Barry told her he didn’t think she was, for he didn’t know when he’d seen her looking better.
“Yes, I am, Barry: Doctor Colligan has said as much; and I should know it well enough myself, even if he’d never said a word. We’re friends now, are we not?—Everything’s forgiven and forgotten, isn’t it, Barry?”
Anty had still hold of her brother’s hand, and seemed desirous to keep it. He sat on the edge of his chair, with his knees tucked in against the bed, the very picture of discomfort, both of body and mind.
“Oh, of course it is, Anty,” said he; “forgive and forget; that was always my motto. I’m sure I never bore any malice—indeed I never was so sorry as when you went away, and—”
“Ah, Barry,” said Anty; “it was better I went then; may-be it’s all better as it is. When the priest has been with me and given me comfort, I won’t fear to die. But there are other things, Barry, I want to spake to you about.”
“If there’s anything I can do, I’m sure I’d do it: if there’s anything at all you wish done.—Would you like to come up to the house again?”
“Oh no, Barry, not for worlds.”
“Why, perhaps, just at present, you are too weak to move; only wouldn’t it be more comfortable for you to be in your own house? These people here are all very well, I dare say, but they must be a great bother to you, eh?—so interested, you know, in everything they do.”
“Ah! Barry, you don’t know them.”
Barry remembered that he would be on the wrong tack to abuse the Kellys. “I’m sure they’re very nice people,” said he; “indeed I always thought so, and said so—but they’re not like your own flesh and blood, are they, Anty?—and why shouldn’t you come up and be—”