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Updated: May 17, 2025
"I remember well in '98 when you were searching for rebels, you thought a man was concealed in a dairy-yard in the neighbourhood of my mother's house, major, in Stephen's Green; and you thought he was hid in a hay- rick, and ordered your sergeant to ask for the loan of a spit from my mother's kitchen to probe the haystack." "Oh! then, madam, your mother was loyal, I suppose." "Most loyal, sir."
Tell me. 'If you really ha'n't heard, 'tis this. He was as usual on duty at the station on the night of the fire last year, otherwise he wouldn't ha' known it. 'Known what? For God's sake tell, man! But at this instant the two opposite gates of the dairy-yard, one on the east, the other on the west side, slammed almost simultaneously.
Roads, garden-paths, the house-fronts, the barton-walls were warm as hearths, and reflected the noontime temperature into the noctambulist's face. He sat on the east gate of the dairy-yard, and knew not what to think of himself. Feeling had indeed smothered judgement that day. Since the sudden embrace, three hours before, the twain had kept apart.
"It's a curious story; it carries us back to medieval times, when faith was a living thing!" The remark, singular for a dairy-yard, was murmured by the voice behind the dun cow; but as nobody understood the reference, no notice was taken, except that the narrator seemed to think it might imply scepticism as to his tale. "Well, 'tis quite true, sir, whether or no. I knowed the man well."
The route he had chosen led through the dairy-yard, and he opened the gate. Five minutes before this point of time, Edward Springrove was looking over one of his father's fields at an outlying hamlet of three or four cottages some mile and a half distant. A turnpike-gate was close by the gate of the field.
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