they'll hear you," said the heiress.

"I don't care who hears me," replied Terence desperately; "I can't stand
dying by inches this way. I'll destroy myself."

"Oh, Terence!" murmured Miss O'Brannigan.

"Yes," he continued: "I loaded my pistols this morning, and I told Barney
M'Guire, the dog-feeder, to come over and shoot me the first thing he does
in the morning."

"Terence, _dear_, what do you want? What am I to say?" inquired the
trembling girl.

"Say," cried Terence, who was resolved to clinch the business at a word;
"say that you love me."

The handkerchief was again applied to Miss O'Brannigan's face, and a faint
affirmative issued from the depths of the cambric. Terence's heart hopped
like a racket-ball in his breast.

"Give me your hand upon it," he whispered.

Miss Biddy placed the envied _palm_, not on his brows, but in his hand, and
was led by him to the top of a set which was forming for a country dance,
from whence they started off at the rate of one of our modern
steam-engines, to the spirit-stirring tune of "Haste to the Wedding." There
was none of the pirouetting, and chassez-ing, and balancez-ing, of your
slip-shod quadrilles in vogue then--it was all life and action: swing
corners in a hand gallop, turn your partner in a whirlwind, and down the
middle like a flash of lightning.

Terence had never acquitted himself so well; he cut, capered, and set to
his partner with unusual agility; _we_ naturally participated in the
admiration he excited, and in the fullness of our triumph, while brushing
past the flimsy nankeens worn by Tibbins, I could not refrain from
bestowing a smart kick upon his shins, that brought the tears to his eyes
with pain and vexation.

After the dance had concluded, Terence led his glowing partner to a cool
quiet corner, where leaving her, he flew to the side table, and in less
time than he would take to bring down a snipe, he was again beside her with
a large mugful of hot negus, into which he had put, by way of stiffener, a
copious dash of mountain dew.

"How do you like it, my darling?" asked Terence, after Miss Biddy had read
the maker's name in the bottom of the mug.

"Too strong, I'm afraid," replied the heiress.

"Strong! Wake as _tay_, upon my honour! Miss Biddy," cried Mr. Duffy.

(The result of Terence Duffy's courtship will be given in the next
chapter).

* * * * *

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.

No. IV.

O Dinna pai