Then he looked towards his granddaughter once more, who had flounced away to the window at her greataunt’s interruption. She laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. He reached for her chin and lifted it up. Charcoal, you may bring in the boy. He was snoring stupidly. ‘Ha! Just the person I want. Wait!" He released himself from his aunt's embrace, ran to the trunk and fetched the old coat. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. Montague Hill.
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