o' that to you, Rosha," replied Owen's wife: "won't you sit
in an' be atin'?--here's a sate beside Nanny; come over, Rosha."

Owen only nodded to her, and continued to eat his dinner, as if he felt
no interest in her distress. Rosha sat down at a distance, and with the
corner of a red handkerchief to her eyes, shed tears in that bitterness
of feeling which marks the helplessness of honest industry under the
pressure of calamity.

"In the name o' goodness, Rosha," said Mrs. M'Carthy, "what ails you,
asthore? Sure Jimmy--God spare him to you--wouldn't be dead?"

"Glory be to God! no, avourneen machree. Och, och! but it 'ud be the
black sight, an' the black day, that 'ud see my brave, boy, the staff
of our support, an' the bread of our mouth, taken away from us!--No, no,
Kathleen dear, it's not that bad wid me yet. I hope we'll never live to
see his manly head laid down before us. 'Twas his own manliness, indeed,
brought it an him--backin' the sack when he was bringin' home our last
_meldhre_ * from the mill; for you see he should do it, the crathur, to
show his strinth, an' the sack, when he got it an was too heavy for him,
an' hurted the small of his back; for his bones, you see, are too young,
an' hadn't time to fill up yet. No, avourneen. Glory be to God! he's
gettin' betther wid me!" and the poor creature's eyes glistened with
delight through her tears and the darkness of her affliction.

Without saying a word, Owen, when she finished the eulogium on her
son, rose, and taking her forcibly by the shoulder, set her down at the
table, on which a large potful of potatoes had been spread out, with
a circle in the middle for a dish of rashers and eggs, into which dish
every right hand of those about it was thrust, with a quickness that
clearly illustrated the principle of competition as a stimulus to
action.

"Spare your breath," said Owen, placing her rather roughly upon the
seat, "an' take share of what's goin': when all's cleared off we'll hear
you, but the sorra word till then."

"Musha, Owen," said the poor woman, "you're the same man still; sure
we all know your ways; I'll strive, avourneen, to ate--I'll strive,
asthore--to plase you, an' the Lord bless you an' yours, an' may you
never be as I an' my fatherless childhre are this sorrowful day!" and
she accompanied her words by a flood of tears.

* Meldhre--whatever quantity of grain is brought to the
mill to be ground on one occasion.

Owen, withou