“No.”
“It’s full of Prastes. Ye can’t throw a stone but ye hit one. And hit one—hit all. They’re as proud and lofty as the Murrays themselves. The only wan I know is Adam Praste—the others hold too high. He’s the black shape and quite sociable. But if ye want to see how the world looked on the morning after the flood go into his barnyard on a rainy day. Look a-here, gurrl dear”—Old Kelly lowered his voice mysteriously—“don’t ye ever marry a Praste.”
“Why not?” asked Emily, who had never thought of marrying a Priest but was immediately curious as to why she shouldn’t.
“They’re ill to marry—ill to live with. The wives die young. The ould lady of the Grange fought her man out and buried him but she had the Murray luck. I wouldn’t trust it too far. The only dacent Praste among them is the wan they call Jarback Praste and he’s too ould for you.”
“Why do they call him Jarback?”
“Wan av his shoulders is a l’il bit higher than the other. He’s got a bit of money and doesn’t be after having to work. A book worrum, I’m belaving. Have ye got a bit av cold iron about you?”
“No; why?”
“Ye should have. Old Caroline Praste at the Grange is a witch if ever there was one.”
“Why, that’s what Ilse said. But there are no such thing as witches really, Mr. Kelly.”
“Maybe that’s thrue but it’s better to be on the safe side. Here, put this horseshoe-nail in your pocket and don’t cross her if ye can help it. Ye don’t mind if I have a bit av a smoke, do ye?”
Emily did not mind at all. It left her free to follow her own thoughts, which were more agreeable than Old Kelly’s talk of toads and witches. The road from Blair
