“Good Lord!” sputtered the old man, and glared at her, but she seemed not to hear or see.
“We’ll go for a walk after dinner,” she went on—“in the cemetery. It’s the only place I can get you away from him; for he works there in the week, and he’d not like to spoil his holiday by seeing the place.”
“’T will be a sore thing to part from him,” answered Kerrigan, “for we’re like brithers alriddy, barrun’ the size of us and the looks; but I’d not like to remind him of worrk, so we’ll go, as ye say.”
“’T is the nice, quiet place for young people,” Kate said and laughed. “You’ll find them all about, walking arm and arm, and sitting on the benches in the shade, hand in hand. They’ll not notice us at all.”
“Thin we’ll not notice thim,” answered Kerrigan, with good-natured generosity; but Reilly rose up and stormed into the house, slamming the door.
He ate his dinner rapidly and in silence, and left the table long before the others, and when, ready for their walk, Kate and Kerrigan appeared in the porch, he sat there grim and silent, wearing his coat and hat.
Kate showed her surprise.
“Why, Father, have you the chill?” she asked anxiously. “Are you cold?”
“Wan worrd more, me girl, and I’ll fetch ye a clip on the side of the head, old as ye are,” Reilly said savagely.
“You’d never do the like of such a queer thing,” she exclaimed—“never. And you know me Tom would not stand for that at all. Would you?” She looked trustingly up into Kerrigan’s face.