“For the love an’ honour av God, yeer riv’rance, give a poor ’ooman a copper, that the Almighty blessin’s av God may discind on ye, yeer riv’rance. Oh, sure, God Almighty give ye grace.”
The Vicar stopped.
“Where do you come from?” he asked.
“I’m after walkin’ all the ways from Macroon, yeer riv’rance—an’ I in me feet.”
She held up a bare blistered foot, at the sight of which the Vicar shudderingly closed his eyes.
“Where’s your husband?” he inquired.
“Me husband, yeer riv’rance? Shure, glory be, I haven’t had a sight or a sound av him these two years. ’Twas the day Ginnet’s circus was in Dingarvin, an’ he along wid ’em clanin’ the horses, and faith that was the last I saw av him, good or bad. I’m thinkin’ he’s gone foreign—he has indeed.”
“Why don’t you go to a priest? He’s the person to help you—not me. I’m a Protestant clergyman.”
“Shure, I know that yeer riv’rance—an’ why would I be goin’ to a preyst, an’ I wid me three little children here—the poor darlin’s—they’ve had divil a bit to eat this whole day.”
The competitive instincts of the Vicar cried aloud with a resonant voice in his ear.