"The power of love is wonderful," she went on; "sure Tim's spakin' to Mrs. Doyle's little Katty, an' he's raced the thrain so that he can dart up an' see the little girl while the ould ingin' is pantin' the sides out of her like a dog after a gallop."
"More than punctual!" commented a young gentleman, who was standing in a first-class carriage, looking from the shining landscape to the face of his chronometer.
He was a good-looking fellow, with honest brown eyes and a face that told of constant living in the open air. He was lean as a hound, and almost as long; presumably he would fill out, but even now his long-legged youthfulness was not without its attractive side.
As the train drew up at the platform he pocketed his watch, and began to gather his belongings leisurely. They seemed to be a good many--gun-case, golf-sticks, fishing-tackle, hat-case, rugs and umbrellas, and all the rest of it. While he was thus engaged a good-natured face, belonging to the red-bearded and red-haired giant who was guard of the train, looked in at the window.
"No hurry, sir, if you're not goin' on. If you are, there'll be time to take a dander up the town an' get a bit of dinner."
"Indeed? I didn't know you made a long stop here," said the youth, pausing in his occupation of locking a small portmanteau.
"No more we do. We're supposed to skelp along wid the letters for Ballintaggart beyant the mountains there. But you see, sir"--insinuatingly--"the driver's gone to see his sweetheart. That's how we got in so early. Tim is the boy for not lettin' the grass grow under the thrain when he has a mind. I remember when this ould thrain was bet in a race wid a pig; but Tim's put another face on her."
"Oh--indeed. And when will you start again?"
"Whenever your honour likes. I wouldn't be for hurryin' a gentleman over his dinner, to say nothin' of Tim, that's a dacent boy, an' deserves a good turn."
The traveller laughed with an enjoyment that lit up a face grave in repose.
"You don't mind letting the people at Ballin--what's-its-name?--wait for their letters?"
"Och, surely not. Maybe 'tis a week before some o' them 'ud hear be chance there was a letter for 'em at the post-office, an' be that time every wan in the place'll know what's in it. It'll be: 'There's a letter below at the post-office for you, Judy, wid an order in it for a pound from your Uncle Con in Philadelphy'; or, 'Miss Geraghty below at the post-office was tellin' me there's grand news from the daughter in New York--twins, no less, an' all doin' well.' Sure, the people themselves is the last to hear, barrin' the polis."