en you want _money_; but I tell you
I have no money. You wor born to waste and extravagance, Honor, an'
there's no curin' you. What is it you want? an' let me go about my
business."

"Throw that ould threadbare Cothamore off o' you," replied Honor, "and
beg of God to give you grace to sit down, an' have common feeling and
common sense."

"If it's money to get cloes either for yourself or Connor, there's no
use in it. I needn't sit; you don't want a stitch, either of you."

Honor, without more ado, seized the coat, and, flinging it aside, pushed
him over to a seat on which she forced him to sit down.

"As heaven's above me," she exclaimed, "I dunna what come over you at
all, at all. Your money, your thrash, your dirt an' filth, ever, ever,
an' for evermore in your thought, heart and sowl. Oh, Chierna! to think
of it, an' you know there is a God above you, an' that you must meet
Him, an' that widout your money too!"

"Ay, ay, the money's what you want to come at; but I'll not sit here to
be hecthor'd. What is it, I say again, you want?"

"Fardorougha ahagur," continued the wife, checking herself, and
addressing him in a kind and affectionate voice, "maybe I was spakin'
too harsh to you, but sure it was an' is for your own good. How an'
ever, I'll thry kindness, and if you have a heart at all, you can't but
show it when you hear what I'm goin' to say."

"Well, well, go an," replied the pertinacious husband; "but--money--ay,
ay, is there. I feel, by the way you're comin' about me, that there is
money at the bottom of it."

The wife raised her hands and eyes to heaven, shook her head, and after
a slight pause, in which she appeared to consider her appeal a hopeless
one, she at length went on in an earnest but subdued and desponding
spirit--

"Fardorougha, the time's now come that will show the world whether you
love Connor or not."

"I don't care a pin about the world; you an' Connor know well enough
that I love him."

"Love for one's child doesn't come out merely in words, Fardorougha;
actin' for their benefit shows it better than spakin'. Don't you grant
that?"

"Very well, may be I do, and again may be I don't; there's times when
the one's better than the other; but go an; may be I do grant it."

"Now tell me where in this parish, ay, or in the next five parishes to
it, you'd find sich a boy for a father or mother to be proud out of, as
Connor, your own darlin' as you often cau him?"

"Divil a one, Hono