“He looks ill, you say, Alice?”
“Never seen him look so rosy in my life, miss, nor in such spirits.”
Lucy looked into her face, and for a moment's space one slight and feeble gleam, which no suffering could prevent, passed over it, at this intimation of the object which Alley's fancy then dwelt upon.
“He danced a hornpipe, miss, to the tune of the Swaggerin' Jig, upon the kitchen table,” she proceeded; “and, sorra be off me, but it would do your heart good to see the springs he would give—every one o' them a yard high—and to hear how he'd crack his fingers as loud as the shot of a pistol.”
A slight gloom overclouded Lucy's face; but, on looking at the artless transition from the honest sympathy which Alley had just felt for her to a sense of happiness which it was almost a crime to disturb, it almost instantly disappeared.
“I must not be angry with her,” she said to herself; “this feeling, after all, is only natural, and such as God. in his goodness bestows upon every heart as the greatest gift of life, when not abused. I cannot be displeased at the naivete with which she has forgotten my lover for her own; for such I perceive this person she speaks of evidently is.”
She looked once more at her maid, whose eyes, with true Celtic feeling, were now dancing with delight, whilst yet red with tears. “Alice,” said she, in a voice of indulgent reproof, “who are you thinking of?”
“Why, of Dandy, miss,” replied Alley; but in an instant the force of the reproof as well as of the indulgence was felt, and sho acknowledged her error by a blush.
“I beg your pardon, miss,” she said; “I'm a thoughtless creature. What can you care about what I was sayin'? But—hem—well, about him—sure enough, poor Dandy told me that everything is going wrong with him. He doesn't, as I said, speak or smile as he used to do.”
“Do you know,” asked her mistress, “whether he goes out much?”