‘Sure it’s only me, ma’am,’ said a voice—‘Larry Monaghan! I’ve a message to ye from my mother, at the new mill beyant.’
As the man spoke, his head protruded through the trap-door.
‘I see ye’ve a light convanient,’ he said, pointing to a tallow candle which stood above the disused fireplace.
‘Yes, sure,’ answered Moya.
‘Kape it burning, to drive away the rats, but mind the sparks—the ould timber’s like touchwood. But sure it’s not that I came to say. My mother bids ye come over with me to the new mill, and shelter there, for sure this is no place for a decent woman.’
‘It’s only for one more night,’ replied Moya, ‘and then I’ll be laving for my own home in the south. Though I thank your kind mother all the same.’
‘Saints above!’ murmured Larry. ‘It’s not a wink of shleep I could get here! They’re sayin’ the place is haunted by the fairies.’
‘Sure they won’t harm a poor soul like me!’ cried Moya, with a musical laugh.
‘Thin ye won’t come? It’s only a short stretch down the hillside.’
‘I’ll stay where I am, thank you,’ was the reply. ‘I’m a sound sleeper, and even when I’m waking, I’ve my thoughts for company. It will be getting late?’