“Yes,” replied Moya, “often. Didn’t I see her when your mother died? Didn’t I see her when your brother was drowned? and sure, there wasn’t one of the family that went these sixty years that I did not both see and hear her.”
“And where did you see her, and what way did she look to-night?”
“I saw her at the little window over my bed; a kind of reddish light shone round the house; I looked up, and there I saw her old, pale face and glassy eyes looking in, and she rocking herself to and fro, and clapping her little, withered hands, and crying as if her very heart would break.”
“Well, Moya, it’s all imagination; go, now, and prepare my breakfast, as I want to go to Maryborough to-day, and I must be home early.”
Moya trembled; she looked at him imploringly and said: “For Heaven’s sake, John, don’t go to-day; stay till some other day, and God bless you; for if you go to-day I would give my oath there will something cross you that’s bad.”
“Nonsense, woman!” said he; “make haste and get me my breakfast.”
Moya, with tears in her eyes, set about getting the breakfast ready; and whilst she was so employed John was engaged in making preparations for his journey.
Having now completed his other arrangements, he sat down to breakfast, and, having concluded it, he arose to depart.
Moya ran to the door, crying loudly; she flung herself on her knees, and said: “John, John, be advised. Don’t go to-day; take my advice; I know more of the world than you do, and I see plainly that if you go you will never enter this door again with your life.”
Ashamed to be influenced by the drivellings of an old cullough, he pushed her away with his hand, and, going out to the stable, mounted his horse and departed. Moya followed him with her eyes whilst in sight; and when she could no longer see him, she sat down at the fire and wept bitterly.