"Mad he may be," observed Granny Meehan; "though you daren't say that much to Miss Winifred. She ever and always stands up for him. When the scholars were leavin' the school above, she spoke up for the schoolmaster, and didn't spare those that deserted him. So from that day to this he comes here every day of the week to teach her."
"He is still teaching her, then?" I inquired.
"To be sure, he is, ma'am! He tells her that she's never too old for the learnin'—not if she was the age of that old oak there before the door."
Granny Meehan fell into a deep and apparently painful reverie, out of which she roused herself to say, apprehensively lowering her voice to the utmost:
"And, ma'am, what makes me the most anxious of all is the trinkets he do be givin' her. I'd never have known a word about it, but my hearin'—praise be to God for His goodness!—is mighty sharp, even though I haven't the sight of my eyes; and I heard some words he let fall, and next the sound of metal striking against metal, like the tinkle of a bell."
"And then?" I asked.
"Why, then I taxed Miss Winifred with what was goin' on, and she's as truthful as the day and wouldn't deny nothin'. So she up and told me of the beautiful trinkets of real gold he gave her. And I was vexed enough at it, and bid her throw them in the fire; fearin' mebbe they were fairy gold that would be meltin' away, leavin' ill luck behind."
"What did Winifred say to that?"
"She just fired up and bid me hold my peace, for a wicked old woman—she did indeed, ma'am."
And here Granny Meehan softly wiped away a tear.