The man drew his purse forth, and, while endeavouring to take some pieces of money from it by the aid of his single remaining hand, she turned abruptly about, and, staring him stedfastly in the face, said—
“I'll not take your money—'tisn't money will serve me now—them that's poor themselves will never see me in want.”
“Stop a moment,” said the stranger, “I have a claim on you.”
“That you haven't,” said the woman, sternly—“I know you well, Mark O'Donoghue—ay, and your wife, Miss Kate there; but it isn't by a purse full of gold you'll ever make up for desarting the cause of ould Ireland.”
“Don't be angry with her,” whispered a low mild voice behind. He turned, and saw a very old man dressed in black, and with all the semblance of a priest. “Don't be angry with her, sir; poor Mary's senses are often wandering; and,” added he with a sigh, “she has met sore trials, and may well be pardoned, if, in the bitterness of her grief, she looks at the world with little favour or forgiveness. She has mistaken you for another, and hence the source of her anger.”
THE END.