pon her, till it had her even more confused. And the day was nearly
done, and no lamps lit yet. But she made out a porter and asked him, as
Art had bid her, for Mr. Moloney's ass-cart.

"Moloney's ass and dray? Ay," says the man, "Big Michael was in the Town
to-day at Melia's, and buying all before him, by what I hear. And not
too long ago it was ..."

"Would I ... could I find him ... where's that place you're after
mentioning?"

And Delia took a grip of the big hat, that the wind was getting at.

"Melia's shop? You can't miss it! There's ne'er another.... He should
have left it by now ... but let you go on along that road ..." and he
showed her where it lay, stretching off into the darkness, "and you'll
overtake him, ready! That ass is middling slow!"

The man guessed who this was speaking to him, for they all had heard
about Art and the wife being expected for the Christmas. And he had no
call to tell her to go off like that. Big Michael was nigh-hand at home
again by then. But he had a sup taken at that present, as often happens
at Christmas. Only he was a bit "on," he'd never have put such an iday
into Delia's head. To think of letting her start after Michael like
that!

But poor Delia knew no better than to follow fool's advice; how could
she? So she just asked some directions about the road, and then she
changed the child from one arm to the other and faced out in the night
and rain, and a wind that would blow the horns off a goose to overtake
the ass-cart. Little she thought that it was back at the Crooked Boreen
by then, near five good miles away!

For a while, she wasn't in too bad a heart at all. She was glad to be
out of the train, and she was expecting every step to get some signs of
Michael on in front. But the little light there was went altogether
before long; quenched, like, by the great rain and the heavy clouds that
hung low and dark in the skies. Delia began to feel it very lonesome!
But she kept going on; what else could she do?

At this time, what she thought worst of was, that the wet was spoiling
her good hat, after Art spending his money upon it, the way she could
make some kind of appearance foreninst his mother and the neighbours.
But what could she do to save it?

"The cut I'll be!" she thought; "all dreeped with rain!" And indeed the
hat, with its grand feather all broken and draggled, was a poor-looking
thing enough before she was half-ways to the Crooked Boreen. As for the
grand