“D'ye hear him, Kirry?” cried Grannie, putting her head back into the room. “That's the man himself. Sitting on the bottom step same as an ould bulldog, and keeping watch that nobody bothers you. The good-naturedst bulldog breathing, though, and he hasn't had a wink on the night. Saved your life, darling. He did; yes, he did, praise God.”
At mention of the tholthan, Kate had remembered everything. She dropped back on the pillow, and cried, in a voice of pain, “Why couldn't he leave me to die?”
Grannie chuckled knowingly at that, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “The bogh is herself, for sure. When they're wishing themselves dead they're always mending father! But I'll go down instead. Lie still, bogh, lie still!”
The voice of Grannie went muffled down the stairs with many “Aw dears, aw dears!” and then crackled from below through the floor and the unceiled joists, saying sharply but with a tremor, too, “Nancy Joe, why aren't you taking a cup of something upstairs, woman?”
“Goodness me, Mistress Cregeen, is it true for all?” said Nancy.
“Why, of course it's true. Do you think a poor child is going fasting for ever?”
“What's that?” shouted the familiar voice again. “Was it herself you were spaking to in the dairy loft, Grannie?”
“Who else, man?” said Grannie, and then there was a general tumult.
“Aw, the joy! Aw, the delight! Gough bless me, Grannie, I was thinking she was for spaking no more.”
“Out of the way,” cried Nancy, as if pushing past somebody to whip the kettle on to the fire. “These men creatures have no more rising in their hearts than bread without balm.”