"
"Well," said Owen, "I'm glad of that. Will you come wid me to-morrow,
an' we'll see about it?"
"To be sure I will; an' what's betther, too; the Agint is a son of ould
Misther Rogerson's, a man that knows you, an' the history o' them you
came from, well. An', another thing, Owen! I tell you, whin it's abroad
that you want to take the farm, there's not a man in the parish will bid
agin you. You may know that yourself."
"I think, indeed, they would rather sarve me than otherwise," replied
Owen; "an', in the name o' God, we'll see what can be done. Misther
Rogerson, himself, 'ud spake to his son for me; so that I'll be sure of
his intherest. Arrah, Frank, how is an ould friend o' mine, that I have
a great regard for--poor Widow Murray?"
"Widow Murray. Poor woman, she's happy."
"You don't mane she's dead?"
"She's dead, Owen, and happy, I trust, in the Saviour. She died last
spring was a two years."
"God be good to her sowl! An' are the childhre in her place still? It's
she that was the dacent woman."
"Throth, they are; an' sorrow a betther doin' family in the parish than
they are. It's they that'll be glad to see you, Owen. Many a time I seen
their poor mother, heavens be her bed, lettin' down the tears, whin
she used to be spakin' of you, or mintion how often you sarved her;
espeshially, about some way or other that you privinted her cows from
bein' canted for the rint.
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