"Why—him—him that we mayn't name—him."
"Hush, dear Kerry, he died long ago."
"I tell ye, mam, he's a living man, and coming back—I know it—he's coming back immadient—I saw him."
"Drop it, woman, it's drames," said Hommy.
"I saw him last night as plain as plain—wearing a long gray sack and curranes on his feet, and a queer sort of hat."
"It must have been the priest that you saw in your dream, dear Kerry."
The sick woman raised herself on one elbow, and answered eagerly, "I tell you no, mam, but him—him."
"Lie still, Kerry; you will be worse if you uncover yourself to the cool air."
There was a moment's quiet, and then the blind woman said finally, "I'm going where I'll have my eyes same as another body."
At that Hommy's rugged face broadened to a look of gruesome sorrow, and he renewed his exertions with the shovel.