"To be sure," continued he, "at his time of life——"
"Very true," said Biddy. "Good morning."
"And the season has been very unhealthy."
"Doctor Growling told me so yesterday," said Biddy; "I wonder you're not afraid of stopping in this east wind—colds are very prevalent. Good bye!"
Just now the Genius of Farce, who presides so particularly over all Irish affairs, put it into the lamb's head to bleat. The sound at first did not strike Tom Durfy as singular, they being near a high hedge, within which it was likely enough a lamb might bleat; but Biddy, shocked at the thought of being discovered in the fact of making her jaunting-cart a market-cart, reddened up to the eyes, while the widow squeezed herself closer into the corner.
Tom, seeing the increasing embarrassment of Biddy, and her desire to be off, still would talk to her, for the love of mischief.
"I beg your pardon," he continued, "just one moment more—I wanted to ask, was it not apoplexy, for I heard an odd report about the death?"
"Oh, yes," says Biddy; "apoplexy—good bye!"
"Did he speak at all?" asked Tom.
"Baa!" says the lamb.