“An’ the tailor?” “Must stitch himself to another.” Here the dialogue broke off abruptly, for neither the missionary nor the maiden could longer refrain from laughing; the former, though a grave and reverend signior at all times, was perfectly overcome by Kate’s naiveté and archness; and though he was farther than ever from attaining his object, he was in perfect good humour. Miles Kavanagh soon after entered the cottage, and much was he surprised to find his daughter and Mr Costigan tete-a-tete, and on such excellent terms. Nor was the surprise lessened, when he saw the farmer sit it out for two hours longer, still laughing and still joking, as if he and Kate had ever been the best of friends and banterers. At length Mr Costigan heavily arose from his seat, and declaring that he would come again on the same business (he forgot however to speak to Miles Kavanagh about it), he took his leave. And he did go again and again; and at the third visit Dennis Costigan and Miles Kavanagh retired to an inner apartment. Kate neither knew nor wished to know the subject of their confab; but she observed, that as the farmer was retiring after the last visit, he and her father shook hands as if clenching a bargain. “You’re mighty affectionate!” thought Kate; “I wonder yez didn’t kiss!” As well as I can remember, it was about a fortnight from the day of our friend Dennis Costigan’s visit to Miles Kavanagh’s cottage, that Watty Colfer (Watty always walks with his head down; mind, his face is an ell longer than any other face, so grave and thoughtful is he!) had just got inside father Tobin’s gate, and closed it after him, when he saw his reverence himself thundering down the avenue on St Patrick, his nag. “Yer sarvint, sur!” said Watty, very humbly, and hat in hand, and propping himself against the shut gate, “could I make so bould as just to spake one word to yer rivirince?” “Not one word!” replied the priest hastily, “if you were the bishop! I am in too great a hurry. Lave my way and open the gate.” “Thin, God help me,” groaned Watty, but still keeping his position, “that am neither priest nor bishop; I haven’t the head-piece for sitch great min; an’ all clargy must have great heads to keep in the larnin’. Now, is it a great weight intirely, sur?” The priest laughed in spite of his hurry, but as he well knew the man he had to deal with, he checked himself immediately, and assuming as determined a look as possible under the circumstances, he “commanded the slieveen to open the gate for him.” Watty too knew his man. He knew every variation of the priest’s temper, from its usual lake-like placidity, till it got up to boiling-water heat. He thought it was beginning to “simmer” a little, but far away yet from “bubbling and hissing;” and gratifying his own cool impudence, he continued the process of “heating up.” “Why, thin, indeed, what I have to say won’t keep ye long, sur.” “Open the gate this instant!” thundered the priest.