Shawn Gow was evidently relapsing into his savage mood.
“Well,” said his wife, after some hesitation, “’twas a blackbird. Will that plase you?”
“An’ you’ll never say ’twas a thrish agin?”
“Never. An’ sure, on’y for the speckles on the breast, I’d never say ’twas a thrish; but sure, you ought to know betther than me—an’—an’—’twas a blackbird,” she exclaimed, with a desperate effort.
Shawn Gow swung the bottle round his head and flung it with all his strength against the hob. The whole fireplace was for a moment one blaze of light.
“The Divil was in id,” says the smith, smiling grimly; “an’ there he’s off in a flash of fire. I’m done wid him, any way.”
“Well, I wish you a happy Christmas, Nancy,” said Sally.
“I wish you the same, Sally, an’ a great many av ‘em. I suppose you’re goin’ to first Mass? Shawn and me’ll wait for second.”
Sally took her leave of this remarkable couple, and proceeded on her way to the village. She met Tim Croak and his wife, Betty, who were also going to Mass. After the usual interchange of greetings, Betty surveyed Sally from head to foot with a look of delighted wonder.