Another great adventure by this Irish novelist.
The peasant woman felt almost sick in her horror at such a sentiment, and she moved towards the door to pass out.
"Have you thought of everything, Molly?" asked he, more mildly.
"I think so, Sir. There's to be twenty-eight at the wake--twenty-nine, if Mr. Rafter comes; but we don't expect him--and Father Lowrie would make thirty; but we've plenty for them all."
"And when will this--this feasting--take place?"
"The night before the funeral, by coorse," said the woman.
"And they will all leave this the next morning, Molly?"
"Indeed I suppose they will, Sir," said she, no less offended at the doubt than at the inhospitable meanness of the question.
"So be it, then!" said he, with a sigh. "I have nothing more to say."
"You know, Sir," said she, with a great effort at courage, "that they'll expect your Honour will go in for a minute or two--to drink their healths, and say a few words to them?"
He shook his head in dissent, but said noth