"True for ye. And gen'rally I feels it; but not so to-day, sir. Mr. Kearney gave me a dollar, sayin' it was from a stranger and I wasn't to mention it—and I won't; but"—she shot a quick, warm glance at Tim—"God guard the kind heart of him, whoever he is. To-morrow I'll be orderin' some beautiful groceries with it. Tis a gran' sinsation to be goin' into a store and orderin' things."
She stooped for her little bundle of fagots, but Tim forestalled her. He undid them, arranged them craftily in the stove with rolls of old newspaper beneath, and touched a match to the fire.
"There, ma'am."
"We'll have the little kittle b'ilin' in a minute now, sir."
"And what will you do against the cold winter comin', ma'am?"
"Oh, yeh! I'll do, no doubt, what I've done every winter since I come here—live through it."
"With the cold wind coming through the wide cracks and the snow piling high on the wintry mornings, it won't be the tightest place in the world, ma'am."
"Thanks be to God I have it—the same little cabin!"
"Thank God you have! Whisht, ma'am"—- Tim laid a restraining hand on hers as she spooned the tea out of the can—"you won't be leaving yourself any at all."
"Sure, there's enough for the breakfast. And if we could always be sure of our breakfast it's little we'd have to complain of. And now let me get out my cups and saucers. I have two of each, thank God!"