"Promise me you will not go back to Coolnagurtheen to-night?" she says, earnestly. "At the inn, down in the village, they will give you a bed.",
In the distance a woman is bending over a keeler making up a huge mass of butter into rolls, nicely squared and smoothed, to make them look their best and handsomest to-morrow.,
The urn is hissing angrily, and breathing forth defiance with all his might. It is evidently possessed with the belief that the teapot has done it some mortal injury, and is waging on it war to the knife..
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