“This one, mother,” said Barney, playing the tune, “your mother used to sing, you know, 'Fhir a Bhata'.”
“How often haunting the highest hilltop,
I scan the ocean thy sail to see;
Wilt come to-night, Love? wilt come to-morrow?
Wilt ever come, love, to comfort me?
Fhir a bhata, na horo eile,
Fhir a bhata, na horo eile,
Fhir a bhata, na horo eile,
O fare ye well, love, where'er ye be.”
For some moments they sat quiet with the spell of the dreamy, sad music upon them.
“One more, mother,” entreated Dick.
“No, laddie. The night is falling. There's work to-morrow for you. Aye, and for Margaret here.”
Iola rose and came timidly to Mrs. Boyle. “Thank you,” she said, lifting up her great, dark eyes to the old woman's face, “you have given me great pleasure to-night.”
“Indeed, and you're welcome, lassie,” said Mrs. Boyle, smitten with a sudden pity for the motherless girl. “And we will be glad to see ye when ye come back again.”
For this, too, it was that Iola as well as Margaret could never forget that afternoon.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” cried Dick, striking an attitude, “though the 'good cheer' department may seem to have accomplished the purpose for which it was organised, it cannot be said to have outlived its usefulness, in that it appears to have created for itself a sphere of operations from which it cannot be withdrawn without injury to all its members. I, therefore, respectfully suggest that the department be organised upon a permanent basis with headquarters at the Mill and my humble self at its head. All who agree will say 'Aye'.”
“Aye,” said Barney with prompt heartiness.