“I might have known it,” he says, sitting down disgusted. “I was a fool for hoping you would,” says he. “There’s no more spirit in ye nor sinse of gratichude than in a hin. Wait till!—” and he shook his fist.
“Don’t blame the lad,” cried Maureen, patting the King’s head, sootheringly; “sure, why should the like of a wondherful man, such as you, who has lived five thousand years, and knows everything, compare your wit or your spirit or your sinse with the likes of us poor crachures that only stay here a few hours and thin are gone for ever?” This she cried, craftily, flatthering the ould man. “Be aisy on him, King, acushla!” says she, coaxing.
Well, the little man, being soothered, sat down agin. “Maybe I was too hard,” he says, “but to tell the truth, the life is just bothered out of me, and my temper is runed these days with an omadhaun we’ve taken lately; I don’t know what to do with him. Talk of throuble! He mopes and mourns and moothers in spite of all we can do. I’ve even tould him where the crocks of goold are hid⸺”
" You haven’t tould me that,” cries Darby, quickly.
