“Dead! When did he die?” “Where did it happen?” “How?” “Of what malady?” “Are his remains coming home?” were asked in quick succession by several voices.
“This letter will tell you all that I know myself,” said she, laying it on the table. “May I venture to hope Mr. Clinch will so far oblige me? The fishermen say the sea is too rough for their craft.”
“It's not exactly on the King's service, I opine, ma'am,” broke in Mrs. Clinch; “but of course he is too gallant to oppose your wishes.”
“Faith! if you wanted any one with you, and would accept of myself,” broke in Bodkin, “I'm ready this minute; not that exactly salt water is my element.”
“The young lady is accustomed to travel alone, or she is much belied,” said Miss Busk, with a sneer.
“I suppose you'd better let her have the boat, Clinch,” said his wife, in a whisper. “There's no knowing what might come of it if you refused.”
“I 'll go down and muster the crew for you, Miss Henderson,” said Clinch, not sorry to escape, although the exchange was from a warm cabin to the beating rain without.
“Poor Martin!” sighed Bodkin; “he was the first of the family for many a long year that did n't breathe his last under his own roof. I 'm sure it weighed heavily on him.”
“I trust his son will follow his example, nevertheless,” said the priest. “I don't want to see one of the name amongst us.”
“You might have worse, Father Maher,” said Bodkin, angrily.