The children nestled closer to his side to comfort him, and he put a hand on each little head,—Kathleen’s dark and straight-haired, Mary Ellen’s yellow and curly.
“Then I sent into County Sligo for your two grandmothers to come and bide,” he went on, “and soon I had to do something else to earn a living, because the sheep fell sick and died in the pasture.”
“What did you do?” questioned Mary Ellen.
“I went over the mountains a-tinkering,” replied her father. “But your mother used to say that bad luck follows those that have no steady biding-place, and so it was for me. Wherever I went there was a whisper that I was like to have trouble for company, and faith, in those days he seemed my best friend.”
“Grandma Barry says to look trouble in the eye and he’ll turn away,” said Kathleen.
“Sure I’ve seen no more of him since Danny got big enough to lend a hand,” said her father. “Danny’s the good lad and will do a hand’s turn of work with the best of them.”
“’Tis Danny that keeps the house dry-thatched,” said Kathleen, looking down at the brown-thatched, white-walled cottage at the foot of the hill.
“’Tis Kathleen that reds up the house and helps the two grandmothers,” suggested Mary Ellen.
“She’s a fine slip of a girl,” replied her father heartily, “and you too, Molly jewel; there’s a pair of ye.”