anybody else good--and what blessed
eyes you have! they are comin' out, too, by degrees, as the lawyers
goes to Heaven! Now! now! now! ay, where's your strugglin' gone to? It's
little you'll make of it in Raymond's iron fingers--Halloo, this is for
white-head, and white-head's--poor little white-head's---father, and
for poor little white-head's mother, and this--ay, the froth's comin'
now, now, now--and this last's for poor Mary M'Loughlin! Eh, ho, ho!
There now--settled at last, with your sweet grin upon you, and your
tongue out, as if you were makin' fun of me--for a beauty you were, and
a beauty you are, and there I lave you!"

While uttering these words, he went through with violent gesticulations,
the whole course and form of physical action that he deemed necessary to
the act of strangling worthy Phil, whose graceful eidolon was receiving
at his hands this unpleasant specimen of the pressure from without. He
had one knee on the ground, his huge arms moving with muscular energy,
as he crushed and compressed the pillow, until the very veins of his
forehead stood out nearly black with the force at once of hatred and
exertion. Waving thus wrought his vengeance out to his own satisfaction,
he once more, in imagination, transformed the pillow into his little
white-head, as he loved to call him; and assumed a very different aspect
from that which marked the strangulation scene just described.

"Come here," said he--taking it up tenderly in his arms--"come
here--don't be afeard now; there's nobody that can do you any harm. Ah!
my poor white-head--don't! you want your mother to keep up your poor
sick head, and to lay your poor pale face against her breast? And
your father--you would like to get upon his knee and climb up to kiss
him--wouldn't you, white-head? Yes, he says he would--white-head says he
would--and tell me, sure I have the cock for you still; and if you want
a drink I have-something better than bog wather for you--the sickening
bog wather! Oh! the poor-pale face--and the poor sickly eye--up in the
cowld mountains, and no one to think about you, or to give you comfort!
Whisht now--be good--och, why do I say that, poor white-head--for sure
you were always good! Well wait--bog wather--ah, no--but wait here--or
come wid me--I won't lay you down, for I love you, my poor white-head;
but come, and you must have it. My mother's gone out--and she's not
good; but you must have it."

He rose, still holding the pillow l