"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 jantleman that praaches at Carra,' says he; 'he's a calling for him,' says he. I knowed there wasn't a praast at all at Carra, an' I thought he was draaming, 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 to 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 daar,' says he, 'if ye love me,' says he, 'fetch me the good jantleman that praaches at Carra till I spake to him.' 'Is it the praast 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 maan; it's the jantleman that spakes in the little white church at Carra; he's not a praast 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 praast in yer own house.' 'I'm maaning none,' says I; 'nor more he isn't a hiritic; but if he was, he's a born angel to 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 praast, 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 has 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."