“Troth, it’s badly off he’d be for thravellin’, if he come here for to do the like.”
“He’s makin’ for the gate.”
“He’s riz the latch.”
“I’ll run out, Mrs. Clancy, and bring ye the hard word, while ye’d be axin’ for the lind av a sack.”
“Ay, do, Murty avic; an’ I’ll have a cup av Dimpsy’s tay wet be the time yer back.”
Father Maurice had just finished the perusal of his office, and was in the act of returning to the house, when the stranger approached him.
“Father Morris?” said the new-comer, lifting his hat.
“Maurice O’Donnell, at your service, sir,” replied the priest.
“I should apologize for addressing you so familiarly, reverend sir, but three or four persons of whom I asked my way told me that Father Morris was Monamullin, and that Monamullin was Father Morris.”