They were so weak with the age of a thousand years that
they fell upon the floor of the chapel. The monks took them up and
cared for them for a few days, and then they died. And so the word of
the Druid came to pass, that when the strange men should ring their
bells the children of Lir should be swans no longer, and should be
happy forever."
They all waited for a few minutes, to be sure that there was no more
of the story, and then John said: "Mother, it's easy for you to be
tellin' us them tales, and they may be all thrue enough, and I'm not
sayin' they're not. But what good are they to us? The word of the
Druid came thrue, but how long was it in comin' thrue? A thousand
years?"
"A thousand years or more," said his mother; "but the stories can
teach us to be patient, if they can do nothing else."
"They may do that," said John; "the blessed Lord He knows you've been
patient, and He knows the rest of us have tried to be. But what does
it all come to? We can't wait a thousand years for the betther times.
Pether, here, is right.
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