name it if ye were likely to be takin’ everythin’ wid ye; but goin’ all that way, an’ lavin’ nobody afther ye—­it’s a terrible long fam’ly I have altogether, ma’am—­I declare I have the work of the world wid them.  Terence—­nothin’ ’ud serve him but to go makin’ a drum out o’ the on’y pot we have, an’ he’s afther knocking a great big hole in it.  So if ye weren’t goin’ to take your big ould pot away wid ye, ma’am, I thought I’d just mention it.”

Mrs. Brophy’s withered little face flushed.

“It’s yerself that ’ud be welcome, I’m sure,” she replied stiffly, “but that same pot Dan an’ me bought when we got married, an’ I don’t think I could have the heart to part wid it.”

“Ah, that indeed, ma’am?  Well, of course, when ye have a fancy for it that way, it’s best for ye to take it wid ye.  But I question if Mrs. Larry ‘ud like the looks of it comin’ into her grand kitchen.  Sure Bill tould me, that time he came back from America, there wasn’t such a thing as a pot to be seen over there at all.  But plaze yerself, ma’am, of coorse.”

Mrs. Brophy looked startled and perturbed.

“Not such a thing as a pot in it,” she repeated.  “God bless us! it must be a quare place.  Well, Mrs. Kinsella, ma’am, if I do lave the pot behind I’ll make sure that yourself has it.”

“Thank ye, ma’am,” responded Mrs. Kinsella, with alacrity.  “Any ould thing at all that ye wouldn’t be wantin’ ’ud come in handy for me.  Ye wouldn’t be takin’ that ould chair, now, or the dresser; that ’ud be altogether too big an’ too heavy to put in a boat, but I’d be thankful for it at my place.”

Mary looked round at her little household gods with a sudden pang; then she glanced rather sharply back at Mrs. Kinsella.

“There’s time enough to be thinkin’ o’ them things,” she observed.  “Himself an’ me hasn’t made up our minds at all when we’re goin’, or what we’ll be doin’ wid our bits o’ things.”

“Well, I must be off wid meself anyhow,” returned the visitor, easily changing the subject.  “Ye’ll be havin’ his reverence in wid yez some time this mornin’.  I’m afther meetin’ him goin’ up the road to poor Pat Daly’s, an’ when I told him the news he near broke his heart laughin’ at the notion of the two o’ yez goin’ off travellin’ at this time o’ day.  ‘But I’m sorry, too,’ he says, ‘I’m very sorry,’ he says.  ‘Upon my word,’ says he, ’the place won’t know itself without poor Dan an’ Mary.  An’ so they’re goin’ to live over there,’ says he, ’or rather to die over there,’ says he, ‘an’ there’ll be some strange priest lookin’ afther them at the last,’ he says.  ’Well, well, I always thought it ’ud be me that ‘ud have the buryin’ o’ Dan an’ Mary.’—­An’ off wid him then up the hill to Dalys’, but he’ll be apt to be lookin’ in on his way back.”

“He will, to be sure,” agreed Mary, in rather doleful tones.