“Why you don't mane to say anything agen her charackther, do you?” said Andy.
“Charakther, indeed!” said his mother, with a sneer.
“By this an' that,” said Andy, “if she was the child unborn she couldn't make a greater hullabaloo about her charakther than she did the mornin' afther.”
“Afther what?” said his mother.
“Afther I was tuk away up to the hill beyant, and found her there, and—but I b'lieve I didn't tell you how it happened.”
“No,” said Oonah, coming forward, deadly pale, and listening anxiously, with a look of deep pity in her soft eyes.
Andy then related his adventure as the reader already knows it; and when it was ended, Oonah burst into tears and in passionate exclamations blamed herself for all that had happened, saying it was in the endeavour to save her that Andy had lost himself.
“Oh, Oonah! Oonah!” said Andy, with more meaning in his voice than the girl had ever heard before, “it isn't the loss of myself I mind, but I've lost you too. Oh, if you had ever given me a tendher word or look before this day, 't would never have happened, and that desaiver in the hills never could have deludhered me. And tell me, lanna machree, is my suspicions right in what I hear—tell me the worst at oncet—is she non compos?”
“Oh, I never heerd her called by that name before,” sobbed Oonah, “but she has a great many others just as bad.”
“Ow! ow! ow!” exclaimed Andy. “Now I know what Misther Dick laughed at; well, death before dishonour—I'll go 'list for a sojer, and never live with her!”