Al Faizi wropped up in Alice, speakin’ to nobody only in the soul language of the eye, anon or oftener, and nobody but me a-knowin’ it, but I a-knowin’ it for certain.
Alice a-bein’ adored by a heathen!
Queer feelin’s it gin me and queerer still to read in that heathen’s eyes the knowledge that she had nothin’ to fear from him—she would never have even an appeal to her pity in futer days.
As she sot by her husband’s side a-holdin’ a baby’s head on her bosom, she would never look down into its sweet eyes and think with pity of lonely, despairin’ eyes that wuz facin’ a lonely, empty futer.
No; that heroic soul kep’ its own secrets. Why, you can be a hero in anything—even boots and galluses, and sech, if you bear pinchin’ from ’em without complaint (Josiah never could, he groaned audibly and frequent unless his galluses wuz jest right).
And Adrian, a happy little soul, pleased with everything, and a-praisin’ himself up jest as calm as he did castles and cathedrals, and jest as innocent.
And Martin a-bearin’ himself up with dignity, near-sighted as ever when it come to recognizin’ American bores and curous tourists.
And Josiah and I in our usual attitude of rapt devotion to each other, which is our two most striking traits (a good deal of the time they be).
CHAPTER X.
KILLARNEY, DUBLIN, AND A WAKE.