"An' to-night, my lady, he's very bad," she went on, wiping away the tears that came quickly again — "an' I seed he was going fast from me, an' I was breaking my heart wid the loss of him, whin I heard one of the men that was in it say, 'What's this he's saying?' says he. 'An' what is it, thin?' says I. 'About the gintleman that praiches at Carra,' says he — 'he's a calling for him,' says he. I knowed there wasn't a praist at all at Carra, an' I thought he was draiming, or out o' his head, or crazy wid his sickness, like; an' I went up close to him, an' says I, 'John,' says I, 'what is it you want,' says I — 'an' sure, if it's anything in heaven above or in earth beneath that yer own mother can get for ye,' says I, 'ye shall have it,' says I. An' he put up his two arms around my neck, an' pulled my face down to his lips, that was hot wid the faver, an' kissed me — he did — 'An',' says he, 'mother dair,' says he — 'if ye love me,' says he, 'fetch me the good gintleman that praiches at Carra, till I spake to him.' 'Is it the praist you want, John, my boy?' says I — 'sure he's in it,' says I'; for Michael had been for Father Shannon, an' he had come home wid him half an hour before. 'Oh no, mother,' says he, 'it's not him at all that I mane — it's the gintleman that spakes in the little white church at Carra — he's not a praist at all,' says he. 'An' who is he thin?' says I, getting up from the bed, 'or where will I find him, or how will I get to him?' 'Ye'll not stir a fut for him, thin, the night, Kitty Dolan,' says my husband — 'are ye mad,' says he; 'sure it's not his own head the child has at all at all, or it's a little hiritic he is,' says he; 'an' ye won't show the disrespect to the praist in yer own house.' 'I'm maining none,' says I — 'nor more, he isn't a hiritic; but if he was, he's a born angel to you, Michael Dolan, anyhow,' says I; 'an' wid the kiss of his lips on my face, wouldn't I do the arrant of my own boy, an' he a dying? by the blessing, an' I will, if twenty men stud between me an' it. So tell me where I'll find him, this praist, if there's the love o' mercy in any sowl o' ye,' says I. But they wouldn't spake a word for me, not one of them; so I axed an' axed at one place an' other, till here I am. An' now, my lady, will the master go for me to my poor boy? — for he'd maybe be dead while I stand here." "Surely I will," said Mr. Humphreys, who had come in while she was speaking. "Wait but one moment." In a moment he came back ready, and he and the woman set forth to their walk. Alice looked out anxiously after them. "It storms very hard," she said — "and he had not had his tea! But he couldn't wait. Come, Ellen, love, we'll have ours. How will he ever get back again? it will be so deep by that time."