A colloquy then ensues between the manly singer and the maiden, which we need not repeat. It is enough to say, that Mr. O’Brallaghan expresses disapprobation at the coldness of the lady.
The lady replies, that she respects and esteems Mr. O’Brallaghan, but never, never can be his, owing to the fact that she is another’s.
Mr. Jinks starts with joy, and shakes his fist—from the protecting shadow—triumphantly at the poor defeated wooer.
The wooer, in turn, grows cold and defiant; he upbraids the lady; he charges her with entertaining a passion for the rascal and coward Jinks.
This causes the lady to repel the insulting accusation with hauteur.
Mr. O’Brallaghan thinks, and says, thereupon, that she is a cruel and unnatural woman, and unworthy of affection or respect.
Mistress O’Calligan wishes, in reply, to know if Mr. O’Brallaghan means to call her a woman.
Mr. O’Brallaghan replies that he does, and that if Mr. Jinks were present, he would exterminate that gentleman, as some small exhibition of the state of his feelings at being thus insulted by the worst and most hard-hearted of her sex.
After which, Mr. O’Brallaghan clenches his hands with threatening vehemence, and brushing by the concealed Jinks, who makes himself as small as possible, disappears, muttering vengeance.
Mr. Jinks is happy, radiant, triumphant, and as he watches the retreating wooer, his frame shakes with sombre merriment. Then he turns toward the window, and laughs with cautious dignity.
The lady, who is just closing the window, starts and utters an exclamation of affright. This, however, is disregarded by Mr. Jinks, who draws near, and stands beneath the window.
Mistress O’Calligan considers it necessary to state that she is in such a taking, and to ask who could have thought it. Mr. Jinks does not directly reply to this question, but, reaching up, hands in the bundle, and commences a whispered conversation. The lady is doubtful, fearful—Mr. Jinks grows more eloquent. Finally, the lady melts, and when Mr. Jinks clasps, rapturously, the red hand hanging out, he has triumphed.
In fifteen minutes he is on his way back to the tavern, chuckling, shaking, and triumphant.
All is prepared.
Let us now leave the good old town of Winchester, and go into the hills, where the brilliant autumn morning reigns, splendid and vigorous.
In the hills! Happy is the man who knows what those words mean; for only the mountain-born can understand them. Happy, then, let us say, are the mountain-born! We will not underrate the glories of the lowland and the Atlantic shore, or close our eyes to the wealth of the sea. The man is blind who does not catch the subtle charm of the wild waves glittering in the sun, or brooded over by the sullen storm; but “nigh