“It was after Anstey was born that she went completely out of her mind, was it not?” I said, as we walked on.
“Well, ’twas thin the sinse left her entirely, miss; but she wasn’t all out right in her head, as I’m tellin’ ye, for a year before that. There was a big snow came afther the little gerr’l was born, and they say, whin she seen that she let one bawl out of her, and niver spoke a word afther.”
We had by this time come to the little gate that led out of the bog.
“Good evening to your honour, miss. May the Lord comfort your honour long, and that I may niver die till I see you well married; for you’re a fine young lady, God bless you!”—with which comprehensive benediction, Mary Minnahane, as I afterwards found was her name, tramped off down the avenue.
I felt lonelier for the cessation of her rough, vigorous voice; and, turning, I leaned on the gate, and looked back over the sunshiny bleakness of the bog. It looked now very much as it had looked on the day when I had gone out to see Willy put Alaska through her paces, and as the fragrant wind brought the sea murmurs to me, I almost cheated myself into the belief that this was still that brilliant October afternoon, and that Willy was now riding down to meet me at the lodge.
My eyes fell on the solitary figure at the bog hole. It recalled in a moment the funeral, the graveyard, my futile tears, and all that had led to them. I turned towards home with the same feeling of uncertainty and dejection with which I had set out.
CHAPTER V.
ENTER WILLY.
“Oh, the little more, and how much it is!
And the little less, and what worlds away!”