The Emigrants Of Ahadarra. William Carleton

“but my mother there—ha! ha! ha! Come, now, we're waitin' for you.”

      “Come, now?” he repeated, purposely misunderstanding her—“oh, begad, that's a fair challenge;” and he accordingly rose to approach her with the felonious intent of getting a kiss; but Hanna started from her wheel and ran out of the house to avoid him.

      “Throth, you're a madcap, Hanna,” exclaimed her mother, placidly—“an antick crather, dear knows—her heart's in her mouth every minute of the day; an' if she gets through the world wid it always as light, poor girl, it'll be well for her.”

      “Kathleen, will you get me a towel or praskeen of some sort to wipe my face wid,” said her father, looking about for the article he wanted.

      “I left one,” she replied, “on the back of your chair—an' there it is, sure.”

      “Ay, achora, it's you that laves nothing undone that ought to be done; an' so it is here, sure enough.”

      “Why, then, Gerald,” asked Tom M'Mahon, “in the name o' wonder what makes you stick to the meal instead o' the soap when you're washin' yourself?”

      “Throth, an' I ever will, Tom, an' for a good raison—becaise it's best for the complexion.”

      The unconscious simplicity with which Cavanagh uttered this occasioned loud laughter, from which Kathleen herself was unable to refrain.

      “By the piper, Gerald,” said M'Mahon, “that's the best thing I h'ard this month o' Sundays. Why, it would be enough for one o' your daughters to talk about complexion. Maybe you paint too—ha! ha! ha!”

      Hanna now put in her head, and asked “what is the fun?” but immediately added, “Kathleen, here's a message for you.”

      “For me!” said Kathleen; “what is it?”

      “Here's Peety Dhu's daughter, an' she says she has something to say to you.”

      “An' so Rosha Burke,” said Mrs. Cavanagh, “has taken her to live wid them; I hope it'll turn out well for the poor thing.”

      “Will you come out, Kathleen,” said Hanna, again peeping in; “she mustn't tell it to anyone but yourself.”

      “If she doesn't she may keep it, then,” replied Kathleen. “Tell her I have no secrets,” she added, “nor I won't have any of her keeping.”

      “You must go in,” said Hanna, turning aside and addressing the girl—“you must go in an' spake to her in the house.”

      “She can tell us all about the robbery, anyway,” observed Mr. Cavanagh. “Come in, a-colleen—what are you afeard of?”

      “I have a word to say to her,” said the girl—“a message to deliver; but it must be to nobody but herself. Whisper,” she proceeded, approaching Kathleen, and about to address her.

      Kathleen immediately rose, and, looking on the messenger, said, “Who is it from, Nanny?”

      “I mustn't let them know,” replied the girl, looking at the rest.

      “Whatever it is, Or whoever it's from, you must spake it out then, Nanny,” continued Kathleen.

      “It's from Hycy Burke, then,” replied the girl; “he wants to know if you have any answer for him?”

      “Tell Hycy Burke,” replied Kathleen, “that I have no answer for him; an' that I'll thank him to send me no more messages.”

      “Hut tut! you foolish girl,” exclaimed her mother, rising up and approaching her daughter; “are you mad, Kathleen?”

      “What's come over you,” said the father, equally alarmed; “are you beside yourself, sure enough, to send Hycy Burke sich a message as that? Sit down, ma colleen, sit down, an' never mind her—don't think of bringin' him back sich a message. Why, then,” he added, “in the name o' mercy, Kathleen, what has come over you, to trate a respectable young man like. Hycy Burke in that style?”

      “Simply, father, because I don't wish to receive any messages at all from him.”

      “But your mother an' I is of a different opinion, Kathleen. We wish you to resave messages from him; an' you know you're bound both by the laws of God an' man to obey us an' be guided by us.”

      “I know I am, father,” she replied; “an' I hope I haven't been an undutiful child to either of you for so far.”

      “That's true, Kathleen—God sees it's truth itself.”

      “What message do you expect to bring back, Nanny?” said the mother, addressing the girl.

      “An answer,” replied the girl, seeing that everything must be and was above board—“an answer to the letther he sent her.”

      “Did he send you a letther?” asked her father, seriously; “an' you never let us know a word about it?—did he send you a letther?”

      Kathleen paused a moment and seemed to consult Hanna's looks, who had now joined them. At length she replied, slowly, and as if in doubt whether she ought to speak in the affirmative or not—“no, he sent me no letter.”

      “Well now, take care, Kathleen,” said her mother; “I seen a letther in your hands this very mornin'.”

      Kathleen blushed deeply; but as if anxious to give the conversation another turn, and so to relieve herself, she replied, “I can't prevent you, mother, or my father either, from sending back whatever answer you wish; but this I say that, except the one I gave already, Hycy Burke will never receive any message or any answer to a message from me; an' now for the present let us drop it.”

      “Very well,” said her mother; “in the mane time, my good girsha, sit down. Is it thrue that Jemmy Burke's house was robbed a couple o' nights ago?”

      “True enough,” said the girl.

      “And how much did he lose?” asked M'Mahon; “for there's disputes about it—some say more and some say less.”

      “Between seventy and eighty pounds,” replied Nanny; “the masther isn't sure to a pound or so; but he knows it was near eighty, any way.”

      “That's just like him,” said Cavanagh; “his careless way of managin'. Many a time I wondher at him;—he slobbers everything about that you'd think he'd beggar himself, an' yet the luck and prosperity flows to him. I declare to my goodness I think the very dirt under his feet turns to money. Well, girsha, an' have they any suspicion of the robbers?”

      “Why,” said the girl, “they talk about”—she paused, and it was quite evident from her manner that she felt not only embarrassed, but distressed by the question. Indeed this was no matter of surprise; for ever since the subject was alluded to, Kate Hogan's black piercing eyes had not once been removed from hers, nor did the girl utter a single word in reply to the questions asked of her without first, as it were, consulting Kate's looks.

      A moment's reflection made Cavanagh feel that the question must be a painful one to the girl, not only on her own account, but on that of Kate herself; for even then it was pretty well known that Burke's family entertained the strongest suspicion that the burglary had been committed by these notorious vagabonds.

      “Well, ahagur,” said Cavanagh, “no matter now—it's all over unless they catch the robbers. Come now,” he added, addressing M'Mahon and his son, “if you're for the road I'm ready.”

      “Is it true, Mrs. Burke,” asked Bryan, “that you're goin' to have a Kemp in your barn some o' these days?”

      “True enough, indeed,” replied the good woman, “an' that's true, too, tell the girls, Bryan, and that they must come.”

      “Not I,” said the other, laughing; “if the girls here—wishes them to come, let them go up and ask them.”

      “So