"Sure, thin, iver since ye was a little tot I've been thinkin' that some day I'd see ye comin' up th' aisle in a big church on yer blessed father's arrum, all in white wid a big bookay an' veil an' orange blossoms an' all; an' th' organist tearin' th' bowils out iv th' organ whiles, an' th' choir rippin' loose; an' a foine fat bishop or th' loikes, wid a grand voice rowlin' th' solemn words out in his chist. An' aftherwards atin' an' dhrinkin' an speechifyin', an' showers iv rice an' shoes an' white ribbon be th' yarrd. Thim's th' things I t'ought f'r to see. An' instid iv that, ye will stand up in privut in a shack in a neck iv woods, an' have th' words said over ye by a dom', wryneck, Gospel George iv a heretic pulpit-poundher, that's dhruv out in a buckboord dhrawed be a foundhered harrse, to do th' job loike a plumber comes. Well, God's will be done. An' mebbe yer second weddin' will be diff'rent. Though they's never th' peachbloom on th' second they is on th' first, worse luck."
"Mary! what a thing to say!" Faith cried. "There will never be a second wedding for me."
"Ye say so—knowin' nawthin'," Mrs. Foley responded. "All wimmin say so before they're first married, knowin' nawthin' iv marriage; an' half iv thim swear it to thimselves before they've been married a year, knowin' too much. But sure 'tis th' nacher iv us to take chances, or we'd niver marry at all. An' f'r why should a young widdy woman like yerself go lonely all yer days?"
"Heavens, Mary, stop it!" Faith shuddered. "Talking like that before I'm married at all. I'm not a widow; I won't be a widow."
"I'm wan foour times," Mrs. Foley observed. "An' I've knowed thim that wud have give their sowls to be wan just wanst. Ye niver can tell."
"To judge by Angus' looks I won't be a widow for a long time," Faith laughed.
Mrs. Foley shook her head sagely. "Nor ye can't tell about that. Sthrong th' lad is, but he's voylent, an' voylent min come to quick ends."
"Violent? Nonsense! He never loses his temper."
"All min lose their timpers," Mrs. Foley asserted; "an' th' quoiter th' man th' bigger divil he is whin he starts. Thim kind is th' worst. It's not f'r nawthin' he carries that harrd face."
"His face isn't hard," Faith contradicted indignantly.