"No thin, Phelim!"

"Faitha, ma'am, sure enough. I suppose, ma'am, you hard about Biddy
Duignan?"

"Who is she, Phelim?"

"Why the misfortunate crathurs a daughter of her father's, ould Mick
Duignan, of Tavenimore."

"An' what about her, Phehm! What happened her?"

"Faix, ma'am, a bit of a mistake she met wid; but, anyhow, ould Harry
Connolly's to stand in the chapel nine Sundays, an' to make three
Stations to Lough Dergh for it. Bedad, they say it's as purty a crathur
as you'd see in a day's thravellin'."

"Harry Connolly! Why, I know Harry, but I never heard of Biddy Duiguan,
or her father at all. Harry Connolly! Is it a man that's bent over his
staff for the last twenty years! Hut, tut, Phelim, don't say sich a
thing."

"Why, ma'am, sure he takes wid it himself; he doesn't deny it at all,
the ould sinner."

"Oh, that I mayn't sin, Phelim, if one knows who to thrust in this
world, so they don't. Why the desateful ould--hut, Phelim, I can't give
into it."

"Faix, ma'am, no wondher; but sure when he confesses it himself! Bedad,