_Old McB._ Then I thank you kindly, daughter, for that, but so would not _I for_ you,--and then the jaunting-car, or a coach, in time, if he could! He has made the proposhal for you in form this day. _Honor._ And what answer from you, father? _Old McB._ Don’t be looking so pale,--I tould him he had my consint, if he could get yours. And, oh! before you speak, Honor dear, think what it would be up and down in Ballynavogue, and every other place in the county, assizes days and all, to be Mistress Gerald O’Blaney! _Honor._ I couldn’t but think very ill of it, father; thinking ill, as I do, of him. Father dear, say no more, don’t be breaking my heart--I’ll never have that man; but I’ll stay happy with you. _Old McB._ Why, then, I’ll be contint with that same; and who wouldn’t?--If it’s what you’d rather stay, and _can_ stay contint, Honor dear, I’m only too happy. (_Embracing her--then pausing._) But for Randal-- _Honor._ In what can you fau’t him, only his being a Rooney? _Old McB._ That’s all--but that’s enough. I’d sooner see you in your coffin--sooner be at your wake to-night, than your wedding with a Rooney! ‘Twould kill me. Come, promise me--I’d trust your word--and ‘twould make me asy for life, and I’d die asy, if you’d promise never to have him. _Honor._ Never till you would consent--that’s all I can promise. _Old McB._ Well, that same is a great ase to my heart. _Honor._ And to give a little ase to mine, father, perhaps you could promise-- _Old McB._ What?--I’ll promise nothing at all--I’ll promise nothing at all--I’ll promise nothing I couldn’t perform. _Honor._ But this you could perform asy, dear father: just hear your own Honor. _Old McB._ (_aside_) That voice would wheedle the bird off the bush--and when she’d prefar me to the jaunting-car, can I but listen to her? (_Aloud_) Well, what?--if it’s any thing at all in rason. _Honor._ It is in rason entirely. It’s only, that if Catty Rooney’s-- _Old McB._ (_stopping his ears_) Don’t name her. _Honor._ But she might be brought to rason, father; and if she should be brought to give up that claim to the bit o’ bog of yours, and when all differs betwix’ the families be made up, then you would consent. _Old McB._ When Catty Rooney’s brought to rason! Oh! go shoe the goslings, dear,--ay, you’ll get my consint then. There’s my hand: I promise you, I’ll never be called on to perform that, Honor, jewel. _Honor._ (_kissing his hand_) Then that’s all I’d ask--nor will I say one word more, but thank you, father. _Old McB._ (_putting on his coat_) She’s a good cratur--sorrow better! sister or daughter. Oh! I won’t forget that she prefarred me to the jaunting-car. Phil shall carry him a civil refusal. I’ll send off the money, the three hundred, by your brother, this minute--that will be some comfort to poor O’Blaney. [_Exit McBRIDE._