“And what is it, Andy?——tell me, what is it?” said she, kindly.
“There's no wake,—there is n't as much as a tenant's child would have!”
“We are almost friendless here, Andy. It is not our own country.”
“Ain't they Christians, though? Could n't they keep the corpse company? Is it four candles and a deal coffin ought to be at a Dalton's burial?”
“And we are poor also,” said she, meekly.
“And has n't the poorest respect for the dead?” said he, sternly. “Wouldn't they sell the cow, or the last pig, out of honor to him that's gone to glory? I 'll not stay longer in the place; I 'll have my discharge; I 'll go back to Ireland.”
“Poor fellow,” said Nelly, taking his hand kindly, and seating him beside her. “You loved him so! and he loved you, Andy. He loved to hear you sing your old songs, and tell over the names of his favorite hounds.”
“Bessy and Countess were the sweetest among them,” said the old man, wandering away to old memories of the past, “but Nora was truer than either.” And so he fell into a low mumbling to himself, endeavoring, as it seemed, to recall the forgotten line of some hunting chant, while Nelly returned to the house to take her last farewell ere the coffin lid was closed.