“Please draw my couch nearer the window, Annorah. That will do. Now, sit down on this low stool, and tell me how long it is since you left Ireland.”
“It’s two years, miss, coom April.”
“So lately? Then you remember all about the old country?”
“Remember! An’ it’s me that’ll niver forget that same. The beautiful counthree it is!”
“Pleasanter than this, do you think?”
“A thousand times. There is no place in the world like it; the dear ould counthree!”
“Why, then, did you leave it, Annorah?”
“Bad luck we had, miss; and a worse luck intirely here, the mane town that this is.”
“Tell me all about it.”
“What for? That ye, too, may laugh like the rest, and call us the mane, dirty set of Irish vagabonds?” asked the girl, her small eyes kindling with a sense of imaginary insult.