“Throth it’s natural, achora. What can a lone woman do wid such a large farm upon her hands, widout having some one to manage it for her, an’ prevint her from bein’ imposed on? But indeed the first thing she ought to do is to marry off her two girls widout loss of time, in regard that it’s hard to say how a stepfather an’ thim might agree; and I’ve often known the mother herself, when she had a fresh family comin’ an her, to be as unnatural to her fatherless childre as if she was a stranger to thim, and that the same blood did’nt run in their veins. Not saying that Mary M’Coul will or would act that way by her own; for indeed she’s come of a kind ould stock, an’ ought to have a good heart. Tell her, avick, when you see her, that I’ll spind a day or two wid her--let me see--to-morrow will be Palm Sunday--why, about the Aisther holidays.” “Indeed I will, Rose, with great pleasure.” “An’ fwhishsper, dear, jist tell her that I’ve a thing to say to her--that I had a long dish o’ discoorse about her wid _a friend o’ mine_. You wont forget now?” “Oh the dickens a forget!” “Thank you, dear: God mark you to grace, avourneen! When you’re a little ouldher, maybe I’ll be a friend to you yet.” This last intimation was given with a kind of mysterious benevolence, very visible in the complacent shrewdness of her face, and with a twinkle in the eye, full of grave humour and considerable self-importance, leaving the mind of the person she spoke to in such an agreeable uncertainty as rendered it a matter of great difficulty to determine whether she was serious or only in jest, but at all events throwing the onus of inquiry upon him. The ease and tact with which Rose could involve two young persons of opposite sexes in a mutual attachment, were very remarkable. In truth, she was a kind of matrimonial incendiary, who went through the country holding her torch now to this heart and again to that--first to one and then to another, until she had the parish more or less in a flame. And when we consider the combustible materials of which the Irish heart is composed, it is no wonder indeed that the labour of taking the census in Ireland increases at such a rapid rate during the time that elapses between the periods of its being made out. If Rose, for instance, met a young woman of her acquaintance accidentally--and it was wonderful to think how regularly these accidental meetings took place--she would address her probably somewhat as follows:-- “Arra, Biddy Sullivan, how are you, a-colleen?” “Faix, bravely, thank you, Rose. How is yourself?” “Indeed, thin, sorra bit o’ the health we can complain of, Bhried, barrin’ whin this pain in the back comes upon us. The last time I seen your mother, Biddy, she was complainin’ of a _weid_.[6] I hope she’s betther, poor woman?” “Hut! bad scran to the thing ails her! She has as light a foot as e’er a one of us, an’ can dance ‘Jackson’s mornin’ brush’ as well as ever she could.”