She walked over shyly, holding the knife in one hand, and stretching forward for the other.

“Sit down here beside me, on the settle, my dear.”

“I must do what ’Mandy ordered me, sir,” she said, excusingly.

“Oh, don’t you fear Amanda,” he said; “I will be your security, my little woman, that she won’t be displeased.  Dear me, what nice hair and purty curls you have! and such beautiful teeth!  Don’t you think Miss Amanda is jealous of your charms? eh?  Why do you turn away your head, my pet?”

“I don’t like such talk, sir,” she answered.  “My Prayer Book, in the ‘Table of Sins,’ says it is a sin to listen to praise or flattery.”

“Well said, my little lady,” said the tempter.  “You are right, Bridget; I was only trying you.  I do not wish you to sin.  You know I am the minister.  I love you, and wish to see you a good Christian,” said he, caressing her.

“I thank you, sir,” was her answer.

“Now, my little good one, I want to tell you some news.  I have a message for you,—­a letter from a friend.”

“Please show it, sir,” she said, impatiently; “perhaps it is from my uncle, in Ireland, to whom Paul often wrote, but never got an answer back.”

“No, my dear, it is from your father,” said the tempter.

“My father is dead, sir,” she quickly rejoined.  “It can’t be from him, anyhow, God rest his soul.”

“It is from your Father in heaven,—­behold it!” said he, in a dramatic accent, and pulling out of his breast-pocket a small octodecimo Bible.

“Queer letter carrier, and purty heavy letter,” grinned a young fellow, who was sitting by, waiting for the return of the boss to employ him.

“Christ sent you this by me,” said the dominie, presenting the Bible.  “It will teach you the knowledge of the Lord, and the true spirit of his gospel.”

“Never knew before that the Lord kept a post-office,” said the young Celt; “but I’m sure he never sent the like of you to be letter-carrier,—­too slow, too stupid, entirely, entirely; and not very honest, maybe.”

“I am not addressing you, sir,” said the parson, gruffly.  “How do you like that, Bridget?” said he, plying his arts.

“It is very nicely bound, sir,” said she; “but I dare not take it without acquainting my brother Paul.”

“Now, my little favorite,” said the representative of the serpent, “if your uncle at home left you all his property, would you not like to be able to read the will, or would you wait for Paul’s leave to read a document by which you inherited so much wealth?”

“Perhaps not, sir,” she answered, “particularly if he did not forbid me to do so.”

“Very well, this is the will, the testament of God to all men, to me, to you.  Now, Bridget, learn this will, read it, study its contents, without consent of priest or brother.  Don’t you see how proper this advice is?” said he, thinking he had her little reasoning powers conquered.