"That wather is only for the O'Haras," she said. "They and their kinsfolk can drink it, and it brings them a power of luck, but if so be as strangers so much as wets their lips with it, why, a curse enters into their bones with every dhrop they takes. That's thrue as I am standing here, miss, and you had better be warned. Wance the curse enters into you, you dwindles and dwindles till you dhrops out of sight entirely."
Janet gave a mocking laugh.
"Oh, you are a silly old woman," she exclaimed. "And do you really think that I am going to be taken in by nonsense of that sort? I'll show you now how much I believe you."
She filled the wooden cup to the brim, then, raising it to her lips, took a long, deep draught.
"Am I beginning to dwindle already?" she asked, dropping a courtesy to the angry looking Irishwoman. Without waiting for a reply she turned on her heel, and ran down the slope.
The woman followed her retreating form with flashing eyes.
"I can't abide her!" she muttered. "She's an Englisher, and I can't abide them Englishers. I hope she will dwindle and dwindle. Oh! me boy, me boy! you as was a follower of the family—you and your forbears before you—you ought to get good from this holy wather, and, oh! if it would turn your heart to the breaking heart of your Norah, how happy I'd be."