“Ah, have done with that thrash of music; sure, it’ll be dark night itself before we’re in to Lismore.”
There was something familiar in the coarse tones. The weirdness fell from the wail of the music as Mrs. Pat remembered the woman who had bothered her for money that morning in Carnfother. She and the blind old man were tramping slowly up the road, seemingly as useless a couple to any one in Mrs. Pat’s plight as could well be imagined.
“How far am I from Carnfother?” she asked, as they drew near to her. “Is there any house near here?”
“There is not,” said the yellow-haired woman; “and ye’re four miles from Carnfother yet.”
“I’ll pay you well if you will take a message there for me—” began Mrs. Pat.
“Are ye sure have ye yer purse in yer pocket?” interrupted the yellow-haired woman with a laugh that succeeded in being as nasty as she wished; “or will I go dancin’ down to Carnfother—”
“Have done, Joanna!” said the old man suddenly; “what trouble is on the lady? What lamed the horse?”
He turned his bright blind eyes full on Mrs. Pat. They were of the curious green blue that is sometimes seen in the eyes of a grey collie, and with all Mrs. Pat’s dislike and suspicion of the couple, she knew that he was blind.
“He was cut in a ditch,” she said shortly.
The old man had placed his fiddle in his daughter’s hands; his own hands were twitching and trembling.