“Igad, this is rich!” he repeated. He put his hands in his pockets, withdrew them, and then took a few steps up and down the room, chuckling deeply to himself.
The power of speech came first to Mother Agnes. “If ’t is to insult our griefs you’ve come, young sir,” she began; “if that’s your m’aning—”
“Bless your heart, madam!” Bernard protested. “I’d be the last man in the world to dream of such a thing. I’ve too much respect. I’ve an aunt who is a religious, myself. No, what I mean is it’s all a joke—that is, a mistake. O’Daly isn’t dead at all.”
“What’s that you’re sayin’?” put in Mrs. Fergus, sharply. “Me man is aloive, ye say?”
“Why, of course”—the youngster went off into a fresh fit of chuckling—“of course, he is—alive and kicking. Yes, especially kicking!”
“The Lord’s mercy on us!” said the mother superior. “And where would Cormac be, thin!”
“Well, that’s another matter. I don’t know that I can tell you just now; but, take my word for it, he’s as alive as I am, and he’s perfectly safe, too.”
The astonished pause which followed was broken by the mumbling monologue of poor half-palsied Sister Blanaid:
“I putt the box in her hands, an’ I says, says I: ‘Away wid ye, now, an’ t’row it into the say!’ An’ thin she wint.”
The other women exchanged startled glances. In their excitement they had forgotten about Kate.