_Catty._ (_speaking very rapidly_) Bless you for that word, counshillor; and by the first light to-morrow, I’ll drive all the grazing cattle, every four-footed _baast_ off the land, and pound ‘em in Ballynavogue; and if they replevy, why I’ll distrain again, if it be forty times, I will go. I’ll go on distraining, and I’ll advertise, and I’ll cant, and I’ll sell the distress at the end of the eight days. And if they dare for to go for to put a plough in that bit of reclaimed bog, I’ll come down upon ‘em with an injunction, and I would not value the expinse of bringing down a record a pin’s pint; and if that went again me, I’d remove it to the courts above and wilcome; and after that, I’d go into equity, and if the chancillor would not be my friend, I’d take it over to the House of Lords in London, so I would as soon as look at ‘em; for I’d wear my feet to the knees for justice--so I would. _O’Bla._ That you would! You’re an iligant lawyer, Mrs. Rooney; but have you the sinews of war? _Catty._ Is it money, dear?--I have, and while ever I’ve one shilling to throw down to ould Matthew McBride’s guinea, I’ll go on; and every guinea he parts will twinge his vitals: so I’ll keep on while ever I’ve a fiv’-penny bit to rub on another--for my spirit is up. _O’Bla._ Ay, ay, so you say. Catty, my dear, your back’s asy up, but it’s asy down again. _Catty._ Not when I’ve been trod on as now, counshillor: it’s then I’d turn and fly at a body, gentle or simple, like mad. _O’Bla._ Well done, Catty (_patting her on the back_). There’s my own pet mad cat--and there’s a legal venom in her claws, that every scratch they’ll give shall fester so no plaister in law can heal it. _Catty._ Oh, counshillor, now, if you wouldn’t be flattering a wake woman. _O’Bla._ Wake woman!--not a bit of woman’s wakeness in ye. Oh, my cat-o’-cats! let any man throw her from him, which way he will, she’s on her legs and at him again, tooth and claw. _Catty._ With nine lives, renewable for ever. [_Exit CATTY._ _O’Bla._ (_alone_) There’s a demon in woman’s form set to work for me! Oh, this works well--and no fear that the Roonies and McBrides should ever come to an understanding to cut me out. Young Mr. Randal Rooney, my humble compliments to you, and I hope you’ll become the willow which you’ll soon have to wear for Miss Honor McBride’s pretty sake. But I wonder the brother a’n’t come up yet with the rist of her fortune. (Calls behind the scenes.) Mick! Jack! Jenny! Where’s Pat?--Then why don’t you know? run down a piece of the road towards Ballynascraw, see would you see any body coming, and bring me word would you see Phil McBride--you know, flourishing Phil.--Now I’m prepared every way for the shupervishor, only I wish to have something genteel in my fist for him, and a show of cash flying about--nothing like it, to dazzle the eyes. [_Exit O’BLANEY._ ACT III. SCENE I.