here was much that was uncanny about him, he was so silent, and he
hated the smell of whisky. Now those were the times when Cornelius
Desmond ruled Moher in the old open-handed haphazard way, never
troubling penniless tenants. But "Corney" died and the daisies grew over
him, so the estate was managed by an agent who made short work of
paupers, and evicted "Dark" Andy from his ancestral hovel. Andy did not
seem to know his misfortune. He spent the day of the eviction, as usual,
at the Cross-roads, and came back at night to a ruin. His neighbour,
Larry Ronan the blacksmith, was grieved to see that he took the change
as a matter of course, and that after groping in the four corners of the
cabin he sat on the window-ledge as if unaware that nothing was left of
his home but the walls.

Next day it was rumoured that Bridget McCaura, of Moher Farm, had
sheltered Dark Andy. Bridget was a warm woman, a "woman of three cows,"
a masterful old maid, who in her time had refused many a pretty fellow,
perhaps because she suspected them of hankering after her live stock,
her poultry, and her sixty acres of rocks. Then the old parish priest,
Father Peter Flannery, rode over to see her. Bridget was called out of
her house to speak to him; he was afraid to dismount. She stood in the
narrow gateway in front of her farm, with her arms akimbo, ready to
defend her home against all comers. Peter's heart trembled; he has a
great dread of angry women.

"Is it thrue?" he asked--and was so frightened that he looked even
sterner than usual--"is it thrue what I'm afther hearing, Bridget
McCaura, that ye've taken the Dark Man, Lonergan, to live with ye--to
live in the Farm?"

"Is it thrue? 'Tis so," said Bridget.

"But ye're not going to keep him, are ye now?"

"Keep him? I am that," said Bridget.

Peter screwed up his courage and told her warily, that though it was
well-meant of her, and "'tis you have the kind warm heart, Bridget me
dear," still, that propriety forbade it.

He was afraid to look at her as he spoke. Bridget was purple.

"What! a misfortnit ould omadhaun the likes of that?" she cried.

"I know, I know," said Peter (this is a pet phrase of his and usually
means that he does not know). "I know, I know, but 'tis because ye're a
lone woman, tell me now are ye listening to me? If ye'd been married
now, 'twould have been another thing."

"Married!" cried Bridget with infinite scorn--"Married! If that's all,
I'll marry the crayt