"Goodness me, it's Mary O'Neill."
"Yes, it's I."
"But let me have a right look at you," she said, taking me now by both
hands. "They were saying such wonderful things about the young misthress
that I wasn't willing to believe them. But, no, no," she said, after a
moment, "they didn't tell me the half."
I was still laughing, but it was as much as I could do not to cry, so I
said:
"May I come in?"
"My goodness yes, and welcome," she said, and calling to the doctor to
wash his hands and follow us, she led the way into the kitchen-parlour,
where the kettle was singing from the "slowery" and a porridge-pot was
bubbling over the fire.
"Sit down. Take the elbow-chair in the chiollagh [the hearth place].
There! That's nice. Aw, yes, you know the house."
Being by this time unable to speak for a lump in my throat that was
hurting me, I looked round the room, so sweet, so homely, so closely
linked with tender memories of my childhood, while Martin's mother
(herself a little nervous and with a touching softness in her face) went
on talking while she stirred the porridge with a porridge-stick.
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