“Well, he went again to his work, and thought he’d have better luck; but it was still the ould game—­three shovelfuls would come in for ev’ry one he’d throw out; and now he began, in earnest, to feel something about his heart that he didn’t like, bekase he couldn’t, for the life of him, help thinking of the three hundred and sixty-four heads, and the empty hook.  At last he gave up the work entirely, and took it into his head to make himself scarce from about the old fellow’s castle, altogether; and without more to do, he set off, never saying as much as ‘good-bye’ to his master:  but he hadn’t got as far as the lower end of the yard, when his ould friend, the dog, steps out of a kennel, and meets him full but in the teeth.

“‘So, Jack,’ says he, ’you’re going to give us leg bail, I see; but walk back with yourself, you spalpeen, this minute, and join your work, or if you don’t,’ says he, ’it’ll be worse for your health.  I’m not so much your enemy now as I was, bekase you have a friend in coort that you know nothing about; so just do whatever you are bid, and keep never minding.’

“Jack went back with a heavy heart, as you may be sure, knowing that, whenever the black cur began to blarney him, there was no good to come in his way.  He accordingly went into the stable, but consuming to the hand’s turn he did, knowing it would be only useless; for, instead of clearing it out, he’d be only filling it.

“It was near dinner-time, and Jack was very sad and sorrowful, as how could he be otherwise, poor fellow, with such a bloody-minded ould chap to dale with? when up comes the darling of the world again, to call him to his dinner.

“‘Well, Jack,’ says she, with her white arms so beautiful, and her dark clusters tossed about by the motion of her walk—­how are you coming on at your task?’ ‘How am I coming on, is it?  Och, thin,’ says Jack, giving a good-humored smile through the frown that was on his face, ’plase your lady—­a cushla machree—­it’s all over with me; for I’ve still the same story to tell, and off goes my head, as sure as it’s on my shoulders, this blessed night.’

“‘That would be a pity, Jack,’ says she, ’for there are worse heads on worse shoulders; but will you give me the shovel?’ ’Will I give you the shovel, is it?—­Och thin, wouldn’t I be a right big baste to do the likes of that, any how?’ says Jack; ’what! avourneen dheelish! to stand up with myself, and let this hard shovel into them beautiful, soft, white hands of your own!  Faix, my jewel, if you knew but all, my mother’s son’s not the man to do such a disgraceful turn, as to let a lady like you take the shovel out of his hand, and he standing with his mouth under his nose, looking at you—­not myself auourneen! we have no such ungenteel manners as that in our country.’  ‘Take my advice, Jack,’ says she, pleased in her heart at what Jack said, for all she didn’t purtend it—­’give me the shovel, and depend upon it, I’ll do more