“Hector,” said she, after investing me with this important amulet, “promise, for my sake, that you will wear it night and day; and, until misfortune overtakes, and all other hope fails--which Heaven grant may never happen!--that you will not unclose the cover, or read the writing of the Gospel.” * * Gospels are worn in Ireland as a protection against diseases and “_diablerie_.” I gave the pledge she required; took an affectionate leave; and, lighted by Susan, returned to the parlour. Lobbies, like flower-knots, are dangerous places for adieux! Poor Susan was faintly remonstrating against a second kiss, when a third actor popped upon the stage unexpectedly, and terminated at once the contest. The intruder was my foster-brother. All parties evinced annoyance; Marc Antony looked very silly, and the _demoiselle_, bounding up the stairs, leaned over the balustrades, and spoke a hurried farewell. “Heaven bless you, Master Hector--mind your poor mother’s parting words, and all prosperity attend you.” Then, turning a wrathful look at the “fosterer,” * she continued, “Don’t mind what that false villain says. Ah, you wicked wretch! are you not afraid the roof will fall?” and, shaking her clenched hand at him, vanished. What could have roused the anger of the dark-eyed Abigail was to me a puzzle: I entered the parlour, and the crest-fallen fosterer followed, and closed the door. “Why, Marc, what’s the matter? Your old friend, Susan, seems in but indifferent temper with you.” Mr. O’Toole fiddled with his hat, picked the wool off by pinches, and appeared wofully confused. “Did you want me, Marc? or was it Susan you were looking for?” “I just wanted to speak to you,” said my foster-brother, “for fear I should miss you in the morning.” “Well, Marc, here I am.” “I’m going, Master Hector, to try my fortune either in England, or the North.” “What! and quit my father’s service? Think well of this, Marc.” “Why, troth, I can’t hold the place, and all on account of an accident.” “Indeed! what happened you?” Marc picked the hat anew. “I’m in the middle of trouble, and the sooner I’m off, the better.” “Broken heads or broken vows; or, probably, a mixture of both?” “Devil a head I broke since the fair of Carrick, and the Carneys brought it on themselves; and in honesty I’m at every man’s defiance,” returned the fosterer. “Then what would you do in England, may I ask?” “What would I do in England?” he repeated, like an echo. “Can’t I do anything?--shear, mow, wisp a horse, whip hounds, jump two-and-twenty feet, throw stone and sledge--and take my own part in fair and pattern?” “Friend Marc, most of these accomplishments would only secure you a lodging in the cage, or a settlement in the stocks. But, in a word, what brings you away?” “Just Biddy O’Dwyer, the dairymaid--the devil’s luck attend her!” “Phew! Go on, Marc.” “She wants me to marry her!” “And, I suppose, has pressing reasons for making the request?”