Ah, love, love! in how many minute points can you make yourself understood!

“By the great William, and so I am.  Come, Willy, help yourself”—­and he pushed the bottle towards him as he spoke.

And why, gentle reader, did Reilly fill his glass on that particular occasion until it became literally a brimmer?  We know—­but if you are ignorant of it we simply beg you to remain so; and why, on putting the glass to his lips, did his large dark eyes rest upon her with that deep and melting glance?  Why, too, was that glance returned with the quickness of thought before her lids dropped, and the conscious blush suffused her face?  The solution of this we must also leave to your own ingenuity.

“Well,” proceeded the squire, “steady, prudent, sober—­of a fine old family, and with an estate of twelve thousand a year—­what do you think of that, Willy?  Isn’t she a fortunate girl?”

“Taking his virtues and very agreeable person into consideration, sir, I think so,” replied Reilly in a tone of slight sarcasm, which was only calculated to reach one of his audience.

“You hear that, Helen—­you hear what Mr. Reilly—­what Willy-says.  The fact is, I’ll call you nothing but Willy in future, Willy—­you hear what he says, darling?”

“Indeed I do, papa—­and understand it perfectly.”

“That’s my girl.  Twelve thousand a year—­and has money lent out at every rate of interest from six per cent. up.”

“And yet I cannot consider him as interesting on that account, papa.”

“You do, Helen—­nonsense, my love—­you do, I tell you—­it’s all make-believe when you speak to the contrary—­don’t you call the curve on his shoulders the line of beauty?  Come—­come—­you know I only want to make you happy.”

“It is time, papa, that I should withdraw,” she replied, rising.

Reilly rose to open the door.

“Good-night, papa-dear, dear papa,” she added, putting her snowy arms about his neck and kissing him tenderly.  “I know,” she added, “that the great object of your life is to make your Cooleen Bawn happy—­and in doing so, dear papa—­there now is another kiss for you—­a little bribe, papa—­in doing so, consult her heart as well as your own.  Good-night.”

“Good-night, my treasure.”

During this little scene of affectionate tenderness Reilly stood holding the door open, and as she was going out, as if recollecting herself, she turned to him and said, “Pardon me, Mr. Reilly, I fear you must think me ungrateful; I have not yet thanked you for the service—­the service indeed so important that no language could find expression for it—­which you have rendered to dear papa, and to me.  But, Mr. Reilly, I pray you do not think me ungrateful, or insensible, for, indeed, I am neither.  Suffer me to feel what I owe you, and do not blame me if I cannot express it.”

“If it were not for the value of the life which it is probable I have saved, and if it were not that your happiness was so deeply involved in it,” replied Reilly, “I would say that you overrate what I have done this evening.  But I confess I am myself now forced to see the value of my services, and I thank heaven for having made me the humble instrument of saving your father’s life, not only for his own sake, Miss Folliard, but for yours.  I now feel a double debt of gratitude to heaven for it.”