though God he knows it's ill my common (* It's ill-becoming--or it ill
becomes me, to everlook his conduct)--but no matther, ahagur! There's
enough said, I'm thinking--give them to him."

On Ned seating himself to his bacon and potatoes, Nancy would light
another pipe, and plant herself on the opposite hob, putting some
interrogatory to him, in the way of business--always concerning a third
person, and still in a tone of dry ironical indifference: as--

"Did you see Jimmy Connolly on your travels?"

"No."

"Humph! Can you tell us if Andy Morrow sould his coult?"

"He did."

"May be you have _gumption_ enough to know what he got for him?"

"Fifteen guineas."

"In troth, and it's more nor a poor body would get; but, anyway, Andy
Morrow desarves to get a good price; he's a man that takes care of his
own business, and minds nothing else. I wish that filly of ours was
dockt; you ought to spake to Jim M'Quade about her: it's time to make
her up--you know, we'll want to sell her for the rint."

This was an assertion, by the way, which Ned knew to have everything but
truth in it.