“If he were a good man, a noble, honourable man,” said Annie, “do you think he would ask you—”
“He’s the praste!” interrupted Annorah, her eyes flashing; “the praste, is Father M‘Clane. An’ ye mind to spake well o’ him, it’s nought I’ve to say; an’ the tongue is a heretic’s that would spake ill o’ him, and he laving the ould counthree to stay for our good in this haythen land. An’ the books an’ the readin’ were for the like o’ us, would he not be the first to bid us welcome to the same? Och, it’s a good man and a holy is Father M‘Clane, say what ye will, miss.”
“I have not called him otherwise,” said Annie, much amused by the Irish girl’s warmth. “I only asked you, or tried to ask you, if he would be likely to require you to tattle and to be a tell-tale, if he were so good as you describe him?”
“It were jist putting before me eyes the maneness of the man. Is that nothing at all, and he a praste?”
“Well, well, Annorah, we will say no more about him now. I am tired, and must rest. You won’t mind being still a while?”
“Poor little thing!” said Annorah; “ye’re pale as a lily. Is there a dhrap o’ anything ye would like, and then slape a bit?”
“I will try to sleep.”
“But ye cannot kape still. The pain is shure too great. Let me carry you about a little.”
“No, no; it would tire you,” said Annie, who in her spasm of pain really longed for so novel a method of changing her position.
“At least, let me thry it for once,” urged the girl, whose Irish sympathies were powerfully awakened by her young mistress’s evident suffering; “jist for once, darlin’.”