“Is Mary Joyce well—did ye hear?”
“Errah! she's well enough now, but she may be low before night,” muttered the crone; while she added, with a fiendish laugh, “her purty faytures won't save her now, no more nor the rest of us.”
“There's a bottle of port wine, Peggy; take it with ye, dear. 'Tis the finest thing at all, I'm tould, for keeping it off—get Mary to take a glass of it; but mind now, for the love o' ye, never say it was me gav it. There's bad blood between the Joyces and me, ye understand.”
“Ay, ay, I know well enough,” said the hag, clutching the bottle eagerly, while opening a gate on the roadside, she hobbled on her way towards Phil Joyce's cabin.
It was near evening as Owen was enabled to turn homewards; for besides having a great many places to visit, he was obliged to stop twice to get poor Patsy something to eat, the little fellow being almost in a state of starvation. At length he faced towards the mountain, and with a sad heart and weary step plodded along.
“Is poor Ellen buried?” said he, as he passed the carpenter's door, where the coffin had been ordered.
“She's just laid in the mould—awhile ago.”
“I hope Martin bears up better;—did you see him lately?”
“This is for him,” said the carpenter, striking a board with his hammer; “he's at peace now.”
“Martin! sure he's not dead?—Martin Neale, I mean.”