"
"No such thing, darlin'," said the good woman. "Sure his hopes out o'
you, an' his love for you will keep him up; an' you dunna but God may
give him a blessin' too, avick."
"Mix another sup o'that for him," said the fanner: "he's low spirited,
an' it's too strong to give him any more of it as it is. Childhre,
where's the masther from us--eh? Why, thin, God help them, the
crathurs--wasn't it thoughtful o' them to lave the place while he was at
his dinner, for fraid he'd be dashed--manin' them young crathurs, Alley,
But can you tell us where the 'masther' is? Isn't this his night wid us?
I know he tuck his dinner here."
"Ay did he; but it's up to Larry Murphy's he's gone, to thry his son
in his book-keepin'. Mavrone, but he had time enough to put him well
through it afore this, any way."
As she spoke, a short thickset man, with black twinkling eyes and ruddy
cheeks entered. This personage was no other than the schoolmaster of
that district, who circulated, like a newspaper, from one farmer's house
to another, in order to expound for his kind entertainers the news
of the day, his own learning, and the very evident extent of their
ignorance.
The moment he came in, the farmer and his wife rose with an air of much
deference, and placed a chair for him exactly opposite the fire, leaving
a respectful distance on each side, within which no illiterate mortal
durst presume to sit.
"Misther Corcoran," said the farmer, presenting Jemmy's satchel, through
which the shapes of the books were quite plain, "_thig in thu shinn?_"
(* Do you understand this) and as he spoke he looked significantly at
its owner.
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