She's dead now, an' God he knows, an honest
hard-workin' woman she ever was."
"Dear me, Frank, isn't it a wondher to think how the people dhrop off!
There's Widow Murray, one o' my ouldest frinds, an' Pether M'Mahon, an'
Barny Lorinan--not to forget pleasant Rousin' Red-head--all taken away!
Well!--Well! Sure it's the will o' God! We can't be here always."
After much conversation; enlivened by the bottle, though but sparingly
used on the part of Owen, the hour of rest arrived, when the family
separated for the night.
The gray dawn of a calm, beautiful summer's morning found Owen up and
abroad, long before the family of honest Frank had risen. When dressing
himself, with an intention of taking an early walk, he was asked by his
friend why he stirred so soon, or if he--his host--should accompany him.
"No," replied Owen; "lie still; jist let me look over the counthry while
it's asleep. When I'm musin' this a-way I don't like anybody to be along
wid me. I have a place to go an' see, too--an' a message--a tendher
message, from poor Kathleen, to deliver, that I wouldn't wish a second
person to hear. Sleep, Frank. I'll jist crush the head o' my pipe agin'
one o' the half-burned turf that the fire was raked wid, an' walk out
for an hour or two. Afther our breakfast we'll go-an' look about this
new farm."
He sallied out as he spoke, and closed the door after him in that
quiet, thoughtful way for which he was ever remarkable.
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