"Is it changed?" he said. "Sure, why wouldn't he be changed? With the father gone--an' the wife gone--an' the children growin' up. Sure 'tis changed we all are, an' goin' down the hill fast--God help us!"
"Sure 'tisn't to have the ould stock die out you'd be wantin'?" he said. "You'd travel the round of the county before you'd see the like of Mister Dinis's children--though 'tis girls they are."
"Girls?" Milbanke's mind was disturbed by the thought of children. Denis Asshlin with children! The idea was incongruous.
"Dear me!--dear me! And yet I suppose it's only natural. How old are they?"
Burke flicked the mare lightly, and the trap lurched forward.
"Miss Clodagh is turned fifteen," he said, "and the youngster is goin' on ten. 'Twas ten year back, come next December, that she was born. Sure I remimber it well. An' six weeks after, Mister Dinis was followin' her poor mother to the churchyard beyant in Carrigmore. The Lord keep us all! 'Twas she was the nice, quiet creature, and Miss Nance is the livin' stamp of her. But God bless us, 'tis Miss Clodagh that's her father's child." He added this last remark with a force that at the time conveyed nothing, though it was destined to recur later to Milbanke's mind.
"But your master?" the stranger repeated. The momentary diversion of the children had ceased to hold him. Again the vision of Asshlin--Asshlin the impetuous hero of past days--had risen intangible, mirage-like and yet compelling from his native stretch of rugged country.
But Burke made no reply. All his energies were directed to the guiding of the mare down a steep incline. For a space Milbanke was conscious of a dangerously accelerated pace; then the white piers of a large gate sped past them, and he was aware of the black shadow of overhanging trees.
Something unusual, something faintly prophetic and only vaguely comprehended, touched his prosaic nature at that moment. He was entering on a new phase of life. Without conscious preparation he was to see the world from a new point of view. With a fresh spur of anxious curiosity, he turned again to Burke.
"But your master?" he asked. "Has he changed much? Will I see a great alteration?"
For an added space the old man remained mute, while he piloted the trap up the sweep of avenue, with that irresistible desire for a fine finish that animates every Irish driver. Then, as they spun round the final curve, as the great square house loomed out of the mist, he replied without slackening his vigilance.