Jamie snatched the glass from her and darted to the door. He never knew how he reached his cabin, but he arrived there breathless and sank on a stove by the fire.
ou’re kilt, surely, this time, my poor boy,” said his mother.
“No, indeed, better luck than ever this time!” and he gave the lady three drops of the liquid that still remained at the bottom of the glass, notwithstanding his mad race over the potato field.
The lady began to speak, and her first words were words of thanks to Jamie.
The three inmates of the cabin had so much to say to one another that, long after cock-crow, when the fairy music had quite ceased, they were talking round the fire.
“Jamie,” said the lady, “be pleased to get me paper and pen and ink that I may write to my father and tell him what has become of me.”
She wrote, but weeks passed and she received no answer. Again and again she wrote, and still no answer.
At length she said, “You must come with me to Dublin, Jamie, to find my father.”
“I hae no money to hire a car for you,” he answered; “an’ how can you travel to Dublin on your foot?”