19

and in with mud and grasses on her feet, and
it raining since the night of Samhain. The
silver skillets and the golden cups we have
beyond locked in the chest.
CONCHUBOR. Bring them out and use
them from this day.
LAVARCHAM. We'll do it, Conchubor.
CONCHUBOR -- getting up and going to
frame. -- Is this hers?
LAVARCHAM -- pleased to speak of it. --
It is, Conchubor. All say there isn't her match
at fancying figures and throwing purple upon
crimson, and she edging them all times with
her greens and gold.
CONCHUBOR -- a little uneasily. -- Is she
keeping wise and busy since I passed before,
and growing ready for her life in Emain?
LAVARCHAM -- dryly. -- That is a ques-
tion will give small pleasure to yourself or me.
(Making up her mind to speak out.) If it's
the truth I'll tell you, she's growing too wise
to marry a big king and she a score only. Let
you not be taking it bad, Conchubor, but you'll
get little good seeing her this night, for with
all my talking it's wilfuller she's growing these
two months or three.
CONCHUBOR -- severely, but relieved
things are no worse. -- Isn't it a poor thing