He remonstrated: she insisted. He held out: she smiled sweetly in his face, and shut the window in it pretty sharply, and disappeared. He went disconsolately down his ivy ladder. As soon as he was at the bottom, she opened the window again, and asked him, demurely, if he would do something to oblige her. He replied like a lover; he was ready to be cut in pieces, drawn asunder with wild horses, and so on. "Oh, I know you would do anything stupid for me," said she; "but will you do something clever for a poor girl that is in a fright at what she is going to do for you?" "Give your orders, mistress," said Griffith; "and don't talk of me obliging you. I feel quite ashamed to hear you talk so: to-night especially." "Well, then," said Kate, "first and foremost, I want you to throw yourself on Father Francis's neck." "I'll throw myself on Father Francis's neck," said Griffith, stoutly. "Is that all?" "No; nor half. Once upon his neck you must say something. There--I had better settle the very words, or perhaps you will make a mess of it. Say after me now: Oh, Father Francis, 'tis to you I owe her." "Oh, Father Francis, 'tis to you I owe her." "You and I are friends for life." "You and I are friends for life." "And mind, there is always a bed in our home for you, and a plate at our table, and a right welcome, come when you will." Griffith repeated this last correctly; but, when requested to say the whole, broke down. Kate had to repeat the oration a dozen times; and he said it after her, like a Sunday-school scholar, till he had it pat. The task achieved, he inquired of her what Father Francis was to say in reply. At this question Kate showed considerable alarm. "Gracious Heavens!" she cried; "you must not stop talking to him; he will turn you inside out, and I shall be undone. Nay, you must gabble those words out, and then run away as hard as you can gallop." "But is it true?" asked Griffith: "is he so much my friend?" "Hum!" said Kate; "it is quite true; and he is not at all your friend. There, don't you puzzle yourself, and pester me; but do as you are bid, or we are both undone." Quelled by a menace so mysterious, Griffith promised blind obedience; and Kate thanked him and bade him good-night; and ordered him peremptorily to bed. He went. She beckoned him back. He came. She leaned out, and inquired, in a soft delicious whisper, as follows: "Are you happy, dearest?" "Ay, Kate, the happiest of the happy." "Then so am I," she murmured. And now she slowly closed the window, and gradually retired from the eyes of her enraptured lover. CHAPTER XII