The strangers looked more earnestly at the boy; sickness had touched his fine intellectual features into a purity of expression almost ethereal.  His fair skin appeared nearly transparent, and the light of truth and candor lit up his countenance with a lustre which affliction could not dim.

The other stranger approached him more nearly, stooped for a moment, and felt his pulse.

“How long have you been in this country?” he inquired.

“Nearly three years.”

“You have been ill of the fever which is so prevalent; how did you come to be left to the chance of perishing upon the highway?”

“Why, sir, the people were afeard to let me into their houses in consequence of the faver.  I got ill in school, sir, but no boy would venture to bring me home, an’ the master turned me out, to die, I believe.  May God forgive him!”

“Who was your master, my child?”

“The great’ Mr.------, sir.  If Mr. O’Brien, the curate of the parish,
hadn’t been ill himself at the same time, or if Mr. O’Rorke’s son,
Thady, hadn’t been laid on his back, too, sir, I wouldn’t suffer what I
did.”

“Has the curate been kind to you?”

“Sir, only for him and the big boys I couldn’t stay in the school, on account of the master’s cruelty, particularly since my money was out.”

“You are better now—­are you not?” said the other gentleman.

“Thank God, sir!—­oh, thanks be to the Almighty, I am!  I expect to be able to lave this place to-day or to-morrow.”

“And where do you intend to go when you recover?”

The boy himself had not thought of this, and the question came on him so unexpectedly, that he could only reply—­

“Indeed, sir, I don’t know.”

“Had you,” inquired the second stranger, “testimonials from your parish priest?”

“I had, sir:  they are in the hands of Mr. O’Brien.  I also had a character from my father’s landlord.”

“But how,” asked the other, “have you existed here during your illness?  Have you been long sick?”

“Indeed I can’t tell you, sir, for I don’t know how the time passed at all; but I know, sir, that there were always two or three people attendin’ me.  They sent me whatever they thought I wanted, upon a shovel or a pitchfork, across the ditch, because they were afraid to come near me.”

During the early part of the dialogue, two or three old hats, or caubeens, might have been seen moving steadily over from the wigwam to the ditch which ran beside the shed occupied by M’Evoy.  Here they remained stationary, for those who wore them were now within hearing of the conversation, and ready to give their convalescent patient a good word, should it be necessary.

“How were you supplied with drink and medicine?” asked the younger stranger.

“As I’ve just told you, sir,” replied Jemmy; “the neighbors here let me want for nothing that they had.  They kept me in more whey than I could use; and they got me medicine, too, some way or other.  But indeed, sir, during a great part of the time I was ill, I can’t say how they attended me:  I wasn’t insinsible, sir, of what was goin’ on about me.”