“Well?”
“Why, he cursed your father, an' said he desirved to get his neck broke.”
“I don't believe that,” she replied, “I know he never said them words, or anything like them. Don't mislead me, but tell me what he did say.”
“Ah! poor Mave,” he replied, “you little know what hot blood runs in the Daltons' veins. He said very little that was creditable to himself—an' indeed I won't repate it—but it was enough to make any girl of spirit have done wid him.”
“An' don't you know,” she replied, mournfully, “that I have done with him; an' that there never can be anything but sorrow and good will between us? Wasn't that my message to him by yourself?”
“It was, dear, an' I hope you're still of the same mind.”
“I am,” she said; “but you are not tellin' me the truth about him. He never spoke disrespectfully of my father or me.”
“No, indeed, asthore, he did not then—oh, the sorra syllable—oh no; if I said so, don't believe me.” And yet the very words he uttered, in consequence of the meaning which, they received from his manner, made an impression directly the reverse of their natural import.
“Well then,” she said, “that's all you have to say to me?”
“No,” he replied, “it is not; I want to know from you when you'll be goin' to your uncle's, at Mullaghmore.”