“Dear me, lad, what is it?”
“It’s the night when Catherine must go.”
“When Catherine must go? What do ye mean?”
“She’ll be dead the night at twelve.”
“Dead at twelve?” asked Eilir, bewildered. “Does she know it?”
“No, but I do, an’ to think I’ve been unkind to her! I’ve tried this year to make up for it, but it’s no use, man; one year’ll never make up for ten of harsh words an’ unkind deeds. Ow!” groaned Vavasour, collapsing on to the slate coping once more.
“Well, ye’ve not been good to her,” replied Eilir, mystified, “that’s certain, man, but I’ve heard ye’ve been totally different the past year. Griffiths was sayin’ he never heard any more sharp words comin’ from your windows, an’ they used to rain like hail on the streets some days.”
“Aye, but a year’ll not do any good, an’ she’ll be dyin’ at twelve to-night, Ow!”
“Well,” said Eilir, catching at the only thing he could think of to say, “there’s plenty in the Scriptures about a man an’ his wife.”
“Aye, but it’ll not do, not do, not do,” sobbed Vavasour Jones.