“One-and-fourpence was all I got on it, and trouble enough it gave me.” These words she uttered with a heavy sigh, and in a tone at once resentful and complaining.
“Were my uncle to know that you had pawned your cloak, Polly, he 'd never permit you to cross his threshold.”
“Ayeh, it's a great sin, to be sure,” whined out the hag, half insolently.
“A great shame and a great disgrace it certainly is; and I shall stop all relief to you till the money be paid back.”
“And why not!” “To be sure!” “Miss Mary is right!” “What else could she do?” broke in full twenty sycophant voices, who hoped to prefer their own claims by the cheap expedient of condemning another.
“The Widow Hannigan.”
“Here, miss,” simpered out a smiling little old creature, with a courtesy, as she held up a scroll of paper in her hand.
“What 's this, Widow Hannigan?”
“'T is a picture Mickey made of you, miss, when you was out riding that day with the hounds; he saw you jumping a stone wall.”
Mary smiled at the performance, which certainly did not promise future excellence, and went on,—