Anne, and divil a word
I knew till Pierre hit me in the eye wid it last night--and no time for a
present, for a wedding-gift--no, aw no!"
Just here Ida reached up and touched him on the shoulder. He smiled down
on her, puffing and blowing in his beard, bursting to speak to her, yet
knowing no word by signs to say; but he nodded his head at her, and he
patted Hilton's shoulder, and he took their hands and joined them
together, hers on top of Hilton's, and shook them in one of his own till
she almost winced. Presently, with a look at Hilton, who nodded in
reply, Ida lifted her cheek to Macavoy to kiss--Macavoy, the idle, ill-
cared-for, boisterous giant. His face became red like that of a child
caught in an awkward act, and with an absurd shyness he stooped and
touched her cheek. Then he turned to Hilton, and blurted out, "Aw, the
rose o' the valley, the pride o' the wide wurruld! aw, the bloom o' the
hills! I'd have kissed her dirty shoe. McQuire!"
A burst of laughter rolled out on the clear air of the prairie, and the
hills seemed to stir with the pleasure of life. Then it was that
Macavoy, following Hilton and Ida outside, suddenly stopped beside the
horse, drew from his pocket the promissory note that Pierre had written,
and said, "Yis, but all the weddin'-gifts aren't in. 'Tis nothin' I had
to give-divil a cent in the wurruld, divil a pound av baccy, or a pot for
the fire, or a bit av linin for the table; nothin' but meself and me
dirty clothes, standin' seven fut three an me bare toes.
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