“An estimable man,” she remarked, coldly.
“Oh, yes; nothing could have been friendlier,” pursued Bernard, “than the way he treated me. And the day before that I was at Cashel, and had a long talk with the archbishop. He’s a splendid old gentleman, too. Not the least sign of airs or nonsense about him.”
Mother Agnes rose.
“I’m deloighted to learn that our higher clergy prodhuce so favorable an impression upon you,” she said, gravely; “but, if you’ll excuse us, sir, this is a house of mourning, and our hearts are heavy wid grief, and we’re not in precisely the mood—”
Bernard spoke in an altered tone:
“Oh! I beg a thousand pardons! Mourning, did you say? May I ask—”
Mrs. Fergus answered his unspoken question.
“Don’t you know it, thin? ’T is me husband, Cormac O’Daly. Sure he’s murdhered an’ his body’s nowhere to be found, an’ the poliss are scourin’ all the counthry roundabout, an’ there’s a long account of ’t in the Freeman sint from Bantry, an’ more poliss have been dhrafted into Muirisc, an’ they’ve arrested Jerry Higgins and that long-shanked, shiverin’ omadhaun of a cousin of his. ’T is known they had a tellgram warnin’ thim not to be afraid—”
“Oh, by George! Well, this is rich!”
The young man’s spontaneous exclamations brought the breathless narrative of Mrs. Fergus to an abrupt stop. The women gazed at him in stupefaction. His rosy and juvenile face had, at her first words, worn a wondering and puzzled expression. Gradually, as she went on, a light of comprehension had dawned in his eyes. Then he had broken in upon her catalogue of woes with a broad grin on his face.