“Eileen,” says Cormac, liftin’ his hand, an’ his woice was hoarse as the roar of the say, “I swear to you on me bendid knees⸺”
With her hand on his lips, she sthopped him. “There’ll come on ye by daygrees a great cravin’ for sympathy, a hunger an’ a longing for affection, an’ you’ll have only the shadow of my poor, wanished face to comfort you, an’ a recollection of a woice that is gone for ever. A new, warm face’ll keep pushin’ itself betwixt us⸺”
“Bad luck to that red-headed hussy!” mutthered Darby, looking around disthressed. “I’ll warn father Cassidy of her an’ of her intintions the day afther the funeral.”
There was silence for a minute; Cormac, the poor lad, was sobbing like a child. By-and-by Eileen wint on again, but her woice was failing an’ Darby could see that her cheeks were wet.
“The day’ll come when you’ll give over,” she says. “Ah, I see how it’ll all ind. Afther that you’ll visit the churchyard be stealth, so as not to make the other woman sore-hearted.”
“My, oh, my, isn’t she the far-seein’ woman?” thought Darby.
