Yan’s appetite was wholly gone now, to the grief of his kind entertainer, “Shure an’ she’d fix him up something to stringthen him,” and Yan had hard work to beg off.

“Would ye like an aig,” ventured Biddy.

“Why, yes! oh, yes, please,” exclaimed Yan, with almost too much enthusiasm.  He thought, “Well, hens are pure-minded creatures, anyway.  An egg’s sure to be clean.”

Biddy waddled away to the ‘barrun’ and soon reappeared with three eggs.

“B’iled or fried?”

“Boiled,” said Yan, aiming to keep to the safe side.

Biddy looked around for a pot.

“Shure, that’s b’ilin’ now,” said Granny, pointing to the great mass of her undergarments seething in the boiler, and accordingly the eggs were dropped in there.

Yan fervently prayed that they might not break.  As it was, two did crack open, but he got the other one, and that was virtually his dinner.

A Purple Blackbird came hopping in the door now.

“Will, now, thayer’s Jack.  Whayer hev ye been?  I thought ye wuz gone fur good.  Shure Oi saved him from a murtherin’ gunner,” she explained.  “(Bad scran to the baste!  I belave he was an Or’ngeman.) But he’s all right now an’ comes an’ goes like he owned the place.  Now, Jack, you git out av that wather pail,” as the beautiful bird leaped into the half-filled drinking bucket and began to take a bath.

“Now luk at that,” she shouted, “ye little rascal, come out o’ that oven,” for now the Blackbird had taken advantage of the open door to scramble into the dark warm oven.

“Thayer he goes to warrum his futs.  Oh, ye little rascal!  Next thing ye know some one’ll slam the dooer, not knowin’ a thing, and fire up, an’ it’s roastin’ aloive ye’ll be.  Shure an’ it’s tempted Oi am to wring yer purty neck to save yer loife,” and she drove him out with the harshest of words and the gentlest of hands.

Then Yan, with his arms full of labelled plants, set out for home.

“Good-boi, choild, come back agin and say me soon.  Bring some more hairbs.  Good-boi, an’ bless ye.  Oi hope it’s no sin to say so, fur Oi know yer a Prattison an’ ye are all on yez goin’ to hell, but yer a foine bhoy.  Oi’m tumble sorry yer a Prattison.”

When Yan got back to the Raftens’ he found the dinner table set for one, though it was now three in the afternoon.

“Come and get your dinner,” said Mrs. Raften in her quiet motherly way.  “I’ll put on the steak.  It will be ready in five minutes.”

“But I’ve had my dinner with Granny de Neuville.”

“Yes, I know!”

“Did she stir yer tea with one front claw an’ put jam on yer bread with the other?” asked Raften, rather coarsely.

“Did she b’ile her pet Blackbird fur yer soup?” said Sam.

Yan turned very red.  Evidently all had a good idea of what he had experienced, but it jarred on him to hear their mockery of the good old soul.