One of my older brothers came home and cleared the entry, and we sat down to our stir-about and buttermilk. An extra cup of good hot strong tea was the finishing touch to the Samaritan act. Jamie had scant sympathy with the beggar-man. He had always called him hard names in language not lawful to utter, and even in this critical exigency was not over tender. Anna saw a human need and tried to supply it.
"Did ye blink th' cow?" Jamie asked as we sat around the candle after supper.
"Divil a blink," said Hughie.
"What did th' raise a hue-an'-cry fur?" was the next question.
"I was fixin' m' galluses, over Crawford's hedge, whin a gomeral luked over an' says, says he:
"'Morra, Hughie!'
"'Morra, bhoy!' says I.
"'Luks like snow,' says he (it was in July).
"'Aye,' says I, 'we're goin' t' haave more weather; th' sky's in a bad art'" (direction).
Anna arose, put her little Sunday shawl around her shoulders, tightened the strings of her cap under her chin and went out. We gasped with astonishment! What on earth could she be going out for? She never went out at night. Everybody came to her. There was something so mysterious in that sudden exit that we just looked at our guest without understanding a word he said.