While the poor woman in question was drinking the warm milk—the very best restorative by the way which she could get—for poverty is mostly forced to find out its own humble comforts—Father Roche entered the kitchen, buttoned up and prepared for the journey. On looking at her he seemed startled by the scantiness of her dress on such a morning—and when she rose up at his entrance and dropped him a curtesy, exclaiming, “God save you, Father!”—at the same time swallowing down the remainder of the milk that she might not lose a moment; he cast his eye round the kitchen to see whether she had actually come in the dress she wore.
“How far have you come this morning, my poor woman?” he inquired.
“From the ride of the Sliebeen More Mountains, plaise your reverence.”
“What, in your present dress! without shoe or stocking?”
“True enough, sir; but indeed it was little the cowld, or sleet, or frost, troubled me.”
“Yes, God help you, I can believe that too—for I understand the cause of it too well—but have hope—Katty, what was that you gave her?”
“A mouthful of warm milk, your reverence, to put the cowld out of her heart.”
“Ah, Katty, I wish we could put sorrow and affliction out of it—but you did well and right in the meantime; still you must do better, Katty, lend her your cloak—and your shoes and stockings too, poor thing!”
“I'm oblaged to your reverence,” she replied, “but indeed I won't feel the want of them; as I said, there's only one thought that I am suffering about—and that is, for your reverence to see my husband before he departs.”
“Yes—but the consequences of this cold and bitter journey may fall upon you at another time—and before long, too—so be advised by me, and don't refuse to take them.”