"Good evenin', Phelim Joyce!"
"Good evenin'! You want me?"
"I do." Murdock's voice was fixed and firm, as of one who has made up his mind.
"What is it?"
"May I come in? I want to shpake to ye particular."
"No, Murtagh Murdock! Whin a man comes undher me roof by me own consint, I'm not free wid him to spake me mind the same as whin he's outside. Ye haven't thrated me well, Murdock. Ye've been hard wid me; and there's much that I can't forgive!"
"Well! if I did, ye gev me what no other man has ever gave me yit widout repintin' it sore. Ye sthruck me a blow before all the people, an' I didn't strike ye back."
"I did, Murtagh; an' I'm sorry for it. That blow has been hangin' on me conscience iver since. I would take it back if I could; God knows that is thrue. Much as ye wronged me, I don't want such a thing as that to remimber when me eyes is closin'. Murtagh Murdock, I take it back, an' gladly. Will ye let me?"
"I will—on wan condition."
"What is it?"
"That's what I've kem here to shpake about; but I'd like to go in."
"No! ye can't do that—not yit, at any rate, till I know what ye want. Ye must remimber, Murtagh, that I've but small rayson to thrust ye!"
