“Throth, we're livin' an' well, Bridget; never was betther, thanks be to God an' you, in our lives.”
Owen was now surrounded by such of Farrell's children as were old enough to remember him; every one of whom he shook hands with, and kissed.
“Why, thin, the Lord save my sowl, Bridget,” said he, “are these the little bouchaleens an' colleens that were runnin' about my feet whin I was here afore? Well, to be sure! How they do shoot up! An' is this Atty?”
“No: but this is Atty, Owen; faix, Brian outgrew him; an' here's Mary, an' this is Bridget Oge.”
“Well!—well! But where did these two; young shoots come from? this boy an' the colleen here? They worn't to the fore, in my time, Bridget.”
“This is Owen, called afther yourself,—an' this is Kathleen. I needn't tell you who she was called afther.”
“Gutsho, alanna? thurm pogue?—come here, child, and kiss me,” said Owen to his little namesake; “an' sure I can't forget the little woman here; gutsho, a colleen, and kiss: me too.”
Owen took her on his knee, and kissed her twice.
“Och, but poor Kathleen,” said he, “will be the proud woman of this, when she hears it; in throth she will be that.”
“Arrah! what's comin' over me!” said Mrs. Farrell. “Brian, run up to Micky Lowrie's for your father, An' see, Brian, don't say who's wantin' him, till we give him a start. Mary, come here, acushla,” she added to her eldest daughter in a whisper—“take these two bottles an' fly up to Peggy Finigan's for the full o' them o' whiskey. Now be back before you're there, or if you don't, that I mightn't, but you'll see what you'll get. Fly, aroon, an' don't let the grass grow undher your feet. An' Owen, darlin'—but first sit over to the fire:—here get over to this side, it's the snuggest;—arrah, Owen—an' sure I dunna what to ax you first. You're all well? all to the fore?”