The kettle was boiling on the chain. The hearth had been swept and a new coat of whitening applied. There was a candle burning in her sconce and the thin yellow rays lit up the glory on her face—a glory that was encased in a newly tallied white cap. My sister sat on one side of the fireplace and she on the other—in her corner. I did not wonder, I did not ask why they did not make a supreme effort to attend the lecture—I knew. They were more supremely interested than I was. They had never heard a member of the family or a relative speak in public, and their last chance had passed by. There they were, in the light of a peat fire and the tallow dip, supremely happy.
The neighbors came in for a word with Anna. They filled the space. The stools and creepies were all occupied.
"Sit down, Willie," my father said. "Take a nice cushioned chair an' be at home." Withero was leaning against the table. He saw and was equal to the joke.
"Whin nature put a pilla on maan, it was intinded fur t' sit on th' groun', Jamie!" And down he sat on the mud floor.
"It's th' proud wuman ye shud be th' night," Marget Hurll said, "an Misther Armstrong it was that said it was proud th' town shud be t' turn out a boy like him!"
Withero took his pipe out of his mouth and spat in the ashes—as a preface to a few remarks.
"Aye," he grunted, "I cocked m' ears up an' dunched oul Jamie whin Armshtrong said that. Jamie cudn't hear it, so I whispered t' m'self, 'Begorra, if a wee fella turns up whin Anthrim turns 'im out it's little credit t' Anthrim I'm thinkin'!'"
Anna laughed and Jamie, putting his hand behind his ear, asked:
"What's that—what's that?"
The name and remarks of the gentleman who seconded the vote of thanks were repeated to him.