“Tell me, Annorah,” she said, after the usual time had been spent in reading, “does Father M‘Clane know that you can read yet?”
“Not he, indade.”
“Does he not question you?”
“Not exactly. He says I spake better English, and that shure it is because I live where it is well spoken.”
“What did you say to that?”
“I said. ‘True, your riverence.’”
“I’m afraid that is hardly the truth, Annorah. If anything has improved your language, it is your reading.”
“To be shure. But is it not because I am with those who spake English well, that I’m learning to read? So it was the truth, after all.”
“Not the whole truth, Annorah.”
Just then Annorah turned, and saw the shadow of a man on the sloping rock at the left hand. Her first impulse was to cry out, but the fear of alarming Annie, and her own natural courage, prevented her; and she soon thought she could detect in the shadowy outline a resemblance to Father M‘Clane. “Och, then, the murder’s out,” she thought; “the mane creature has been listening, and faith now he shall have a pill that will settle his stomach intirely.—What were you saying, Miss Annie?” she asked aloud, turning towards Annie’s carriage.