take it myself for the rheumatism, but
I never did like it, did I, O'Reilly?"

"Never, ma'm," was his reply. "I only take it myself because my
hearing is bad. Now, listen to me, young man. You want to marry Julia
Elizabeth, and I'll be glad to see her married to a sensible, sober,
industrious husband.--When I spoke about her a minute ago I was only
joking."

"I knew it all the time," said his wife. "Do you remember, Mr.
O'Grady, I winked at you?"

"The girl is a good girl," said her husband, "and well brought up."

"Yes," said his wife, "her hair reaches down to her waist, and she won
a prize for composition--Jessica's First Prayer, all about a girl
with----"

Mr. O'Reilly continued--

"She brings me up a cup of tea every morning before I get up."

"She never wore spectacles in her life," said Mrs. O'Reilly, "and she
got a prize for freehand drawing."

"She did so," said Mr. O'Reilly.

His wife continued--

"The Schoolboy Baronet it was; all about a young man that broke his leg
down a coal mine and it never got well again until he met the girl of
his heart."

"Tell me," said Mr. O'Reilly, "how are you young people going to live,
and where?"

His wife interpolated--

"Your Aunt Jane told me that you had seventeen shillings and sixpence a
week.--Take my advice and live on the south side--two rooms easily and
most salubrious."

The young man coughed guardedly, he had received a rise of wages since
that information passed, but candour belongs to childhood, and one must
live these frailties down--

"Seventeen and six isn't very much, of course," said he, "but I am
young and strong----"

"It's more than I had," said his host, "when I was your age. Hello,
there's the post!"

Mrs. O'Reilly went to the door and returned instantly with a letter in
her hand. She presented it to her husband--

"It's addressed to you, O'Reilly," said she plaintively. "Maybe it's a
bill, but God's good and maybe it's a cheque."

Her husband nodded at the company and tore his letter open. He read
it, and, at once as it appeared, he went mad, he raved, he stuttered,
now slapping the letter with his forefinger and, anon, shaking his fist
at his wife--

"Here's your daughter, ma'm," he stammered. "Here's your daughter, I
say."

"Where?" cried the amazed lady. "What is it, O'Reilly?" She arose
hastily and rolled towards him.

Mr. O'Reilly repelled her fiercely--

"A good riddance," he shouted.

"Tell me, O'Reilly, I com