Jim himself was perplexed, and a little aggrieved. He had grown used to the daily strife, and missed the excitement of retorting on his foe.
“Maybe ’tis tired of it she is,” he speculated. “Time forrer. She knows now she won’t have things all her own way. She’s too domineerin’ by half.”
“What’s wrong with the ould wan, sir?” asked Joe Kelly, when he met O’Brien. “She didn’t shtir out whin she hard the thrain.”
“Faith, I dunno,” said Jim. “Hatchin’ more disturbance, I’ll bet. Faith, she’s like Conaty’s goose, nivir well but whin she’s doin’ mischief. Joe,” he said, “maybe y’ought to look in an’ see if anythin’ is wrong wid th’ ould wan.”
A moment more, and Jim heard him shouting, “Misther O’Brien, Misther O’Brien!” He ran at the sound. There, a tumbled heap, lay Mrs. Macfarlane, no longer a defiant virago, but a weak, sickly, elderly woman, partly supported on Joe Kelly’s knee, her face ghastly pale, her arms hanging limp.
“Be me sowl, but I think she’s dyin’,” cried Kelly. “She just raised her head whin she saw me, an’ wint off in a faint.”
“Lay her flat, Joe; lay her flat.”
“Lave her to me,” he said, “an’ do you run an’ tell the missus to come here at wanst. Maybe she’ll know what to do.”
Mary came in to find her husband gazing in a bewildered fashion at his prostrate enemy, and took command in a way that excited his admiration.