“I’m off, sir,” said Davy; and, then, looking round and remembering that he was being kicked out like a dog and would see Nelly no more, day by day, the devil took hold of him and he began to laugh in Kinvig’s ridiculous face.
“Good-by, ould Sukee,” he cried. “I lave you to your texes.”
And, turning to where Mrs. Kinvig stood with her back to him, he cried again, “Good-by, mawther, take care of his ould head—it’s swelling so much that his chapel hat is putting corns on it.”
That night with his “chiss” of clothes on his shoulders, Davy came down stairs and went out at the porch. There he slipped his burden to the ground, for somebody was waiting to say farewell to him. It was the right petticoat this time, and she was on the right side of the door. The stars were shining overhead, but two that were better than any in the sky were looking into Davy’s face, and they were twinkling in tears.
It was only a moment the parting lasted, but a world of love was got into it. Davy had to do penance for the insults he had heaped upon Nelly’s father, and in return he got pity for those that had been shoveled upon himself.
“Good-by, Nell,” he whispered; “there’s thistles in everybody’s crop. But no matter! I’ll come back, and then it’s married we’ll be. My goodness, yes, and take Ballacry and have six bas’es, and ten pigs, and a pony. But, Nelly, will ye wait for me?”
“D’ye doubt me, Davy?”
“No; but will ye though?”
“Yes.”
“Then its all serene,” said Davy, and with another hug and a kiss, and a lock of brown hair which was cut ready and tied in blue ribbon, he was gone with his chest into the darkness.