Presently something dark and massive seemed outlined in the sky before us—a blackness projected on a darkness—and, said Andy, turning to me:—
“That’s Knockcalltecrore; we’re nigh the foot iv it now, and pretty shortly we’ll be at the enthrance iv the boreen, where Misther Joyce’ll git aff.”
We plodded on for a while, and the hill before us seemed to overshadow whatever glimmer of light there was, for the darkness grew more profound than ever; then Andy turned to my companion:—
“Sure, isn’t that Miss Norah I see sittin’ on the shtyle beyant?” I looked eagerly in the direction in which he evidently pointed, but for the life of me I could see nothing.
“No! I hope not,” said the father, hastily. “She’s never come out in the shtorm. Yes! It is her, she sees us.”
Just then there came a sweet sound down the lane:—
“Is that you, father?”
“Yes! my child; but I hope you’ve not been out in the shtorm.”
“Only a bit, father; I was anxious about you. Is it all right, father; did you get what you wanted?” She had jumped off the stile and had drawn nearer to us, and she evidently saw me, and went on in a changed and shyer voice:-
“Oh! I beg your pardon, I did not see you had a stranger with you.”