ly you were as the rains of April, and my
heart is ashes now you're gone...."

Shane paced off through the haggard. There was the _glug-glug_ of a
bottle, and again the sweetish, acrid odor of whisky. He turned back.

"Only to one were you kinder nor to myself and that was to the lad here,
whose heart is broken for you. Dumb with grief he is, now you're gone.
And all you did for him! You might have married a strong farmer would
have a dozen cows, horses would pull a cart or plow, hens by the dozen,
and flitches of bacon hanging in the kitchen. Or you might have married
a man had a shop and sat at your ease in the back room, like a lady
born. Or you might have married a gager and gone to Dublin and mixed
with the grand quality. And your mother would have a black silk dress,
and shoes with buttons on them. But you married this young fellow goes
to sea, so much was the great love on you for him. Love came to you like
a thunder-storm, and left you trembling like a leaf, and now you're
dead--ochanee! ochanee! ochanee o!"

Her voice changed from the shrill keen to a shrewd whine:

"You'll be leaving me something to remember her by, Shane Oge, and her a
fathom deep beneath me in the cold ground. And a trinket or two, or a
dress, maybe, or a bangle would keep my heart warm?"

"You can have them all."

"All is it? Ah, sure, it's the grand big heart is in you, lad o' the
North. And are they all to be mine, the silver brooch you bought her
from the Dutch city, and the ring with the pearl in it, and the dresses
of silk from France, and the shoes that have buckles? Are they for me,
hinny?"

"Yes, yes. Take them."

"And the wee furnishings of the house, the feather-bed is soft to lie
on, and the dresser with the delft, and the creepy stool beside the
fire, the noble chairs? You wouldn't be selling them to the stranger,
Shane Oge?"

"No, you can have those, too."

"And the house, too? Young noble fellow, where is your wife's mother to
lay her gray hairs? Couldn't you fix the house, too?"

"The house is not mine, and I can't afford to buy it."

"But 't is you you are the rich Protestant family. Your uncles and your
mother, hinny. Rotten with gold they are, and me just a poor old
_cailleach_ that gave you the white lamb o' the flock."

"We'll look after you. My uncle Alan Campbell will be here in a day or
so and fix everything. But I'm afraid the house is out of the question."

"Oh, sure it would be a noble thing to hav