“I don’t like.”
“Ah, go. ’Tis yer place, an’ you sinsibler than she is. Go an’ tell her to shtay till she’s well. Faith, I think that undher all that way of hers she’s softher than she looks. I tell ye, Jim, I seen her cryin’ over the dog, bekase she thought ’twas th’ only thing that loved her.”
Half pushed by Mary, Jim made his way up the steep stair, and knocked at the door of Mrs. Macfarlane’s attic.
“Come in,” said a feeble voice, and he stumbled into the room.
When Mrs. Macfarlane saw who it was, a flame lit in her hollow eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said, with grim politeness, “that yu find me here, Misther O’Brien; but it isn’t my fault. I wanted tu go a while ago, an’ your wife wouldn’t let me.”
“An’ very right she was; you’re not fit for it. Sure, don’t be talkin’ ov goin’ till ye’re better, ma’am,” said Jim, awkwardly. “Y’re heartily welcome for me. I come up to say—to say, I hope y’ll be in no hurry to move.”
“Yu’re very good, but it’s not to be expected I’d find myself easy under this roof, where, I can assure yu, I’d never have come of my own free will; an’ I apologise to yu, Misther O’Brien, for givin’ so much trouble—not that I could help myself.”
“Sure, ’tis I that should apologise,” blurted out Jim; “an’ rale sorry I am—though, maybe, ye won’t b’lieve me—that I ever dhruv the customers out.”