10 STRAY-AWAYS 



througli Purgatory like a flash o' liglitning; tlicrc 

 wasn't a singe on him. Often me mother told mc 

 about a sermon lie preached, and I'd remember of a 

 piece of it, and the way you'd say it in English was 

 ' Oh, black seas of Eternity, without top nor bottom, 

 beginning nor end, bay, brink, nor shore, how can 

 any one look into your depths and neglect the salvation 

 of his soul ? ' " 



The translation came forth easily, with the lilt of 

 metre and the cadence of melancholy. Anastasia 

 looked into the fire and said, after a pause, " 'Twas 

 thrue for him." 



I asked her what she thought of the Irish that was 

 being taught now. 



" Musha, I wouldn't hardly know what they'd be 

 saying ; and there's an old man that has great Irish — 

 a wayfaring man that does be going the roads — and 

 he says to me, ' Till yestherday comes again,' says he, 

 ' the Irish that they're teaching now will never be 

 like the old Irish.' The Irish were deep-spoken 

 people long ago," continued Anastasia, yav/ning lament- 

 ably ; "it was all love-songs they had. The people used 

 to be in love then. Sure, there's no talk of love now." 



She said it comfortably, and presently dozed, and 

 I wondered what talk of love she had heard. With 

 the large eyelids closed, her face gained in tranquillity, 

 because the grey eyes were not truly tranquil, they 

 were only slow, with side-glances that revealed a 

 disposition both ruminative and quick. It was not 

 easy to imagine that such glances had ever fallen, 

 abashed, before a fond or daring gaze, or been fused 

 into oneness with it, yet Anastasia would have under- 

 stood to its nethermost such a gaze; she could have 

 translated it with Irish phrases and endearments 

 that had the pang of devotion in them — ^phrases 

 that flash as softly as a grey sea that the sun gazes 



