Not a long was herself without, maybe the half of an hour, and when she came in there was no appearance of any disorder or strife in the kitchen. But the poor wee child lay cold and dead in the cradle. The mother began for to roar and lament, and her heart was feeble with dread.
There came a knock on the door, and a neighbouring man lifted the latch and walked in. He never let on to observe the woeful countenance of herself, but he says, in a hearty voice:
“Will you tell me how is the child?”
“He is after dying on us,” she answers. “And he right well this hour past.”
The man went over to the cradle, and he lepped three foot off the floor when he seen the wee corpse lying there.
“It’s the strangest thing at all,” she laments. “And what’ll I be saying to himself when he lands in from his work.”
“Let you be telling him,” says the man, “that the little fellow is in my house this day.”
“’Tis queer advice you are speaking to be bidding me utter the like of yon lie, forenenst the innocent corpse,” says herself.
“Not a lie in the world, mam,” he answers. “Sure I am just after leaving your child by my own kitchen fire, and he wrapped up in a shawl.”
With that she took a hold of the pot stick for to run him from the place—she was odious vexed to think he’d make mock of her sore lamentations.