Peg muttered something in Irish, but far too low to be audible. “Is she mad, poor thing?” said I, in a whisper. The words were not well uttered when she darted on me her black and piercing eyes, with a look so steadfast as to make me quail beneath them. “Who 's that there?” said the hag, in a croaking, harsh voice. “He 's a young boy from beyond Loughrea.” “No!” shouted she, in a tone of passionate energy; “don't tell me a lie. I 'd know his brows among a thousand,--he 's a son of Matt Burke's, of Cronmore.” “Begorra, she is a witch; devil a doubt of it!” muttered Darby between his teeth. “You 're right, Peg,” continued he, after a moment. “His father's dead, and the poor child's left nothing in the world.” “And so ould Matt's dead?” interrupted she. “When did he die?” “On Tuesday morning, before day.” “I was driaming of him that morning, and I thought he kem up here to the cabin door on his knees, and said, 'Peggy, Peggy M'Casky! I'm come to ax your pardon for all I done to you.' And I sat up in my bed, and cried out, 'Who 's that?' and he said, ''T is me,--'t is Mister Burke; I 'm come to give you back your lease.' 'I 'll tell you what you 'll give me back,' says I; 'give me the man whose heart you bruck with bad treatment; give me the two fine boys you transported for life; give me back twenty years of my own, that I spent in sorrow and misery.'” “Peg, acushla! don't speak of it any more. The poor child here, that 's fasting from daybreak, he is n't to blame for what his father did. I think the praties is done by this time.” So saying, he lifted the pot from the fire, and carried it to the door to strain off the water. The action seemed to rouse the old woman, who rose rapidly to her legs, and, hastening to the door, snatched the pot from his hand and pushed him to one side. “'Tis two days since I tasted bit or sup; 'tis God himself knows when and where I may have it again; but if I never broke my fast, I'll not do it with the son of him that left me a lone woman this day, that brought the man that loved me to the grave, and my children to shame forever.” As she spoke, she dashed the pot into the road with such force as to break it into fifty pieces; and then, sitting down on the outside of the cabin, she wrung her hands and moaned piteously, in the very excess of her sorrow. “Let us be going,” said Darby, in a whisper. “There 'a no spaking to her when she 's one of them fits on her.” We moved silently from the hovel, and gained the road. My heart was full to bursting; shame and abasement overwhelmed me, and I dated not look up. “Good-by, Peg. I hope we 'll be better friends when we meet again,” said Darby, as he passed out. She made no reply, but entered the cabin, from which, in an instant after, she emerged, carrying a lighted sod of turf in a rude wooden tongs. [Illustration: The Curse 42] “Come along quick!” said Darby, with a look of terror; “she's going to curse you.”