“Well, to tell yer honour no lie, Patsie Maguire does the heavy part. When his work is over, he comes and puts in an hour.”
“I know Patsie Maguire—a smart, likely-looking lad”—here he addressed himself to Mary, who stood leaning carelessly against the dresser. “And what does he dig for, Mary—love, or money?”
“Oh, sir!” cried the girl, “now I declare to goodness ye make me laugh! For neither—but just his kindness.”
“Mary is terribly clever with flowers,” put in her mother irrelevantly. “’Tis she has the lucky hand; and as for eggs, hasn’t the hens been laying the whole winter, and them mother naked, and not a feather on them. Winter does be awful lonesome for us now; not a living soul within half a mile. Sometimes, when I think of robbers and house-breakers, I am all of a tremble, and never close an eye.”
“You ought to keep a dog,” suggested the visitor; “he’d be company.”
“He would so,” agreed Mary. “I’d love to have one.”
“Would you like this fellow?” asked Ulick, indicating a red terrier who had made his way to the fire; “he is only a pup, but he will grow!”
“Oh, sir! oh, yer honour! sure we would not expect the likes of him,” protested Mrs. Foley. “Maybe Boland up at the Chapel has a pup he can spare.”
“No, no, mother,” broke in Mary, “I just hate that breed of Boland’s—they are so long and black and deceiving, and, anyhow, are only good for poaching. They are quiet enough on a weekday, but all over the county of a Sunday. Oh——,” and she paused, “Oh faix, I was forgetting Mr. Ulick!” and she laughed, and coloured vividly.