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The next morning, Shiana and his workmen were working at their very best. The soft whistling of the men, and the tapping of the little hammers, and the drawing and tightening of the waxed thread were going on as hard as if there were not a shoe or a boot being made in any other place on the dry land of Ireland.

"Who is that coming up?" said one of the men.

Every man raised his head except Michael.

"John Kittach, surely!" said another man.

Shiana sprang up, and out he went, down to meet John Kittach.

The two spent a good while walking across the field, back and forward, talking and discussing, but they were very far down, so that not one of the men was able to make out a word of the conversation. At last they parted. John Kittach turned west toward his own house. But Shiana, instead of returning to his work, faced east, taking the road to the town.

Michael jumped up and flung away the shoe that he had in his hands, and set off for his own house at a trot.

As soon as he was inside the door, "Mother!" said he, "look here; the match is made!"

"Nonsense!" said she.

"Oh, indeed it is," said he. "John Kittach was up a while ago, and he and Shiana were talking in the field for an hour, and then John Kittach went