" "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. " "Och! if he's a friend o' yours, my dear joy, there's no more to be said; and right sorry am I, I struck him. Before the congregation separated, the clergyman descended from the pulpit; and, followed by the coffin-bearers and mourners, and by Jack at a respectful distance, entered the churchyard. "Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. The miserable woman staggered, uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless on the straw. ‘She?’ ‘Damnation!’ He saw her frown, and added at once, ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. Such an obvious ruse, but the boys and girls would defend their pride to the bitter end, the facade of study groups during rutting season.
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