inferiority on the part of Connor.