XVII
Mac Cann was asleep, but when Finaun’s voice ceased he awakened and stretched himself with a loud yawn.
“I didn’t hear a word of that story,” said he.
“I heard it,” said Eileen Ni Cooley; “it was a good story.”
“What was it about?”
“I don’t know,” she replied.
“Do you know what it was about, Mary?”
“I do not, for I was thinking about other things at the time.”
Finaun took her hand.
“There was no need for any of you to know what that story was about, excepting you only,” and he looked very kindly at Eileen Ni Cooley.
“I listened to it,” said she; “and it was a good story. I know what it was about, but I would not know how to tell what it was about.”
“It must have been the queer yarn,” said Patsy regretfully; “I wish I hadn’t gone to sleep.”
“I was awake for you,” said Caeltia.
“What’s the use of that?” said Patsy testily.
It was still raining.
The day was far advanced and evening was spinning her dull webs athwart the sky. Already in the broken house the light had diminished to a brown gloom, and their faces looked watchful and pale to each other as they crouched on the earthen floor. Silence was again seizing on them, and each person’s eyes were focusing on some object or point on the wall or the floor as their thoughts began to hold them.
Mac Cann roused himself.
“We are here for the night; that rain won’t stop as long as there’s a drop left in its can.”
Mary bestirred herself also.
“I’ll slip down to the cart and bring back whatever food is in it. I left everything covered and I don’t think they’ll be too wet.”
“Do that,” said her father.
“There’s a big bottle rolled up in a sack,” he continued; “it’s in a bucket at the front of the cart by the right shaft, and there’s a little sup of whisky in the big bottle.”
“I’ll bring that too.”
“You’re a good girl,” said he.
“What will I do with the ass this night?” said Mary.
“Hit him a kick,” said her father.