"It's a boy," she said, "an' the very image of his da. He's a lovely child, Henry. Just look at him!"
He came nearer to her and looked at the baby who had his little fingers at her breast as if he would prevent her from taking it from him. The child, still sucking, looked up at him with greedy-sleepy eyes.
"Isn't he a gran' wee fella?" she went on, eyeing her son proudly.
"Whom did you marry?" he asked.
"You know him well," she answered. "Peter Logan that used to keep the forge ... that's who I married. D'ye mind the way he could bend a bar of iron with his two hands?..."
Henry remembered. "Doesn't he keep the forge now?" he asked.
"No, he sold it to Dan McKittrick when he married me. We needed a man on the farm, an' he's gran' at it. There isn't a one in the place can bate him at the reapin', an' you should see the long, straight furrows he can plough. The child's the image of him, an' I declare by the way he's tuggin' at me ... be quit, will you, you wee tory, an' not be hurtin' me with your greed!... he'll be as strong as his da, an' mebbe stronger!"
"Are you stayin' long?" she said again.
"No," he answered. "I'm going to London!..."
"London! Lord bless us, that's a long way!"