Old-a Finlay-a want-a spik with-a
you--"
"Old Finlay--with me?"
"Sure. Old-a Finlay-a go die-a ver' queek, an' he vant-a spik with-a you
first."
"Dying! Old Finlay dying?" questioned Ravenslee, rising.
"Sure! He go die-a ver' queek."
"I'll come!"
"An' I guess," said Mrs. Trapes, "yes, I opine as I'll come along wi'
ye, Mr. Geoffrey."
Old Martin Finlay lay propped up by pillows, his great, gaunt, useless
body seeming almost too large for the narrow bed wherein he lay, staring
up great-eyed at Ravenslee--live eyes in a dead face.
"It's dying I am, sorr," said he faintly, "an' it's grateful is ould
Martin for the docthers and medicine you've paid for. But it's meself
is beyand 'em all--an' it's beyand 'em I'm goin' fast. She's waitin'
for me--me little Maggie's houlding out her little hand to me--she's
waitin' for me--beyand, Holy Mary be praised! An' she's waited long
enough, sorr, my little Maggie as I loved so while the harsh words
burned upon me tongue--my little Maggie! I was bitter cruel to my little
girl, but you've been kind to me, and, sorr, I thank ye.
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