"Eh? is it giving over that way you are? Why, alanna, it's nothin' at
all you've tuck; sure little Brian there would make a fool of you, so
he would, at the atin'. Come, come, a bouchal--don't be ashamed, or make
any way sthrange at all, but ate hearty."
"I declare I have ate heartily, thank you," replied James; "oceans
itself, so I did. I couldn't swally a bit more if the house was full."
"Arrah, Brian," said the wife, "cut him up more o' that hung beef, it's
ashamed the crathur is! Take it, avick; don't we know the journey you
had! Faix, if one o' the boys was out on a day's thravellin', you'd see
how he'd handle himself."
"Indeed," said James, "I can't--if I could I would. Sure I would be no
way backward at all, so I wouldn't."
"Throth, an' you can an' must," said the farmer: "the never a rise
you'll rise, till you finish that"--putting over a complement out of all
reasonable proportion with his age and size.
"There now's a small taste, an' you must finish it. To go to ate nothin'
at all! Hut tut! by the tops o' my boots, you must put that clear an'
clane out o' sight, or I'll go mad an' barn them."
The lad recommenced, and continued to eat as long as he could possibly
hold out; at length he ceased:--
"I can't go on," said he; "don't ax me: I can't indeed."
"Bad manners to the word I'll hear till you finish it; you know it's but
a thrifle to spake of. Thry agin, avick, but take your time; you'll be
able for it."
The poor lad's heart was engaged on other thoughts and other scenes; his
home, and its beloved inmates--sorrow and the gush of young affections,
were ready to burst forth.
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