“Thank you, ma'am,” replied Nelly; “I feel your kindness—an,' dear me, what a sight o' wisdom I'll lose by bein' kep' out o' the saicret—saicret indeed! A fig for yourself an' your saicret; maybe I have my saicret as well as you.”
“Well, then,” replied Sarah, “if you have, do you keep yours as I'll keep mine, and then we'll be aiquil. Come, father, for I must go from home too. Indeed I think this is the last day I'll be with either of you for some time—maybe ever.”
“What do you mane?” said the father.
“Hut!” said the mother, “what a goose you are! Charley Hanlon, to be sure; I suppose she'll run off wid him. Oh, thin, God pity him or any other one that's doomed to be blistered wid you!”
Sarah flashed like lightning, and her frame began to work with that extraordinary energy which always accompanied the manifestation of her resentment.
“You will,” said she, approaching the other—“you will, after your escape the other day; you—no, ah! no—I won't now; I forgot myself. Come, father,—come, come; my last quarrel with her is over.”
“Ay,” returned Nelly, as they went out, “there you go, an' a sweet pair you are—father and daughter!”
“Now, father,” resumed Sarah, after they had got out of hearing, “will you tell me if you slep' well last night?”
“Why do you ax?” he replied; “to be sure I did.”
“I'll tell you why I ax,” she answered; “do you know that you went last night—in the middle of the night—to the murdhered man's grave, in the glen there?”