As he spoke there came a tapping and a little old woman with snapping black eyes skipped like a bird to his side.
“An’ indade they shall not come inside this house the night. Murdthered in me bed I will not be.”
“Hush, Katie,” querulously chided the ancient. “This is no time for to be exercisin’ yer conthrary timper.”
But the little old woman braced herself in the doorway as though to defy the world, and I hastened to state that we only wanted to sleep in the barn.
“Well, if so ye will. Arrah, the house is open save for this old spalpeen.” With that he shuffled off to fetch a lantern.
I turned to thank our guide, but he had disappeared.
Soon we were inside the big barn that we had passed coming in. The wavering rays of the lantern disclosed huge, cob-webbed recesses, rows of empty stalls, a tumble-down carriage, and near the sliding door, a small hillock of well packed hay. Otherwise the place was empty. On this hay we made our bed and were soon asleep.
I was awakened by the drumming of rain on the roof. Another wet morning was upon us. I leaned over to ask Dan what he thought of my “crazy notion” now. But he was sound asleep, so I conquered my feminine impulse and decided to get up and scout a dry place to cook breakfast.
“Ow-wow!” My bare foot splashed into a lake of cold water which, concealed by a layer of floating straw and chaff, covered the floor of the old barn to a depth of eighteen inches.
My startled howl brought Dan up with a jerk. Hastily we dressed and moved our footgear and bedding to the top of a grain bin. As we perched forlornly on this refuge in a watery waste, the door opened and the little old lady of the night before came in.