As the gig drew up at the inn door, a voice out of the porch cried, “Joy to you, Capt'n, and joy to your lady, and long life and prosperity to you both, and may the Lord give you children and health and happiness to rear them, and may you see your children's children, and may they call you blessed.”
“Glasses round. Mrs. Kelly,” shouted Pete.
“Go on, please,” said Kate in a fretful whisper, and she tugged at Pete's sleeve.
The stars came out; the moon gave a peep; the late hay of the Curragh sent a sweet odour through the night. Kate shuddered and Pete covered her shoulders with a rug. Then he began to sing snatches. He sang bits of all the songs that had been sung that night, but kept coming back at intervals to an old Manx ditty which begins—
“Little red bird of the black turf ground,
Where did you sleep last night?”
Thus he sang like a great boy as he went rolling down the dark road, and Kate sat by his side and trembled.
They came to the town, rattled down the Parliament Street, passed the Court-house under the trees, turned the sharp angle by the market-place, and drew up at Elm Cottage in the corner.
“Home at last,” cried Pete, and he leapt to the ground.
A dog began to bark inside the house. “D'ye hear him?” said Pete. “That's the master in charge.”
The porch door was opened, and a comfortable-looking woman in a widow's cap came out with a lighted candle shaded by her hand.