ather of the fattest, and her mouth of the
widest; she was freckled over like a partridge's egg, and her hair was
the colour of a certain vegetable which we eat with boiled beef, to
use the mildest term. Often and often would my dear mother make these
remarks concerning her; but I did not believe them then, and somehow
had gotten to think Honoria an angelical being, far above all the other
angels of her sex.

And as we know very well that a lady who is skilled in dancing or
singing never can perfect herself without a deal of study in private,
and that the song or the minuet which is performed with so much graceful
ease in the assembly-room has not been acquired without vast labour
and perseverance in private; so it is with the dear creatures who are
skilled in coquetting. Honoria, for instance, was always practising,
and she would take poor me to rehearse her accomplishment upon; or the
exciseman, when he came his rounds, or the steward, or the poor curate,
or the young apothecary's lad from Brady's Town: whom I recollect
beating once for that very reason. If he is alive now I make him my
apologies. Poor fellow! as if it was HIS fault that he should be a
victim to the wiles of one of the greatest coquettes (considering her
obscure life and rustic breeding) in the world.

If the truth must be told--and every word of this narrative of my life
is of the most sacred veracity--my passion for Nora began in a very
vulgar and unromantic way. I did not save her life; on the contrary, I
once very nearly killed her, as you shall hear. I did not behold her
by moonlight playing on the guitar, or rescue her from the hands of
ruffians, as Alfonso does Lindamira in the novel; but one day, after
dinner at Brady's Town, in summer, going into the garden to pull
gooseberries for my dessert, and thinking only of gooseberries, I pledge
my honour, I came upon Miss Nora and one of her sisters, with whom
she was friends at the time, who were both engaged in the very same
amusement.

'What's the Latin for gooseberry, Redmond?' says she. She was always
'poking her fun,' as the Irish phrase it.

'I know the Latin for goose,' says I.

'And what's that?' cries Miss Mysie, as pert as a peacock.

'Bo to you!' says I (for I had never a want of wit); and so we fell to
work at the gooseberry-bush, laughing and talking as happy as might be.
In the course of our diversion Nora managed to scratch her arm, and it
bled, and she screamed, and it was mig