to do such a thing as that for the sake of a little pace and quiet,” says she, turnin’ her chowlder.
Tare an’ ’ounds, but that was the sthroke! “The Lord bless us!” mutthered Mollie Scanlan. Margit’s mind wint up in the air an’ staid there whirlin’, whilst she herself sat gasping an’ panting for a rayply. ’Twas a thrilling, suspenseful minute.
The chiney shepherd and shepherdess on the mantel sthopped ogling their eyes an’ looked shocked at aich other; at the same time Bob, the linnet, in his wooden cage at the door, quit his singin’ an’ cocked his head the betther to listen; the surprised tay-kettle gave a gasp an’ a gurgle, an’ splutthered over the fire. In the turrible silence Elizabeth Egan got up to wet the tay. Settin’ the taypot in the fender she spoke, an’ she spoke raysentful.
“Any sinsible man is afeard of ghosts,” says she.
“Oh, indade,” says Margit, ketching her breath. “Is that so? Well, sinsible or onsinsible,” says she, “this will be Halloween, an’ there’s not a man in the parish who would walk past the churchyard up to Cormac McCarthy’s house, where the Banshee keened last night, except my Dan’l!” says she, thriumphant.
