"Faix, then, I don't—and I don't want," said the old hag. "At any rate, Corney's not here; so you may jist go back agin, whoever you call yerself."
"But where is he, then? Can you tell me where I'll find him?"
"I can't tell you thin. What should I know myself? So now you know as much about it as I do."
"Well, then, get up and let me in. Don't you know me? I'm Corney's landlord, Thady Macdermot. I'll wait here till he comes; so get up and let me in."
There was a silence for some time; then he heard the old woman say to some one else,
"The Lord be praised! It can't be him—it can't be Mr. Thady coming here at this time of night. Don't stir I tell ye—don't stir, avick!"
"Oh! but it wor him, mother. Shure, don't I know his voice?" answered the child that the old woman had spoken to.
"I tell you it is me," shouted Thady. "Open the door, will you! and not keep me here all night!"
The child now got up and opened the door, and let him into the single room which the cabin contained. There were still a few embers of turf alight on the hearth, but not sufficient to have enabled Thady to see anything had not the moon shone brightly in through the door. There was but one bed in the place,—at the end of the cabin farthest from the door, standing between the hearth and the wall, and in this the old woman was lying. The child, about eight years, had jumped out of bed, stark naked, and now in this condition was endeavouring with a bit of stick to poke the hot embers together, so as to give out a better heat and light. But Thady was in want of neither, and he therefore desired the boy to get into bed, and upsetting with his foot the little heap which the urchin had so industriously collected together for his benefit, so as to extinguish the few flickering flames which it afforded, he sat down to try and think what it would now be best for him to do.
"Where's Corney, then," he said, "at this hour? Will he be long before he's here?"