“The Goodness above knows; for me—­I don’t.”

“Why, thin, whin he was asleep they seen a small silk thread in his mouth, that came down through the ceilin’ from heaven, an’ he suckin’ it, just as a child would his mother’s breast whin the crathur ’ud be asleep:  so that was the way he was supported by the angels!  An’ I remimber myself, though he’s a dark, spare, yallow man at all times, yet he never looked half so fat an’ rosy as he did the same Lent!”

“Glory be to Heaven!  Well, well—­it is sthrange the power they have!  As for him, I’d as lee meet St Pether, or St Pathrick himself, as him; for one can’t but fear him, somehow.”

“Fear him!  Och, it ‘ud be the pity o’ thim that ’ud do anything to vex or anger that man.  Why, his very look ’ud wither thim, till there wouldn’t be the thrack o’ thim on the earth; an’ as for his curse, why it ’ud scorch thim to ashes!”

As it was generally known that Father Philip was to visit Mrs Sullivan the next day, in order to hear an account of the mystery which filled the parish with such fear, a very great number of the parishioners were assembled in and about Bartley’s long before he made his appearance.  At length he was seen walking slowly down the road, with an open book in his hand, on the pages of which he looked from time to time.  When he approached the house, those who were standing about it assembled in a body, and, with one consent, uncovered their heads, and asked his blessing.  His appearance bespoke a mind ill at ease; his face was haggard, and his eyes bloodshot.  On seeing the people kneel, he smiled with his usual bitterness, and, shaking his hand with an air of impatience over them, muttered some words, rather in mockery of the ceremony than otherwise.  They then rose, and, blessing themselves, put on their hats, rubbed the dust off their knees, and appeared to think themselves recruited by a peculiar accession of grace.

On entering the house the same form was repeated; and when it was over, the best chair was placed for him by Mary’s own hands, and the fire stirred up, and a line of respect drawn, within which none was to intrude, lest he might feel in any degree incommoded.

“My good neighbour,” said he to Mrs Sullivan, “what strange woman is this, who has thrown the parish into such a ferment?  I’m told she paid you a visit?  Pray sit down.”

“I humbly thank your Reverence,” said Mary, curtseying lowly, “but I’d rather not sit, sir, if you, plase.  I hope I know what respect manes, your Reverence.  Barny Bradagh, I’ll thank you to stand up, if you plase, an’ his Reverence to the fore, Barny.”

“I ax your Reverence’s pardon, an’ yours, too, Mrs Sullivan; sure we didn’t mane the disrespect, anyhow, sir, plase your Reverence.”

“About this woman, and the Lianhan Shee,” said the priest, without noticing Barny’s apology.  “Pray what do you precisely understand by a Lianhan Shee?”