'An' who is he thin?' says I, getting
up from the bed, 'or where will I find him, or how will I get
to him?' 'Ye'll not stir a fut for him, thin, the night, Kitty
Dolan,' says my husband — 'are ye mad,' says he; 'sure it's
not his own head the child has at all at all, or it's a little
hiritic he is,' says he; 'an' ye won't show the disrespect to
the praist in yer own house.' 'I'm maining none,' says I —
'nor more, he isn't a hiritic; but if he was, he's a born
angel to you, Michael Dolan, anyhow,' says I; 'an' wid the
kiss of his lips on my face, wouldn't I do the arrant of my
own boy, an' he a dying? by the blessing, an' I will, if
twenty men stud between me an' it. So tell me where I'll find
him, this praist, if there's the love o' mercy in any sowl o'
ye,' says I. But they wouldn't spake a word for me, not one of
them; so I axed an' axed at one place an' other, till here I
am. An' now, my lady, will the master go for me to my poor
boy? — for he'd maybe be dead while I stand here."
"Surely I will," said Mr. Humphreys, who had come in while she
was speaking. "Wait but one moment."
In a moment he came back ready, and he and the woman set forth
to their walk. Alice looked out anxiously after them.
"It storms very hard," she said — "and he had not had his tea!
But he couldn't wait. Come, Ellen, love, we'll have ours. How
will he ever get back again? it will be so deep by that time.
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