“I would, if I was treated--'raysonable,'” said he, pausing for a moment in search of the precise word he wanted. Mr. O'Shea sighed heavily; his exchequer contained nothing but promises; and none knew better than his follower what such pledges were worth. “It would be the making of you, Joe,” said he, after a brief silence, “if I was to marry this heiress.” “Indeed, it might be,” responded the other. “It would be the grand event of _your_ life, that's what it would be. What could I not do for you? You might be land-steward; you might be under-agent, bailiff, driver,--eh?” “Yes,” said Joe, closing his eyes, as if he desired to relish the vision undisturbed by external distractions. “I have always treated you as a sort of friend, Joe,--you know that.” “I do, sir. I do, indeed.” “And I mean to prove myself your friend too. It is not the man who has stuck faithfully by me that I 'd desert. Where's my dressing-gown?” “She was torn under the arm, and I gave her to be mended; put this round you,” said he, draping a much-befrogged pelisse over his master's shoulders. “These are not my slippers, you stupid ass!” “They are the ould ones. Don't you remember shying one of the others, yesterday, at the organ-boy, and it fell in the river and was lost?” Mr. O'Shea's brow darkened as he sat down to his meal. “Tell Pan,” said he, “to send me up some broth and a chop about seven. I must keep the house to-day, and be indisposed. And do you go over to Lucca, and raise me a few Naps on my 'rose-amethyst' ring. Three will do; five would be better, though.” Joe sighed. It was a mission he had so often been charged with and never came well out of, since his master would invariably insist on hearing every step of the negotiation, and as unfailingly revenged upon his envoy all the impertinences to which the treaty gave rise. “Don't come back with any insolent balderdash about the stone being false, or having a flaw in it. Holditch values it at two hundred and thirty pounds; and, if it wasn't a family ring, I'd have taken the money. And, mind you, don't be talking about whose it is,--it 's a gentleman waiting for his letters--” “Sure I know,” burst in Joe; “his remittances, that ought to be here every day.” “Just so; and that merely requires a few Naps--” “To pay his cigars--” “There's no need of more explanation. Away with you; and tell Bruno I 'll want a saddle-horse to-morrow, to be here at the door by two o'clock.” Joe took his departure, and Mr. O'Shea was left to his own meditations.