Such a rude verse as this was, of course, not at all likely to please so faithful a girl as Jill. It deeply offended her. She turned a deaf ear and a severe countenance to all that he had to say, and his foolish wooing was all in vain. Seeing that he could not succeed at all, and that he did not get even so much as a smile, his love (if, indeed, it ever was love) soured into vexation and anger. He took to teazing her about her tumble down-hill, and made rude jests about the droll figure she must have cut, when she came rolling over and over, like a snow-ball, with Jack before her. He even went so far as to bring a bell, one day, and ring it like a town-crier three times, while he cried out—“O yes! Lost, a pair of young lady’s garters, while tumbling down hill. Whoever will bring the same to Miss Jill McCarthy, will receive one shilling reward.” This foolish and vexatious nonsense went on for some time. Jill took but little notice of it; and she hoped that, ere long, Laurence himself would grow tired of his own unkindness and folly. Meanwhile time flew on rapidly. The vessel which had taken Jack out to America returned to Cork; but, strange to say, no letter had yet been received by Jill. A sailor on board the ship, who had some relations in the village, reported that he had seen Jack leave the ship on her arrival, safe and sound, but that since that time he had neither heard nor seen anything of him. This information was satisfactory, as far as it went; but, of course, it was not enough, nor anything like enough, for a loving heart like Jill’s. It was strange she did not hear from him! What could be the matter? Five months—six months—seven months passed away, but no letter. Poor Jill! she went into secret places, and wept bitterly; she pined, lost her appetite, and grew pale. Her mother and sister comforted her to the best of their power; but her heart was deeply wounded, and it would not heal. One day, when Father M’Callagh was visiting the cottage, and the deep grief and disappointment of poor Jill was being talked over, he suddenly fell into a deep silence, as if some thought had suddenly struck him. Presently, turning to the chair where Jill sat, he spoke to her,— “My child! I have heard that Laurence Doheney, the postmaster’s son, has been troublesome to you since Jack’s departure, and that he has tried to get himself accepted as your suitor.” “Yes, Father, he has annoyed me very much. Of course, I have had nothing to say to _him_; and now I hope he will have nothing to say to _me_.” “Humph!” said the old Father. Then, after a long pause, he continued, “Jill, my child, I daresay you know when the next mail is due from America?” “Yes,” she replied, drawing out a slip of newspaper from her pocket; “I study such things now. Here it is! To-morrow!” “That is at Cork, I suppose?” “Yes.”