The moon, in answer, brushed a cloud from her face, and shed a clearer, fuller light, that made the flooded fields an’ dhropping threes quiver an’ glisten.
On top of the little mound known as Conroy’s Hill, an’ which is just this side of where the roads crass, the friend of the fairies looked about over the lonesome counthry-side.
Here and there gleamed a distant farm-house, a still white speck in the moonlight. Only at Con Kelley’s, which was a good mile down the road, was a friendly spark of light to be seen, an’ that spark was so dim and so far that it only pressed down the loneliness heavier on Darby’s heart.
“Wisha,” says Darby, “how much I’d druther be there merry-makin’ with the boys an’ girls than standin’ here lonesome and cowld, waiting for the divil knows what.”
He sthrained his eyes for a sight of a horse, or a cow, or a pig, or anything that might turn out to be Brian Connors. The only thing that moved was the huge dark cloud that stretched up from Sleive-na-mon, and its heavy edge already touched the rim of the moon.
He started down the hill.
