The House by the Church-Yard

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

'Sure I heerd you were sick, last week, Masther Richard,' she went on, not heeding, and with her cold fingers just touching his arm timidly—and the moon glittered on the tears that streamed down her poor imploring cheeks—'an' I'd like to be caring you; an' I think you look bad, Masther Richard.'

'No, Nan—I tell you, no—I'm very well, only poor, just now, Nan, or you should not want.'

'Sure I know, Masther Richard: it is not that. I know you'd be good to me if you had it: and it does not trouble me.'

'But see, Nan, you must speak to your friends, and say—'

'Sorra a friend I have—sorra a friend, Masther Richard; and I did not spake to the priest this year or more, and I darn't go near him,' said the poor Palmerstown lass that was once so merry.

'Why won't you listen to me, child? I won't have you this way. You must have your cloak and hood. 'Tis very cold; and, by Heavens, Nan, you shall never want while I have a guinea. But you see I'm poor now, curse it—I'm poor—I'm sorry, Nan, and I have only this one about me.'

'Oh, no, Masther Richard, keep it—maybe you'd want it yourself.'

'No, child, don't vex me—there—I'll have money in a week or two, and I'll send you some more, Nan—I'll not forget you.' He said this in a sadder tone; 'and, Nan, I'm a changed man. All's over, you know, and we'll see one another no more. You'll be happier, Nan, for the parting, so here, and now, Nan, we'll say good-bye.'

'Oh! no—no—no—not good-bye; you couldn't—couldn't—couldn't—your poor wild Nan.'

And she clung to his cloak, sobbing in wild supplication.