Not that I'd mention it for the wurreld, bein' a fri'nd iv the family, but that's the gospil truth if I was to be put on oath about it.

Well, but he was a good-lookin' gossoon, never standin', wid a pair of eyes in his head that shone like jewels, and cheeks like roses, an' a mouth jist made for kissin'. And didn't he do it, though? Not a girl in the parish but knew the taste ov his lips, more betoken he took the squire's wife for Annie Key, an' made her pay toll for crossin' the bridge at Ballyborryboydly, an' but for the election times comin' on, the squire would have tarred and feathered him.

But with all his kissin' and flirtin', there wasn't a girl he loved as he did Peggy O'Neal. An' a jewel ov a girl she was, an' well she loved Tim, an' aesy would it have been for him to get her, only for the ould woman, as I tould ye before.

"An' where would he take her to live, barrin' 'twas the poor-house?" says she. "A dacent girl like Peggy, used to havin' comforts about her-two pigs in the sty, and no count taken ov the butther-milk she took till her praythees, an' ivery saysonable luxury in life. There's Jim Brady wants her. And so you're married, it's all the same, a hundred years hince, who it was to."

That's the way that ould folks look at thim things, ye mind, an' I'm not sayin' they're wrong; but I was a fri'nd of the O'Brians, an' I did my best to ricincile the ould woman, but St. Patrick himself could'nt have done it. All she'd do was to smoke and listen, and listen an' smoke, an' whin I'd said me say, nod her head like a China mandarin an' say ag'in,

"Tim O'Brian isn't the man for Peggy O'Neal. I've niver brought her up to live without aiting, an' that's what his wife'll have to do."

An onreasonable ould crayther she was, that same Widdy O'Neal. Niverstandin' that, Tim and Peggy got a talk wid aiche other now an ag'in, an' was swate-hearts, all the same, an' I, as a frï'nd of the family, did me best for thim.

But, you see, things couldn't go on so forever. Tim

was goin' wild to go to Amerikay, and go widout Peggy he wouldn't; and Peggy, you see, couldn't go wid him, barrin' she was married, an' there was nothin' for it but to get married unknownst.

"Yer a fri'nd of the family," says Tim to me, sez he; "an' we rely chiefly upon you."

Depind upon me, ould boy," says I.

An' then we laid our heads together, an' the first idea we got was that Peggy should go to the fair, an' Tim mate her there, and the three of us go to the praste an' get married. After that, the ring bein' on, the ould woman would give in, for there'd be no help for it. But Widdy O'Neal was sharper than we thought. Not a step would she let Peggy put fut to, barrin' she was wid her. To the fair she went to sell a pig an' buy flax. An' more betoken that she wouldn't lose her in the crowd, she jist tacked Peggy's gown to her own wid a stitch or two, an' there was no getting at her.

An' there was Tim an' me followin' on at a safe distance, and Peggy, wid her gown tacked to her mother's, throtting on behind, the tears rowling down her cheeks, an' her heart broke wid disappointment, an' strangers grinning at the two as if they were shows. An' more betoken, Father Carty, taking no heed, an' sthrivin' to go betwixt 'em an' getting a fall that broke the head of him, an' brought the two wimmin down in a heap just as the squire's mad bull, that he'd sent to be sold-bad luck to the baste!-escaped from the place he was in an' sent the crowd that way.

Och the widdy was kilt inthirely, an' so was Peggy; but, niverstandin', when they got to their feet the first word the widdy said was:

"Praise to glory, the tacks didn't break!"

And home she marched, wid Peggy behind her, like a blind man and his dog.

"Yer a fri'nd of the family, an' that's your only excuse," says the ould woman to me next day. "I knowed the thrick ye'd put on me the fair day. I knowed it well, and if I hadn't tacked the gowns togither with wax-ends from Pat the cobbler's, heaven alone knows the ind of it."

Oh, she was a sharp ould woman, that same Widdy O'Neal?

"Carry her off, my boy!" said ould O'Brian.

But Peggy wouldn't be carried off. And as for doin' it, we'd have to take the ould woman, too-for by day she was like Peggy's shadow, and ivery night, findin' how successful the stitching had been the day of the fair, she sewed the girl tight to her flanning petticoat-savin' yer prisence.

The brains in me was addled as year-ould eggs, strivin' to match betwixt the poor crathers that was jist dyin' in love for ache other. As for Father Mahone, 'twasn't him that would have done aught to thwart Widdy O'Neal. Wasn't it herself provided him wid chickens, to say nothing ov butther and eggs? an' didn't she knit him stockings an' make him shirts?

