“No, nor grudging; fine ye ken it, cousin. But I know ye have them, and it's a pity you should be dressed in another's spinning than your own.”
“Ay, they're yonder sure enough: clean and ready. And there's more than that beside them. The linen I should have brought to a man's home.”
“You and your man's home! Is it Duart, my dear, among your own folk, or down to Inishail, you would have us take you?” Aoirig coughed till the red froth was at her lips.
“Duart is homely and Inishail is holy, sure enough, but I would have it Kilmalieu. They tell me it's a fine kirkyard; but I never had the luck to see it.”
“It's well enough, I'll not deny, and it would not be so far to take you. Our folk have a space of their own among the MacVicars, below the parson.”
The woman in the bed signed for a sip of water, and they had it fast at her lips.
“Could you be putting me near the Macnicols?” she asked in a weakening voice. “The one I speak of was a Macnicol.”
“Ay, ay,” said the goodwife; “they were aye gallant among the girls.”
“Gallant he was,” said the one among the blankets. “I see him now. The best man ever I saw. It was at a wedding——”
The woman's breast racked and the spume spattered over the home-spun blankets.