She accordingly
tempered her manner and deportment towards them with consummate skill.
Her replies to their inquiries for news were given with an appearance
of good humor; but beneath the familiarity of her dialogue there lay an
ambiguous meaning and a cutting sarcasm, both of which were tinged with
a prophetic spirit, capable, from its equivocal drift, of being applied
to each individual whom she addressed. Owing to her unsettled life, and
her habit of passing from place to place, she was well acquainted with
local history. There lived scarcely a family within a very wide circle
about her, of whom she did not know every thing that could possibly be
known; a fact of which she judiciously availed herself by allusions
in general conversations that were understood only by those whom they
concerned. These mysterious hints, oracularly thrown out, gained her the
reputation of knowing more than mere human agency could acquire, and of
course she was openly conciliated and secretly hated.
Her conversation with the menials of the inn was very short and
decisive.
"Sheemus," said she to the person who acted in the capacity of waiter,
"where's Meehaul Neil?"
"Troth, Nell, dacent woman," replied the other, "myself can't exactly
say that. I'll be bound he's on the _Esker_, looking afther the sheep,
poor crathurs, durin' Andy Connor's illness in the small-pock.
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