“It is Miss Mary, sir,—Miss Martin,—God bless her!” broke in the other; “one that never deserts the poor, living or dead. Musha! but she's what keeps despair out of many a heart!”
“And has she come all this way alone?” asked he.
“What other way could she come, I wonder?” said the man he had first addressed. “Did n't they leave her there by herself, just as if she was n't belonging to them? They were kinder to old Henderson's daughter than to their own flesh and blood.”
“Hush, Jerry, hush!—she 'll hear you,” cried the other. And saluting the stranger respectfully, he began to follow down the cliff.
“Are there strangers stopping at the inn?” asked Mary, as she saw lights gleaming from some of the windows as she passed.
“Yes, miss, there's him that was up there at the churchyard—ye didn't remark him, maybe—and one or two more.”
“I did not notice him,” said Mary; and, wishing the men good-night, set out homeward. So frequent were the halts she made at different cabins as she drove along, so many times was she stopped to give a word of advice or counsel, that it was already duskish as she reached Cro' Martin, and found herself once more near home. “You're late with the post this evening, Billy,” said she, overtaking the little fellow who carried the mail from Oughterard.
“Yes, miss, there was great work sortin' the letters that came in this morning, for I believe there's going to be another election; at least I heard Hosey Lynch say it was all about that made the bag so full.”
“I 'm sorry for it, Billy,” said she. “We have enough to think of, ay, and troubles enough, too, not to need the strife and bitterness of another contest amongst us.”
“Thrue for ye, miss, indeed,” rejoined Billy. '“Tis wishing them far enough I am, them same elections; the bag does be a stone heavier every day till it's over.”