In the meantime Tom Durfy closed on them fast, and began telegraphing Biddy, who, according to the widow's desire, had shoved herself well before the door. "Pull up, Tim, pull up!" said the widow, from the inside of the car, to the driver, whom she thumped on the back at the same time to impress upon him her meaning; "turn about, and pretend to drive back. We'll let that fellow ride on," said she, quietly to Biddy. Just as this manoeuvre was executed, up came Tom Durfy. "How are you, Miss Riley?" said he, as he drew rein. "Pretty well, thank you," said Biddy, putting her head and shoulders through the window, while the widow shrunk back into the corner of the car. "How very sudden poor Mr. Flanagan's death was!--I was quite surprised." "Yes, indeed," says Biddy. "I was just taking a little drive; good bye." "I was very much shocked to hear of it," said Tom. "'T was dreadful!" said Biddy. "How is poor Mrs. Flanagan?" said Tom. "As well as can be expected, poor thing! Good bye!" said Biddy, manifestly anxious to cut short the conference. This anxiety was so obvious to Tom, who, for the sake of fun, loved cross-purposes dearly, that he determined to push his conversation further, just because he saw it was unwelcome. "To be sure," continued he, "at his time of life----" "Very true," said Biddy. "Good morning." "And the season has been very unhealthy." "Doctor Growling told me so yesterday," said Biddy; "I wonder you're not afraid of stopping in this east wind--colds are very prevalent. Good bye!" Just now the Genius of Farce, who presides so particularly over all Irish affairs, put it into the lamb's head to bleat. The sound at first did not strike Tom Durfy as singular, they being near a high hedge, within which it was likely enough a lamb might bleat; but Biddy, shocked at the thought of being discovered in the fact of making her jaunting-cart a market-cart, reddened up to the eyes, while the widow squeezed herself closer into the corner. Tom, seeing the increasing embarrassment of Biddy, and her desire to be off, still _would_ talk to her, for the love of mischief. "I beg your pardon," he continued, "just one moment more--I wanted to ask, was it not apoplexy, for I heard an odd report about the death?" "Oh, yes," says Biddy; "apoplexy--good bye!" "Did he speak at all?" asked Tom. "_Baa!_" says the lamb. Tom cocked his ears, Biddy grew redder, and the widow crammed her handkerchief into her mouth to endeavour to smother her laughter. "I hope poor Mrs. Flanagan bears it well?" says Tom. "Poor thing!" says Biddy, "she's inconsolable." "_Baa-a!_" says the lamb. Biddy spoke louder and faster, the widow kicked with laughing, and Tom then suspected whence the sound proceeded. "She does nothing but cry all day!" says Biddy. "_Baa-a-a!_" says the lamb. The widow could stand it no longer, and a peal of laughter followed the lamb's bleat.