The current of this lecture was never interrupted by a single observation from Ned, who usually employed himself in silently playing with “Bunty;” a little black cur, without a tail, and a great favorite with Nancy; or, if he noticed anything out of its place in the house, he would arrange it with great apparent care.  In the meantime, Nancy’s wrath generally evaporated with the smoke of the pipe—­a circumstance which Ned well knew; for after she had sucked it until it emitted a shrill, bubbling sound, like that from a reed, her brows, which wore at other times an habitual frown, would gradually relax into a more benevolent expression—­the parenthetical curves on each side of her mouth, formed by the irascible pursing of her lips, would become less marked—­the dog or cat, or whatever else came in her way, instead of being kicked aside, or pursued in an underfit of digressional peevishness, would be put out of her path with gentler force—­so that it was, in such circumstances, a matter of little difficulty to perceive that conciliation would soon be the order of the day.  Ned’s conduct on these critical occasions was very prudent and commendable:  he still gave Nancy her own way; never “jawed back to her;” but took shelter, as it were, under his own patience, until the storm had passed, and the sun of her good humor began to shine out again.  Nancy herself, now softened by the fumes of her own pigtail, usually made the first overtures to a compromise, but, without departing from the practice and principles of higher negotiators; always in an indirect manner:  as, “Biddy, avourneen,” speaking to her niece, “maybe that crathur,” pointing! to Ned, “ate nothing to-day; you had better, agra! get him the could bacon that’s in the cupboard, and warm for him, upon the greeshaugh, (* hot embers) them yallow-legs (* a kind of potato) that’s in the colindher; though God he knows it’s ill my common (* It’s ill-becoming—­or it ill becomes me, to everlook his conduct)—­but no matther, ahagur!  There’s enough said, I’m thinking—­give them to him.”

On Ned seating himself to his bacon and potatoes, Nancy would light another pipe, and plant herself on the opposite hob, putting some interrogatory to him, in the way of business—­always concerning a third person, and still in a tone of dry ironical indifference:  as—­

“Did you see Jimmy Connolly on your travels?”

“No.”

“Humph!  Can you tell us if Andy Morrow sould his coult?”

“He did.”

“May be you have gumption enough to know what he got for him?”

“Fifteen guineas.”

“In troth, and it’s more nor a poor body would get; but, anyway, Andy Morrow desarves to get a good price; he’s a man that takes care of his own business, and minds nothing else.  I wish that filly of ours was dockt; you ought to spake to Jim M’Quade about her:  it’s time to make her up—­you know, we’ll want to sell her for the rint.”

This was an assertion, by the way, which Ned knew to have everything but truth in it.