Maybe now ye’ll wait till yez be asked.
Ye’re a purty crayther, notwithstandin’ that black strake upon yer lip. But the masther isn’t in a condishun jist at this time to see any wan—unless it was the praste or a docthur.
Yez cyant see him.”
“But I wish very much to see him, senor.”
“Trath div yez.
Ye’ve sayed that alriddy.
But yez cyant, I till ye.
It isn’t Phaylim Onale ud deny wan av the fair six—espacially a purty black-eyed colleen loike yerself.
But for all that yez cyant see the masther now.”
“Why can I not?”
“Why cyant yez not? Will—thare’s more than wan rayzon why yez cyant.
In the first place, as I’ve towlt you, he’s not in a condishun to resave company—the liss so av its bein’ a lady.”
“But why, senor? Why?”
“Bekase he’s not dacently drissed.
He’s got nothin’ on him but his shirt—exceptin’ the rags that Misther Stump’s jist tied all roun’ him.
Be japers! thare’s enough av them to make him a whole shoot—coat, waiscoat, and throwsers—trath is thare.”
“Senor, I don’t understand you.”
“Yez don’t?
Shure an I’ve spoke plain enough! Don’t I till ye that the masther’s in bid?”
“In bed! At this hour?
I hope there’s nothing—”
“The matther wid him, yez wur goin’ to say?
Alannah, that same is there—a powerful dale the matther wid him—enough to kape him betwane the blankets for weeks to come.”
“Oh, senor! Do not tell me that he is ill?”
“Don’t I till ye!
Arrah now me honey; fwhat ud be the use av consalin’ it? It ud do it no good; nayther cyan it do him any harm to spake about it?
Yez moight say it afore his face, an he won’t conthradict ye.”
“He is ill, then.
O, sir, tell me, what is the nature of his illness—what has caused it?”
“Shure an I cyant answer only wan av thim interrogataries—the first yez hiv phut.
His disaze pursades from some ugly tratement he’s been resavin—the Lord only knows what, or who administhered it.
He’s got a bad lig; an his skin luks as if he’d been tied up in a sack along wid a score av angry cats.
Sowl! thare’s not the brenth av yer purty little hand widout a scratch upon it.
Worse than all, he’s besoide hisself.”
“Beside himself?”
“Yis, that same.
He’s ravin’ loike wan that had a dhrap too much overnight, an thinks thare’s the man wid the poker afther him.
Be me trath, I belave the very bist thing for him now ud be a thrifle av potheen—if wan cud only lay hands upon that same. But thare’s not the smell av it in the cyabin.
Both the dimmy-jan an flask.
Arrah, now; you wouldn’t be afther havin’ a little flask upon yer sweet silf?
Some av that agwardinty, as yer people call it.
Trath, I’ve tasted worse stuff than it.
I’m shure a dhrink av it ud do the masther good.
Spake the truth, misthress! Hiv yez any about ye?”
“No, senor. I have nothing of the kind.
I am sorry I have not.”
“Faugh!
The more’s the pity for poor Masther Maurice.
It ud a done him a dale av good.
Well; he must put up widout it.”