But I had a brother ov me own, that came so by way of bein' my father's first wife's son by a previous marriage -the man she married adopted him afore they iver met, ye mind-that was a clergyman himself jist. An' blood is thicker than wather, an' he'd do a kind thing for me any day; an' I wint to him an' he promised to make thim fast whaniver there was opportunity.

"Git thim away," says he, " an' give me ten minutes, an' it's done."

But gittin' away was the hard part ov it; an' what to do I didn't know, until it flashed upon me like lightning wun day.

Over I goes to the widdy, an' winkin' at Peggy to let her know what I was at, I says to the ould woman:

Ye know I'm a fri'nd to the O'Brians."

"I know that same," says she.

Well," says I, "it's for that raison I'm come to the conclusion that your right about him and Peggy. What's the use in a fine fellow like that pinin' and fretin' for a good girl whin there's many a wan betther and purthier to be had for the askin'? No offence to ye, Widdy O'Neal. An' what I say is jist rid the two of the thoughts ov aich other.

"It'll take the fairy docthor to do that," says the widdy. "Peggy is bewitched."

"It's wrong in ye, Peggy," says I. "Obadience to parents is the first law to be kept. Let me look in your prayer-book, an' I'll mark the places ye'll find it in."

"Do that," says the widdy, "an' she'll come to raisin, I warrant ye."

"I will," says I. "An' more betoken, Tim O'Brian goes to Amerikay to-morrow; so what's the use of carin'?" Glory to St. Patrick," says the widdy, "afore my flanning is wore out wid the pull ov her!"

¢་

For there was Peggy tacked tight still like a Siamese twin.

The widdy got me the book, an' I took a pencil an' turned the pages over, an' every here and there wrote a word. And this is what it come to:

Peggy, darlin', don't despair. Tim is goin' to Amerikay, but you are goin' wid him. Be alongside the garden windy at eight to-night, an' there'll be a thing happen you didn't expect. Close beside the windy honey, whativer comes, an' I'll wager me life there'll be a happy ending."

An' thin I give the book to her; the ould woman couldn't read, so I was safe there.

The moon didn't rise that night until nine, and all was dark as Agypt when Tim an' me brother, the clergyman, wint into Widdy O'Neal's garden. The windy was open into the kitchen, an' I looked in, an' there sat the widdy and Peggy tacked together-the widdy close until the fire as she could get, an' Peggy waping.

"Och, mother," says she, "its roastin' I am; untack me, do, and let me cool off a bit in the garden."

"Nivir a stitch," says the widdy, " until Tim O'Brian is out ov the counthry."

"Me brain is goin'," says Peggy; an' then she began pullin' at her hair. "I'm mad," says she. "Ef I don't cool off a bit there's no knowin' what I'll do."

"Holy angels!" said the widdy; "be aisy, colleen, we'll go to the windy."

An' over she came. The light was bright inside, an' it

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was dark out. We could see an' they couldn't. I put me hand in an' nipped Peggy's arm. She put her head out. Peggy, darling," says I, "jist listen an' answer an' you'll be married in ten minutes. Here's me brother, the clergyman, an' here's Tim, an' here's me to see fair play." "Thrue for ye," says me brother. "I'm Father William, an' I'm ready to make ye wun, niverstanding all the ould women in creation.'

"Whist!" says I, "she'll hear ye." "Peggy!" says the widdy.

"The cowld air aises me wonderful," says Peggy.

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My soul, but I hope it!" says the widdy.

"Tim," says Father William, without-" Tim, boy, do you take this colleen to be your wedded wife?"

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Yis," says Tim, "yis yer reverence."

"Peggy," says Father William, "do you take this broth ov a boy to be your wedded husband?"

"I do, your riverence," says Peggy.

"What's that ye're sayin'?" says the widdy.

"The weddin' sarvice runs in me head, mother," says Peggy. "That's what I'd have said to Tim at the alther." "Ah, glory parted ye!" says the widdy. "Cool yer head a bit, darlint."

"Out goes Peggy's head, and Tim was goin' over his part; and then the father put it to Peggy."

"To love, honour and obey; to have an' to hold," says Peggy, "until death do us part. Ah, sure I do. An', och yer riverence, to that I plight me troth."

“Ah, Peggy, darlint, ye're talkin' wild ag'in," says the widdy.

"It's jist the weddin' sarvice will keep in me head," says Peggy.

"Cool it off again, colleen," says the widdy.

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the

An' out goes Peggy's head an' her hand, an' on goes ring, an' there was a smack ye might have heard a mile. Och, what's bust?" says the widdy. "Come in Peggy." An' in comes the four heads of us at wanst-Peggy's an' Tim's an' mine an' Father William's.

"The ring's on, old lady," says I; "no use of fretting.'