them?—and if we spoke in whispers?—or, if now and again, when the lane curved and kindly bushes projecting threw dark shadows, our lips met?
When we came to the open space before the gate, we found Andy. He pretended to see only Dick and Joyce, and saluted them:—
"Begor! but it's the fine night, it is, Misther Dick, though more betoken the rain is comin' on agin soon. A fine night, Misther Joyce! and how's Miss Norah?—God bless her! Musha! but it's sorry I am that she didn't walk down wid ye this fine night! An' poor Masther Art—I suppose the fairies has got him agin?" Here he pretended to just catch sight of me." Yer 'an'r, but it's the sorraful man I was—shure, an' I thought ye was tuk aff be the fairies—or, mayhap, it was houldin' a leprachaun that ye wor. An' my! but there's Miss Norah, too, comin' to take care iv her father! God bless ye, Miss Norah, Acushla!—but it's glad I am to see ye!"
"And I'm always glad to see you, Andy," she said, and shook hands with him.
Andy took her aside, and said, in a staccato whisper intended for us all:—
"Musha! Miss Norah, dear, may I ax ye somethin'?"
"Indeed you may, Andy. What is it?"
"Well, now, it's throubled in me mind I am about Masther Art—that young gintleman beyant ye, talkin' t' yer father!" the hypocritical villain pointed me out,
