Mrs. C. God help us, aren’t I a widder woman this seven years?
Mr. C. Ah, but it’s thinkin’ I was why ye didn’t get marrit again.
Mrs. C. Well, it’s sure I am [thoughtfully setting down her teacup and raising her hand by way of emphasis], there was no betther husband to any woman than him that’s dead and gone, heaven save an’ rest his sowl. He was that asy a child could do anything wid him, and he was as humorous as a monkey. You favor him very much, Mr. Costello. He was about your height, and complicted like you.
Mr. C. Ah!
Mrs. C. He often used to say to me in his banterin’ way, Sure, Nora, what’s the woruld to a man whin his wife is a widder, manin’, you know, that all the timptations and luxuries of this life can never folly a man beyant the grave. Sure, Nora, says he, what’s the woruld to a man whin his wife’s a widder?
Mr. C. It was a sensible sayin’ that [helping himself to more fish].
Mrs. C. I mind the day John died. He knew everything to the last, and about four o’clock in the afthernoon—it was seventeen minutes past five exactly, be the clock, that he died—he says to me, Nora, says he, you’ve been a good wife, says he, an’ I’ve been a good husband, says he, an’ so there’s no love lost atween us, says he, an’ I could give ye a good characthur to any place, says he, an’ I wish ye could do the same for me where I’m goin’, says he; but it’s case equal, says he, an’ every dog has his day, an’ some has a day an’ a half, says he, an’ says he, I’ll know more in a bit than Father Corrigan himself, says he, but I’ll say now, says he, that I’ve always been a true son of the Church, says he, so I’ll not bother my brains about it; an’ he says, says he, I lave ye in good hands, Nora for I lave you in your hands, says he; an’ if at any time ye see any wan ye like betther nor me, marry him, says he. Ah, Nora, says he, for the first time spakin’ it solemn like, ah, Nora, what’s the woruld to a man whin his wife’s a widder? An’ says he, I lave fifty dollars for masses, and the rest I lave to yourself, said he, an’ I needn’t tell ye to be a good mother to the childer’, says he, for well ye know there are none. Ah, poor John! Will ye have another cup of tay, Mr. Costello?
Mr. C. It must have been very hard on ye [passing cup]. Thank ye, ma’am, no more.
Mrs. C. It was hard, but time will tell. I must cast about me for my own livin’; and so I got intil this place an’ here I am to-day. [Both rise from the table and seat themselves before the fire.]
Mr. C. Ah! an’ here we are both of us this evenin.’