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"'Twar nigh two weeks afore I heerd anything o' her; then I larned that she war gone away. Nobody could tell why or whar, for nobody knew, 'ceptin Hick Holt hisself; an' he ain't the sort o' man to tell saycrets. Lord o' mercy! I know nowt an' it's worse than I expected. I'd sooner heerd she war dead."
"Why, bekaise he's coortin' Kathleen Cavanagh now!" "An' what do I care about that?" said her brother. "Oh, you thief!" she replied; "don't think you can play upon me. I know your saycret." "An' maybe, Dora," he replied, "I have my saycrets. Do you know who was inquirin' for you to-day?" "No," she returned, "nor I don't care either sorra bit."
"Arrah, sure, that's part o' the saycrets o' navigation, and the varrious branches o' knowledge that is requizit for a navigator; and that's what the captain, God bless him, and myself was discoorsin' an aboord; and, like a rale gintleman as he is, Barny, says he; Sir, says I; you've come the round, says he.
Su-wa-nee can tell him one that will crimson his cheeks like the flowers of the red maple." "I have no saycrets, girl none as I'm afraid o' bein' heerd by anybody." "What of the half-blood?" "I don't care to hear o' her." "The White Eagle speaks falsely! He does care to hear. He longs to know what has become of his lost Marian. Su-wa-nee can tell him."
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