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Next thing ye know some one'll slam the dooer, not knowin' a thing, and fire up, an' it's roastin' aloive ye'll be. Shure an' it's tempted Oi am to wring yer purty neck to save yer loife," and she drove him out with the harshest of words and the gentlest of hands. Then Yan, with his arms full of labelled plants, set out for home. "Good-boi, choild, come back agin and say me soon.
Bring some more hairbs. Good-boi, an' bless ye. Oi hope it's no sin to say so, fur Oi know yer a Prattison an' ye are all on yez goin' to hell, but yer a foine bhoy. Oi'm tumble sorry yer a Prattison." When Yan got back to the Raftens' he found the dinner table set for one, though it was now three in the afternoon. "Come and get your dinner," said Mrs. Raften in her quiet motherly way.
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