CHAPTER XL. THE PRIEST'S KITCHEN
The candles were burning brightly, and the cheerful bog-fire was blazing on the hearth, as I drew near the window of the priest's cottage; but yet there was no one in the room. The little tea-kettle was hissing on the hob, and the room had all that careful look of watchful attention bestowed upon it that showed, the zeal of his little household.
Uncertain how I should meet him, how far explain the affliction that had fallen on me, I walked for some time up and down before the door; at length I wandered to the back of the house, and passing the little stable, I remarked that the pony was absent. The priest had not returned perhaps since morning; perhaps he had gone some distance off—in all likelihood accompanied the Bellews; again the few words he had spoken that morning recurred to me, and I pondered in silence over their meaning. As I thus mused, a strong flood of mellow light attracted me as it fell in a broad stream across the little paved court, and I now saw that it came from the kitchen. I drew near the window in silence, and looked in. Before the large turf-fire were seated three persons; two of them, who sat in the shining light, I at once recognised as the servants; but the third was concealed in the shadow of the chimney, and I could only trace the outline of his figure against the blaze. I was not long, however, in doubt as to his identity.
'Seemingly, then, you're a great traveller,' said Patsey, the priest's man, addressing the unknown.
A long whiff of smoke, patiently emitted, and a polite wave of the hand in assent was the reply.
'And how far did you come to-day, av I might be so bould?' said Mary.
'From the cross of Kiltermon, beyond Gurtmore, my darlin'; and sure it is a real pleasure and a delight to come so far to see as pretty a crayture as yourself.' Here Patsey looked a little put out, and Mary gave a half smile of encouragement. 'For,' continued the other, breaking into a song—
'Though I love a fox in a cover to find,
When the clouds is low, with a sou'west wind,
Faix, a pretty girl is more to my mind
Than the tally-high-ho of a morning.'
I need scarcely say that the finale of this rude verse was given in a way that only Tipperary Joe could accomplish, as he continued—