e it, as the docthors
say, for, indeed, that's the way it agrees with me best. It's a kind of
family failin' with us--devil a one o' my blood ever could look a glass
of mere wather in the face without blushin'."

Dandy was now upon what they call the simplicity dodge; that is to say,
he affected that character of wisdom for which certain individuals,
whose knowledge of life no earthly experience ever can improve, are so
extremely anxious to get credit. Every word he uttered was accompanied
by an oafish grin, so ludicrously balanced between simplicity and
cunning, that Nancy, who had been half her life on the lookout for
such a man, and who knew that this indecision of expression was the
characteristic of the tribe with which she classed him, now saw before
her the great dream of her heart realized.

"Well, in troth," she replied, "you are a quare man; but still it would
be too bad to make you blush for no stronger raison than mere wather.
So, in the name o' goodness, here's a tumbler of grog," she added,
filling him out one on the instant, "and as you're so modest, you must
only drink it and keep your countenance; it'll prepare you, besides, for
the rasher and eggs; and, by the same token, here's an ould candle-box
that's here the Lord knows how long; but, faix, now it must help to
do the rasher. Come then; if you are stronger than I am, show your
strength, and pull it to pieces, for you see I can't."

It was one of those flat little candle-boxes made of deal, with which
every one in the habit of burning moulds is acquainted. Dandy took it
up, and whilst about to pull it to pieces, observed written on a paper
label, in a large hand, something between writing and print, "Mrs.
Norton, Summerfield Cottage, Wicklow."

"What is this?" said he; "what name is this upon it? Let us see, 'Mrs.
Norton, Summerfield Cottage, Wicklow!' Who the dickens is Mrs. Norton?"

"Why, my present mistress," replied Nancy; "Mr. Mainwaring is her second
husband, and her name was Mrs. Norton before she married him."

"Norton," said Dandy, whose heart was going at full speed, with a hope
that he had at length got into the right track, "it's a purty name in
troth. Arra, Nancy, do you know was your misthress ever in France?"

"Ay, was she," replied Nancy. "Many a year maid to--let me see--what's
this the name is? Ay! Cullamore. Maid to the wife of Lord Cullamore. So
I was tould by Alley Mahon, a young woman that was here on a visit to
me."