You percave the
      little spalpeen is summat down in the mouth, and wears his lift hand in a
      sling, and it’s for that same thing, by yur lave, that I’m going to give
      you the good rason. The truth of the houl matter is jist simple enough; for the very first day
      that I com’d from Connaught, and showd my swate little silf in the strait
      to the widdy, who was looking through the windy, it was a gone case
      althegither with the heart o’ the purty Misthress Tracle. I percaved it,
      ye see, all at once, and no mistake, and that’s God’s truth. First of all
      it was up wid the windy in a jiffy, and thin she threw open her two
      peepers to the itmost, and thin it was a little gould spy-glass that she
      clapped tight to one o’ them and divil may burn me if it didn’t spake to
      me as plain as a peeper cud spake, and says it, through the spy-glass:
      “Och! the tip o’ the mornin’ to ye, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt,
      mavourneen; and it’s a nate gintleman that ye are, sure enough, and it’s
      mesilf and me forten jist that’ll be at yur sarvice, dear, inny time o’
      day at all at all for the asking.” And it’s not mesilf ye wud have to be
      bate in the purliteness; so I made her a bow that wud ha’ broken yur heart
      altegither to behould, and thin I pulled aff me hat with a flourish, and
      thin I winked at her hard wid both eyes, as much as to say, “True for you,
      yer a swate little crature, Mrs. Tracle, me darlint, and I wish I may be
      drownthed dead in a bog, if it’s not mesilf, Sir Pathrick O’Grandison,
      Barronitt, that’ll make a houl bushel o’ love to yur leddyship, in the
      twinkling o’ the eye of a Londonderry purraty.”


      And it was the nixt mornin’, sure, jist as I was making up me mind whither
      it wouldn’t be the purlite thing to sind a bit o’ writin’ to the widdy by
      way of a love-litter, when up com’d the delivery servant wid an illigant
      card, and he tould me that the name on it (for I niver could rade the
      copperplate printin’ on account of being lift handed) was all about
      Mounseer, the Count, A Goose, Look-aisy, Maiter-di-dauns, and that
      the houl of the divilish lingo was the spalpeeny long name of the little
      ould furrener Frinchman as lived over the way. And jist wid that in cum’d the little willian himself, and then he made me
      a broth of a bow, and thin he said he had ounly taken the liberty of doing
      me the honor of the giving me a call, and thin he went on to palaver at a
      great rate, and divil the bit did I comprehind what he wud be afther the
      tilling me at all at all, excipting and saving that he said “pully wou,
      woolly wou,” and tould me, among a bushel o’ lies, bad luck to him, that
      he was mad for the love o’ my widdy Misthress Tracle, and that my widdy
      Mrs. Tracle had a puncheon for him. At the hearin’ of this, ye may swear, though, I was as mad as a
      grasshopper, but I remimbered that I was Sir Pathrick O’Grandison,
      Barronitt, and that it wasn’t althegither gentaal to lit the anger git the
      upper hand o’ the purliteness, so I made light o’ the matter and kipt
      dark, and got quite sociable wid the little chap, and afther a while what
      did he do but ask me to go wid him to the widdy’s, saying he wud give me
      the feshionable inthroduction to her leddyship. “Is it there ye are?” said I thin to mesilf, “and it’s thrue for you,
      Pathrick, that ye’re the fortunittest mortal in life. We’ll soon see now
      whither it’s your swate silf, or whither it’s little Mounseer
      Maiter-di-dauns, that Misthress Tracle is head and ears in the love wid.”


      Wid that we wint aff to the widdy’s, next door, and ye may well say it was
      an illigant place; so it was. There was a carpet all over the floor, and
      in one corner there was a forty-pinny and a Jew’s harp and the divil knows
      what ilse, and in another corner was a sofy, the beautifullest thing in
      all natur, and sitting on the sofy, sure enough, there was the swate
      little angel, Misthress Tracle. “The tip o’ the mornin’ to ye,” says I, “Mrs. Tracle,” and thin I made
      sich an illigant obaysance that it wud ha quite althegither bewildered the
      brain o’ ye. “Wully woo, pully woo, plump in the mud,” says the little furrenner
      Frinchman, “and sure Mrs. Tracle,” says he, that he did, “isn’t this
      gintleman here jist his reverence Sir Pathrick O’Grandison, Barronitt, and
      isn’t he althegither and entirely the most particular frind and
      acquaintance that I have in the houl world?”


      And wid that the widdy, she gits up from the sofy, and makes the swatest
      curthchy nor iver was seen; and thin down she sits like an angel; and
      thin, by the powers, it was that little spalpeen Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns
      that plumped his silf right down by the right side of her. Och hon! I
      ixpicted the two eyes o’ me wud ha cum’d out of my head on the spot, I was
      so dispirate mad! Howiver, “Bait who!” says I, after awhile. “Is it there
      ye are, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns?” and so down I plumped on the lift side
      of her leddyship, to be aven with the willain. Botheration! it wud ha done
      your heart good to percave the illigant double wink that I gived her jist
      thin right in the face with both eyes. But the little ould Frinchman he niver beginned to suspict me at all at
      all, and disperate hard it was he made the love to her leddyship. “Woully
      wou,” says he, “Pully wou,” says he, “Plump in the mud,” says he. “That’s all to no use, Mounseer Frog, mavourneen,” thinks I; and I talked
      as hard and as fast as I could all the while, and throth it was mesilf
      jist that divarted her leddyship complately and intirely, by rason of the
      illigant conversation that I kipt up wid her all about the dear bogs of
      Connaught. And by and by she gived me such a swate smile, from one ind of
      her mouth to the ither, that it made me as bould as a pig, and I jist took
      hould of the ind of her little finger in the most dilikittest manner in
      natur, looking at her all the while out o’ the whites of my eyes.