“Oh, it is one of our Irish words; there's no other way to express it. And then there are the cliffs, and the great caves, and the yellow, yellow sands, and the shells, and the seaweeds, and the fish, and the boating, and—and—”
“Go on, Nora; you describe the sea just like any other sea.”
“Oh, but it is like no other sea,” said Nora. “And then there are the mountains, their feet washed by the waves.”
“Quite poetical,” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“It is; it is all poetry,” said Nora. “You are not laughing at me, are you, Aunt Grace? I wish you could see those mountains and that sea, and then the home—O'Shanaghgan itself.”
“Yes, Nora; tell us,” said her uncle, who did not laugh, and was much interested in the girl's description.
“The home,” cried Nora; “the great big, darling, empty house.”
“Empty! What a very peculiar description!” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“Oh, it is so nice,” said Nora. “You don't knock over furniture when you walk about; and the dining-room table is so big that, even if you did spill a jug of milk, father would not be angry.”
Mrs. Hartrick uttered a sigh.