“Not lost, my good lady, but found. I suppose you lock the doors here earlier than this.”
“Lock!” she exclaimed almost indignantly—“lock indeed! There’s not a bowlt nor a bar nor a lock on the whole house. Arrah! who wud rob Father Maurice but th’ ould boy?—an’ he’d be afeard. He daren’t lay a hand on anything here, an’ well he knows it, God be good to us!”
“I suppose you’ve been a long time with Father Maurice, Mrs. Clancy.”
“Only sence me man—the Lord rest his sowl, amin!—was lost in the night av the great storm, nigh fifteen year ago—fifteen year come the fourteenth av next month, on a Frida’ night. He was a good man, an’ a fine provider, an’ wud have left me warm an’ comfortable but for the hard times that cum on the cunthry be raison av the famine. Ye might have heard tell of it, sir.”
“Oh! indeed I did.”
“Och! wirra, wirra! but it was an awful time, glory be to God! whin the poor craythurs was dyin’ by the roadsides and aitin’ grass to keep the sowles in their bodies, like bastes.”
“I was far away then, in China,” said Brown.
“That’s where the tay cums from; an’ very infayrior tay we’re gettin’ now, sir, compared wud what we used to get. I can’t rise more nor a cup out av two spoonfuls, an’ well I remimber whin wan wud give me layves enough for to fill a noggin. Are ye thinkin’ av Maynewth, sir?” asked Mrs. Clancy, exceedingly desirous of some clue as to the identity, habits, and occupation of her guest, as it would not do to face Monamullin with her finger in her mouth.
“Maynewth?” he replied. “What is Maynewth?”
“The collidge.”