Pete had not awakened until late that morning. While still in bed he had heard Grannie and Nancy in the room below. The first sound of their voices told him that something was amiss.
“Aw, God bless me, God bless me!” said Nancy, as though with uplifted hands.
“It was Kelly the postman,” said Grannie in a doleful tone—the tone in which she had spoken between the puffs of her pipe.
“The dirt!” said Nancy.
“He was up at Cæsar's before breakfast this morning,” said Grannie.
“There now!” cried Nancy. “There's men like that, though. Just aiger for mischief. It's sweeter than all their prayers to them.... But where can she be, then? Has she made away with herself, poor thing?”
“That's what I was asking Cæsar,” said Grannie. “If she's gone with the young Ballawhaine, what for aren't you going to England over and fetching her home?” says I.
“And what did Cæsar say?”
“'No,' says he, 'not a step,' says he. 'If she's dead,' says he, 'we'll only know it a day the sooner, and if she's in life, it'll be a disgrace to us the longest day we live.'”
“Aw, bolla veen, bolla veen!” said Nancy. “When some men is getting religion there's no more inside at them than a gutted herring, and they're good for nothing but to put up in the chimley to smook.”