John Travis should have seen her at that moment, with the unearthly radiance on her face, the uplifted confident eyes.
Her small hand was on the knob. She opened the door—a moment more—
Alas! Bridget had an impression, and sprang up. Seeing the figure she uttered a wild shriek.
“A banshee! A banshee!” she cried in a spasm of terror.
Dil stood rooted to the spot. Mrs. Quinn sprang across the room.
“Hould yer murtherin’ tongue!” she cried. “Why—it’s Dil,” seizing her by the shoulder. “Whativer are ye doin’, walkin’ in yer slape an’ rousin’ the house? An’ yer’ a fool, Bridget!”
Bridget Malone stared at the small grayish figure, unconvinced.
“Wake up, ye omadhoun!” and the mother shook Dil fiercely. “Ye can’t do nothin’ fer the child. Let her rist in peace; she’s better off nor she’s been this many a day.”
“O Mrs. Quinn, don’t be hard on the poor gurrul. She’s bin dreamin’ af the little wan, bein’ so used to tindin’ on her all hours af the night. But I thought sure it was Bess’s ghost, bein’ but half awake mesilf.”