well, well, let me see now—hum-m-m-m—it goes
something like—"
And he hummed a quavering old tune:
"'I saw the Shannon's purple flood
Flow by the Irish town.'"
Then he stopped and shook his grizzled head. "Shure, now, I'm forgettin' it intirely; ye know, though, somethin' about:
"'Whin down the glin rode Sarsfield's min,
And they wore the jackets green.'
"Sing it onct, fer th' ould man."
"But, father," the girl laughed, though she began screwing up the piano stool, "it's too late, the neighbors will object."
"Niver mind th' neighbors," commanded the alderman in the tone he used at a primary, "sing it."
"But it's forbidden in the lease after ten o'clock," the girl protested, leafing over her music. "What if the landlord—"
"It's time to say good marnin' to th' divil, Nora, whin ye meet 'im."
Nora fixed herself on the stool, fingered the keys,