"No! Oh no! Not that."

"What then?"

"It is a girl."

"A gir . . . Did you say a girl?"

"Yes.

"My God!" said my father, and he dropped back into the chair. His lips
were parted and his eyes which had been blazing with joy, became fixed
on the dying fire in a stupid stare.

Father Dan tried to console him. There were thistles in everybody's
crop, and after all it was a good thing to have begotten a girl. Girls
were the flowers of life, the joy and comfort of man in his earthly
pilgrimage, and many a father who bemoaned his fate when a daughter had
been born to him, had lived to thank the Lord for her.

All this time the joy bells had been ringing, and now the room began to
be illuminated by fitful flashes of variegated light from the
firework-frame on the top of Sky Hill, which (as well as it could for
the rain that had soaked it) was sputtering out its mocking legend, "God
Bless the Happy Heir."

In his soft Irish voice, which was like a river running over smooth
stones, Father Dan went on with his comforting.

"Yes, women are the salt of the earth, God bless them, and when I think