ig twisted at me hips to
kape me trousies up, an' I thought 'twas that he had in his eye! 'Buckle
to,' says I, 'Father Corraine? Buckle to, yer riv'rince?'--feelin' I
was at the twigs the while. 'Ay, little Tim Macavoy,' he says, says he,
'you've bin 'atin' the husks av idleness long enough; when are you goin'
to buckle to? You had a kingdom and ye guv it up,' says he; 'take
a field, get a plough, and buckle to,' says he, 'an' turn back no
more'--like that, says Father Corraine; and I thinkin' all the time
'twas the want o' me belt he was drivin' at."

Pierre looked at him a moment idly, then said: "Such a tom-fool! And
where's that grand leather belt of yours, eh, my monarch?"

A laugh shook through Macavoy's beard. "For the weddin' it wint: buckled
the two up wid it for better or worse--an' purty they looked, they did,
standin' there in me cinch, an' one hole left--aw yis, Pierre."

"And what do you give to Ida?" Pierre asked, with a little emphasis of
the branding-iron.

Macavoy got to his feet. "Ida! Ida!" said he. "Is that saddle for Ida?
Is it her and Hilton that's to ate aff one dish togither? That rose o'
the valley, that bird wid a song in her face and none an her tongue.
That daisy dot av a thing, steppin' through the world like a sprig o'
glory. Aw, Pierre, thim two!--an' I've divil a scrap to give, good or
bad. I've nothin' at all in the wide wurruld but the clothes an me
back, an' thim hangin' on the underbrush!"--giving a little twist to the
twigs. "An' many a meal an' many a dipper o' drink she's guv me, little
smiles dancin' at her lips."

He sat down in the doorway again, with his face turned towards Pierre,
and the back of his head in the sun. He was a picture of perfect health,
sumptuous, huge, a bull in beauty, the heart of a child looking out of
his eyes, but a sort of despair, too, in his bearing.

Pierre watched him with a furtive humour for a time, then he said
languidly: "Never mind your clothes, give yourself."

"Yer tongue in yer cheek, me spot o' vinegar. Give meself! What's that
for? A purty weddin' gift, says I? Handy thing to have in the house! Use
me for a clothes-horse, or shtand me in the garden for a fairy bower-aw
yis, wid a hole in me face that'd ate thim out o' house and home!"

Pierre drew a piece of brown paper towards him, and wrote on it with a
burnt match. Presently he held it up. "Voila, my simple king, the thing
for you to do: a grand gift, and to cost you nothing now