"It's not the lightnin' I'm afraid of, father," said Peg solemnly.
"It's the thundher. It shrivels me up, that's what it does."
"The thundher, is it? Sure that's only the bluff the storm puts up
when the rale harm is done by the lightnin's flash. There is no harm
in the thundher at all. And remember, after all, it's the will of
God."
Peg thought a moment:
"It always sounds just as if He were lookin' down at us and firin'
off cannons at us because He's angry with us."
O'Connell said nothing. Presently he felt her small hand creep into
his:
"Father," said Peg; "are yez ralely ashamed of me when I'm
frightened like that?"
O'Connell was afraid to unbend lest he broke down altogether. So he
continued in a voice of mock severity:
"I am that--when ye cry and moan about what God has been good enough
to send us."
"Is it a coward I am for bein' afraid, father?" said Peg, her lips
quivering.
"That's what ye are, Peg," replied O'Connell with Spartan severity.
"Then I'll never be one again, father! Never again," and her eyes
filled up.
He suddenly took her in his arms and pressed her to him and rocked
her as though she were still a baby, and his voice trembled and was
full of pity as he said:
"Ye can't help it, acushla.
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