The King shook his head slowly, and drew a long face.
“Maybe we ought to be happy,” says he. “’Tis thrue there’s no sickness in Sleive-na-mon, nor worry for to-morrow, nor fret for one’s childher, nor parting from friends, or things like that, but throuble is like the dhrifting snow outside, Darby; it falls on the cottage and it covers the castle with the same touch, and once in a while it sifts into Sleive-na-mon.”
“In the name of goodness!” cries Darby, surprised, “is there anything in the whole world you can’t have for the wishing it?”
The King took off his goold crown and began polishing it with his sleeve to hide his narvousness. “I’ll tell you a saycret,” he whuspered, bending over toward Darby, and speaking slow. “In Sleive-na-mon our hearts are just breaking for something we can’t get; but that’s one thing we’d give the worruld for.”
“Oh, King, what in the livin’ worruld can it be?” cried Maureen.
“I’d give the teeth out of me head if I could only own a goat,” says the King, looking as though he were going to cry.
“Man alive!” says Darby, dhropping the poker,
