“Indeed, I do.”
“Thin upon my song, thats the luckiest thing I ever knew. There's, this blessed minute, a farm o' sixteen acres, that the Lacys is lavin'—goin' to America—an' it's to be set. They'll go the week afther next, an' the house needn't be cowld, for you can come to it the very day afther they Live it.”
“Well,” said Owen, “I'm glad of that. Will you come wid me to-morrow, an' we'll see about it?”
“To be sure I will; an' what's betther, too; the Agint is a son of ould Misther Rogerson's, a man that knows you, an' the history o' them you came from, well. An', another thing, Owen! I tell you, whin it's abroad that you want to take the farm, there's not a man in the parish will bid agin you. You may know that yourself.”
“I think, indeed, they would rather sarve me than otherwise,” replied Owen; “an', in the name o' God, we'll see what can be done. Misther Rogerson, himself, 'ud spake to his son for me; so that I'll be sure of his intherest. Arrah, Frank, how is an ould friend o' mine, that I have a great regard for—poor Widow Murray?”
“Widow Murray. Poor woman, she's happy.”
“You don't mane she's dead?”
“She's dead, Owen, and happy, I trust, in the Saviour. She died last spring was a two years.”
“God be good to her sowl! An' are the childhre in her place still? It's she that was the dacent woman.”
“Throth, they are; an' sorrow a betther doin' family in the parish than they are. It's they that'll be glad to see you, Owen. Many a time I seen their poor mother, heavens be her bed, lettin' down the tears, whin she used to be spakin' of you, or mintion how often you sarved her; espeshially, about some way or other that you privinted her cows from bein' canted for the rint. She's dead now, an' God he knows, an honest hard-workin' woman she ever was.”