"Troth, and 'tis easy known, if you had, you would not be wanting to see him twice."
Larry grinned from ear to ear, but Helen's heart sank like lead, at this depressing piece of intelligence.
"He is greatly failed since he buried the mistress," continued Mr. Flood. "He is a poor innocent creature now, and harmless; he does be always inventing weathercocks, and kites, and such-like trash, when he ought to be looking after the place. Miss Dido does that; oh, she's a clever wan. Just a raal trate of a young lady!"
"Do you mean that she manages the farm?"
"Troth, and who else? 'tisen't the poor simple ould gentleman—the Lord spare him what senses he has—for he would make a very ugly madman! Miss Dido minds the books, and the business, and the garden, and the money—not that there's much of that to trouble her—and Darby Chute, a man that lives at the 'Cross,' buys and sells a few little bastes for her, and sees to the turf-cutting and the grazing. The shootin's all let—a power of the land too. What the ould man does with the rent of it, bates all."
"I suppose Darby Chute is a faithful old family servant?" said Helen, her mind recurring to the ancient retainers of fiction.
"Bedad, he is ould enough! but I would not answer for more than that; he is Chute by name, and 'cute by nature, I'm thinking! Mr. Sheridan has a warm side to him, and laves him great freedom.—The ould steward that died a few years back, was a desperate loss. Now he was a really valuable man; 'tis since then they have Darby, who was only a ploughman before. I'm sorry for the two young ladies; they go about among the people, so humble and so nice, as if they had not a shilling in the world—and more betoken they haven't many.—I wish to the Lord they were married! but they are out of the way of providence here,—there's no quality at all, this side. They do say, young Barry Sheridan does be entirely taken up with Miss Kate; but he's the only wan that's in it, and no great shakes ayther; and in my opinion——"
"Is there no one living over there?" interrupted his listener, averse to such disclosures, and pointing to a long line of woods on the horizon.
"Shure, diden't I tell you that it was all Mr. Redmond's, of Ballyredmond?—The old people does be there, and an English young lady betimes, she is mighty plain about the head. I never heard them put a name on her," then in quite an altered tone, he added, excitedly, "By the powers of Moll Kelly, but I see the Corelish post-car, there ahead of us in the straight bit of road. Do you notice him, miss? the weenchie little speck. I do mostly race him to the Cross of Cara Chapel, where our roads part, and I'm thinking I've the legs of him this time! Altho' he has the old piebald, and a big start; we will just slip down by the short cut through the bog, and nail him neatly at the corner!"
At first this announcement was Greek to his fare,—but she began to comprehend what he meant, as he turned sharply into a bye-way, or boreen, and started his only too willing steed at a brisk canter!