“You know, Mr. Reilly,” she replied, “that if you came in the deadest hours of the night you’d be welcome, as I said—­and this poor man is welcome too—­sit over to the fire, poor man, and warm yourself.  Maybe you’re hungry; if you are I’ll get you something to eat.”

“Many thanks to you, ma’am,” replied Fergus, “I’m not a taste hungry, and could ait nothing now; I’m much obliged to you at the same time.”

“Mr. Reilly, maybe you’d like to ait a bit.  I can give you a farrel of bread, and a sup o’ nice goat’s milk.  God preserve him from evil that gave me the same goats, and that’s your four quarthers, Mr. Reilly.  But sure every thing I have either came or comes from your hand; and if I can’t thank you, God will do it for me, and that’s betther still.”

“No more about that, Molly—­not a word more.  Your long residence with my poor mother, and your affection for her in all her trials and troubles, entitle you to more than that at the hands of her son.”

“Mrs. Buckley,” observed Fergus, “this is a quiet-looking little place you have here.”

“And it is for that I like it,” she replied.  “I have pace here, and the noise of the wicked world seldom reaches me in it.  My only friend and companion here is the Almighty—­praise and glory be to his name!”—­and here she devoutly crossed herself—­“bar-rin’, indeed, when the light-hearted girshas (young girls) comes a kailyee* wid their wheels, to keep the poor ould woman company, and rise her ould heart by their light and merry songs, the cratures.”

     This means to spend a portion of the day, or a few hours of
     the night, in a neighbor’s house, in agreeable and amusing
     conversation.

“That must be a relief to you, Molly,” observed Reilly, who, however, could with difficulty take any part in this little dialogue.

“And so indeed it is,” she replied; “and, poor things, sure if their sweethearts do come at the dusk to help them to carry home their spinning-wheels, who can be angry with them?  It’s the way of life, sure, and of the world.”

She then went into another little room—­for the cabin was divided into two—­in order to find a ball of woollen thread, her principal occupation being the knitting of mittens and stockings, and while bustling about Fergus observed with a smile,

“Poor Molly! little she thinks that it’s the bachelors, rather than any particular love for her company, that brings the thieves here.”

“Yes, but,” said Reilly, “you know it’s the custom of the country.”

“Mrs. Buckley,” asked Fergus, “did the sogers ever pay you a visit?”

“They did once,” she replied, “about six months ago or more.”

“What in the name of wondher,” he repeated, “could bring them to you?”

“They were out huntin’ a priest,” she replied, “that had done something contrary to the law.”

“What did they say, Mrs. Buckley, and how did they behave themselves?”