“Guess, mother,—guess who told you what?” said he, suddenly starting from some deep meditation.
“Who told me that you won the cause, and beat all the great counsellors from Dublin.”
“I'm sure, mother, it would be hard for me to say,” said Joseph, smiling faintly; “some of our kind townsfolk, perhaps. Father Neal, old Peter Hayes, or—”
“I'll just tell you at once,” broke she in, half irritated at the suggested source of her information. “It was Miss Mary herself, and no other.”
“Miss Martin!” exclaimed old Nelligan.
“Miss Mary Martin!” echoed Joe; while a sickly paleness crept over his features, and his lips trembled as he spoke.
“How came you to see her? Where was she?” asked Nelligan, eagerly.
“I 'll tell you,” replied she, with all the methodical preparation by which she heralded in the least important communications,—“I 'll tell you. I was sitting here, working at the window, and wondering when the trial would be over, for the goose that was for dinner was too near the fire, and I said to myself—”
“Never mind what you said to yourself,—confound the goose,” broke in old Dan, fiercely.
“Faith, then, I 'd like to know if you 'd be pleased to eat your dinner on the cold loin of veal—”