'Mother!' says he. 'Micky!' says I. And he lifts his foot
and kicks over the barra, and dances me round in his arms, 'Ochone!'
says the spictators; 'there's the fine coffee that's running into the
dock.' 'Let it run,' says I, in the joy of me heart, 'and you after it,
and the barra on the top of ye, now Micky me son's come home!'"
"Wonderfully jolly!" said I. "And it must be pleasant even to think of
it."
But Biddy's effort of imagination seemed to have exhausted her, and she
relapsed into the lowest possible spirits, from which she suddenly
roused herself to return to her neglected coffee-stall.
"Bad manners to me, for an old fool! sitting here whineging and
lamenting, when there's folks, maybe, waiting for their coffee, and
yourself would have been the betther of some this half-hour. Come along
wid ye."
And giving a tighter knot to the red kerchief, which had been disordered
by her lamentations, the old woman went down the dock, I following her.
We had not to go far.
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