'Oh, Mr. Snaggs,' said she, anxiously, and with tears, as the worthy elder still lingered near her, after mounting his pony, 'I hope you will forget Callum's fury, and show some mercy to my poor old uncle, Gillespie Ruadh—he is old—his wife is sick, and they have seven children.'
'The mystical number seems to be the established one in Glen Ora, my dear,' said Snaggs, retaining the girl's hand in his, despite her timid efforts to withdraw it; 'by-the-by, lass, can you tell me how many cattle are in the glen?'
'No.'
'You do not know?'
'We never count them, sir.'
'Why?'
'It is so unlucky.'
'Whew!—how?'
'Some would be sure to die after we had reckoned them; and St. Colme knows we have few enough for the poor people.'
This was said, of course, in Gaelic, but Snaggs understood it, for, pressing her hand, he added, more kindly,—