“Bartle,” said Connor, “are you afeard of thundher? The rason I ask,” he added, “is, bekase your face is as white as a sheet.”
“I have it from my mother,” replied Flanagan, “but at all evints such an evenin' as this is enough to make the heart of any man quake.”
I'll feel my spirits low, by rason of the darkness, but I'm not afraid. It's well for them that have a clear conscience; they say that a stormy sky is the face of an angry God—”
“An' the thundher His voice,” added Bartle; “but why are the brute bastes an' the birds afraid, that commit no sin?”
“That's true,” said his companion; “it must be natural to be afraid, or why would they indeed?—but some people are naturally more timersome than others.”
“I intinded to go home for my other clo'es an' linen this evenin',” observed Bartle, “but I won't go out to-night.”
“I must thin,” said Connor; “an, with the blessin' o' God, will too; come what may.”
“Why, what is there to bring you out, if it's a fair question to ax?” inquired the other.
“A promise, for one thing; an' my own inclination—my own heart—that's nearer the thruth—for another. It's the first meetin' that I an' her I'm goin' to ever had.”
“Thigham, Thighum, I undherstand,” said Flanagan; “well, I'll stay at home; but, sure it's no harm to wish you success—an' that, Connor, is more than I'll ever have where I wish for it most.”