dead visit once again their homes, and sit unseen, listening an’ yearnin’ about the ould hearthstones.
More than once that avenin' Darby'd shivered and shuddered at the wild shrieks and wails that swept over the chimney-tops; he bein' sartin sure that it wasn't the wind at all, but despairing woices that cried out to him from the could lips of the dead.
At last, afther one purticular doleful cry that rose and fell and lingered around the roof, the knowledgeable man raised his head and fetched a deep breath, and said to his wife Bridget:
“Do you hear that cry, avourneen? The dear Lord be marciful to the souls of the dayparted!” sighed he.
Bridget turned a throubled face toward him. “Amen,” she says, speakin' softly; “and may He presarve them who are dying this night. Poor Eileen McCarthy—an' she the purty, light-footed colleen only married the few months! Haven't we the raysons to be thankul and grateful. We can never pray enough, Darby,” says she.
Now the family had just got off their knees from night prayers, that had lasted half an hour, so thim last worruds worried Darby greatly.
