PEGEEN. _jumping up and giving him the bread and milk._—Go on now with your supper, and let on to be sleepy, for if she found you were such a warrant to talk, she’d be stringing gabble till the dawn of day. [_He takes bread and sits shyly with his back to the door._] PEGEEN. _opening door, with temper._—What ails you, or what is it you’re wanting at this hour of the night? WIDOW QUIN. _coming in a step and peering at Christy._—I’m after meeting Shawn Keogh and Father Reilly below, who told me of your curiosity man, and they fearing by this time he was maybe roaring, romping on your hands with drink. PEGEEN. _pointing to Christy._—Look now is he roaring, and he stretched away drowsy with his supper and his mug of milk. Walk down and tell that to Father Reilly and to Shaneen Keogh. WIDOW QUIN. _coming forward._—I’ll not see them again, for I’ve their word to lead that lad forward for to lodge with me. PEGEEN. _in blank amazement._—This night, is it? WIDOW QUIN. _going over._—This night. “It isn’t fitting,” says the priesteen, “to have his likeness lodging with an orphaned girl.” (_To Christy._) God save you, mister! CHRISTY. _shyly._—God save you kindly. WIDOW QUIN. _looking at him with half-amazed curiosity._—Well, aren’t you a little smiling fellow? It should have been great and bitter torments did rouse your spirits to a deed of blood. CHRISTY. _doubtfully._—It should, maybe. WIDOW QUIN. It’s more than “maybe” I’m saying, and it’d soften my heart to see you sitting so simple with your cup and cake, and you fitter to be saying your catechism than slaying your da. PEGEEN. _at counter, washing glasses._—There’s talking when any’d see he’s fit to be holding his head high with the wonders of the world. Walk on from this, for I’ll not have him tormented and he destroyed travelling since Tuesday was a week. WIDOW QUIN. _peaceably._—We’ll be walking surely when his supper’s done, and you’ll find we’re great company, young fellow, when it’s of the like of you and me you’d hear the penny poets singing in an August Fair. CHRISTY. _innocently._—Did you kill your father? PEGEEN. _contemptuously._—She did not. She hit himself with a worn pick, and the rusted poison did corrode his blood the way he never overed it, and died after. That was a sneaky kind of murder did win small glory with the boys itself. [_She crosses to Christy’s left._] WIDOW QUIN. _with good-humour._—If it didn’t, maybe all knows a widow woman has buried her children and destroyed her man is a wiser comrade for a young lad than a girl, the like of you, who’d go helter-skeltering after any man would let you a wink upon the road. PEGEEN. _breaking out into wild rage._—And you’ll say that, Widow Quin, and you gasping with the rage you had racing the hill beyond to look on his face.