“Arra, Brian, will you have sinse,” said his wife; “why wouldn't they think o' them?”
“Did you do it?” he asked, winking at the rest, “when you took a brave start wid myself across Crockaniska, one summer Sunday night, long ago. Be me sowl, you proved youself as supple as a two-year-old—cleared, drain and ditch like a bird—and had me, when we reached my uncle's, that the ayes wor startin' out o' my head.”
“Bad scran to him, the ould slingpoker! Do you hear him,” she exclaimed, laughing—“never mind him, children!—troth, he went at sich a snail's pace that one 'ud think it was to confession he was goin', and that he did nothing but think of his sins as he went along.”
“That was bekaise I knew that I had the penance before me,” he replied, laughing also.
“Any how,” replied his wife, “our case was not like their's. We were both Catholics, and knew that we'd have the consent of our friends, besides; we only made a runaway because it was the custom of the counthry, glory be to God!”
“Ay, ay,” rejoined her husband; “but, faith, it was you that proved yourself the active girl that night, at any rate. However, I hope the Lord will grant her grace to go, wid him, at all events, for, upon my sowl, it would be a great boast for the Catholics—bekaise we know there is one thing sure, and that is, that the divil a long she'd be wid him till he'd have left her fit to face Europe as a Christian and a Catholic, bekaise every wife ought to go wid her husband, barrin' he's a Prodestant.”
Poor Ellen paid little attention to this conversation. She felt deeply depressed, and, after many severe struggles to restrain herself, at last burst into tears.
“Come, darlin',” said her father, “don't let this affair cast you down so much; all will yet turn out for the betther, I hope. Cheer up, avillish; maybe that, down-hearted as you are, I have good news for you. Your ould sweetheart was here this evenin', and hopes soon to have his pardon—he's a dacent boy, and has good blood in his veins; and as for his joinin' O'Donnel, it wasn't a a bad heart set him to do it, but the oppression that druv him, as it did many others, to take the steps he took—oppression on the one side, and bitterness of heart on the other.”
“I saw him awhile ago,” she replied, “and he tould me a good deal about himself. But, indeed, father, it's not of him I'm thinkin', but on the darlin' girl that's on the brink of destruction, and what I know she's sufferin'.”
“I wondher where Reilly is,” said her mother. “My goodness! sure he ought to make a push, and take her off at wanst. I dunna is he in the country at all? What do you think, Ellen?”