Maggie raised her head, a bright look of love and welcome upon her face.
“Lad, I heard ye, I thought ye’d come, an’ ye’ve come so far.”
“Och, pardon her, sir,” said Gabriel, “she thinks it’s Eilio. Mam, it’s the master, not Eilio.”
Evan rested his hand on Maggie’s hot forehead. “So,” he asked, “you are not well to-day?”
“Aye, tired—but it’s nothin’ at all, nothin’ at all, whatever, except a sorrow here, dearie,” and Maggie pointed to her bosom.
“A sorrow, Maggie?”
“Aye, but it’s no matter at all now,” she answered. “I’ll put it by in the creamer with the paper, stuff it in tight like cheese in a sack.” And she laughed merrily.
“That’s right,” he replied.
“My, ye’ve grown to a sweet-lookin’ lad,” she said, patting his hand. “Could ye—could ye keep a home for mam now? I’ll give ye,” she whispered, looking at Gabriel furtively, “everythin’ I have—that’s three pounds. But ye mustn’t tell him.”