“Troth, I'd like to see myself charge them with any thing,” said she, indignantly. “It's to them and their's I owe the roof that's over me, and my father, and my father's father before me owes it. Musha, it would become me to take their money, for a trifle of wine and spirits, and tay and tobacco, as if I wasn't proud to see them send down here—the raal ould stock that's in it! Lanty, it must be very late by this. I'm afeard something's wrong up in the bay.”
“'Tis that same I was thinking myself,” said Lanty, with a sly look towards the roasted joint, whose savoury odour was becoming a temptation overmuch for resistance.
“You've a smart baste in the stable,” said Mary; “he has eaten his corn by this time, and must be fresh enough; just put the saddle on him, Lanty dear, and ride down the road a mile or two—do, and good luck attend you.”
There never was a proposition less acceptable to the individual to whom it was made; to leave a warm fire-side was bad enough, but to issue forth on a night it would have been inhumanity to expose a dog to, was far too much for his compliance; yet Lanty did not actually refuse; no, he had his own good reasons for keeping fair with Mary M'Kelly; so he commenced a system of diplomatic delay and discussion, by which time at least might be gained, in which it was possible the long-expected guests would arrive, or the project fall to the ground on its own merits.
“Which way will they come, Mary?” said he, rising from his seat.
“Up the glen, to be sure—what other way could they from the Bay. You'll hear them plain enough, for they shout and sing every step of the road, as if it was their own; wild devils they are.”
“Sing is it? musha, now, do they sing?”
“Ay, faix, the drollest songs ever ye heerd; French and Roosian songs—sorra the likes of them going at all.”
“Light hearts they have of their own.”
“You may say that, Lanty Lawler; fair weather or foul, them's the boys never change; but come now be alive, and get out the baste.”