I knew she had fostered my Uncle Luke, and that she loved him, as the foster-mother does, with an unreasoning and jealous passion.
Her old lips met tightly.
"Ask Miss Mary herself about that, Miss Bawn," she said.

"No one can say that I am one to talk.

After all those years, it would be a pity to spoil all the tellin' for Miss Mary." She sat smiling to herself, a bitter and mocking smile, when she had finished the sentence.

I knew Maureen better than to try to win talk from her when she had once made up her mind to silence, so I let her be, only changing the conversation to another subject.
"What will it be like, Maureen, when I am gone ?" I asked.
"It will be lonely, Miss Bawn," she answered; and then, as I had expected, she added, with a little sourness, "Not that you are a patch on Master Luke and Miss Eleanor and your own mother for cheerfulness in the house.

Och, the days I could tell of when there was the fine company-keepin', and the divarsion, and the carriages of the quality drivin' up to the doors, and the music and the dancin'! Them were the days that were worth havin', an' not these days when every one is old--every one but yourself, Miss Bawn; and you're that quiet that I wouldn't know you were in the house.