"Do you mane to break our hearts?" he replied, laughing; "for sure we
couldn't do less afther her, Sally; eh, ha! ha! ha! Before you lave us,
anyhow," he added, "go and get me some Gaiharrawan roots to bring down
this swellin'; I can't go to the Grange wid sich a face as this on me."

"You'll have a blacker an' a worse one on the day of judgment," replied
Nelly, taking up an old spade as she spoke, and proceeding to look for
the Casharrawan (Dandelion) roots he wanted.

When she had gone, the prophet, assuming that peculiar sweetness of
manner, for which he was so remarkable when it suited his purpose,
turned to his daughter, and putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket,
pulled out a tress of fair hair, whose shade and silky softness were
exquisitely beautiful.

"Do you see that," said he, "isn't that pretty?"

"Show," she replied, and taking the tress into her hand, she looked at
it.

"It is lovely; but isn't that aquil to it?" she continued, letting loose
her own of raven black and equal gloss and softness--"what can it brag
over that? eh," and as she compared them her black eye flashed, and her
cheek assumed a rich glow of pride and conscious beauty, that made her
look just such a being as an old Grecian statuary would have wished to
model from.

"It is aiquil to hers any day," replied her father, softening into
affection as he contemplated her; "and indeed, Sally, I think you're her
match every way except--except--no matter, troth are you."