The apprehensions of the good priest were not groundless; for no sooner was the body of Mrs. O'Clery consigned to its narrow, cold habitation, than the official, assisting the children into the sleigh that had borne their mother's body to the tomb, drove off in a rapid trot towards the poorhouse.
"Have we far to go yet, sir?" said Paul, thinking that the "county house" was something different from the much dreaded poorhouse. "I am afraid Bridget will perish with cold, sir."
"No fears of her; she's hardy, I guess."
"Yes, sir, but her dress is so very light."
"Well, she can pull that ere buffalo around her."
"Ou, hou, hou!" cried Bridget, breathing on her little bare hands, which she kept pressed to her lips.
"I hope, sir, you are not going to take us to the poorhouse," said Paul; "we don't want to go there. The priest that attended my mother—God rest her soul!—told us he would provide for us."
"Indeed! How can he do so?" said Van Stingey.
"Why, sir, I don't know; but perhaps he will write to my uncle, who is a vicar general in Ireland, and he will send us money to take us back home."
"Is your uncle in the British sarvice, then, and a general in the army?"