“Are you in arrears for rent?”
“Yis sor. He (pointing to her husband) has been sick, sor, for months, sor, and cud not worruk.”
“What will you do if he dies?”
“We shall be put out, sor.”
This with no burst of anguish, with no special tone of anger or manifestation of emotion. To be “put out” is the common lot of the Irish laborer, and Irish wife, and they expect it.
HOW MY LORD BANTRY LIVES.
And within a mile of that wretched spot, of that dying man and starving children, My Lord Bantry has a most beautiful castle, luxurious furniture, filled with pampered flunkies, his stable crowded with the most wonderful horses, and his table groaning under the weight of the luxuries of every clime.
