Vavasour said nothing; Eilir peered more closely at him. “Are ye sick, lad?”
“Och, I’m not sick!” Vavasour’s voice rang drearily, as if that were the least of ills that could befall him.
“Well, what ails ye?”
“It’s All-Hallows’ Eve an’——”
“Aren’t ye goin’ to Pally Hughes’s?”
“Ow!” he moaned, “the devil! goin’ to Pally Hughes’s while it’s drawin’ nearer an’ nearer an’—Ow!”
“Tut, man,” said Eilir sharply, “ye’re ill; speak up, tell me what ails ye.”
“Ow-w!” groaned Vavasour.
Eilir drew away; here was a case where All-Hallows’ had played havoc early in the evening. What should he do? Get him home? Notify Catherine? Have the minister? He was inclining to the last resource when Vavasour groaned again and spoke:—
“Eilir, I wisht I were dead, man.”