“Why, Martin, you born ideot—av’ she ain’t waiting for you this hour and more!”
“Thim that’s long waited for is always welcome when they do come,” replied Martin.
“Well—afther all I’ve done for you! Are you going in now?—cause, av’ you don’t, I’ll go and tell her not to be tasing herself about you. I’ll neither be art or part in any such schaming.”
“Schaming, is it, Meg? Faith, it’d be a clever fellow’d beat you at that,” and, without waiting for his sister’s sharp reply, he walked into the little room where Anty was sitting.
“So, Anty, you wouldn’t come to mass?” he began.
“Maybe I’ll go next Sunday,” said she.
“It’s a long time since you missed mass before, I’m thinking.”
“Not since the Sunday afther father’s death.”
“It’s little you were thinking then how soon you’d be stopping down here with us at the inn.”
“That’s thrue for you, Martin, God knows.”