"No, my girl!" shouted he, and the joy spread over his face again—"not if they had forty courses. But eating isn't all, Pol," he continued, growing suddenly serious once more. "This living from hand to mouth—earning with hard labor every crust we put into it—never seeing the blessed face of a dollar, that isn't wanted a hundred ways by our necessities—is rather hard."
"Ah! Tom, and thankful ought we to be that we have health to earn that dollar. Think of the thousands of poor souls that are worse off than ourselves! Never look above your own station with envy, Thomas; but below it with gratitude."
It was at this moment that there appeared at the open door, a poor, wretched-looking individual, evidently an Irishman, and, from the singularity of his dress, only just arrived. He said not a word, but upon his pale cheek was visibly printed a very volume of misery.
"Hello! friend, what the devil do you want?" asked Tom.
"Don't speak so, Thomas. He's sick and in distress," said Polly, laying her finger on his mouth. "There! suppose you were like that?"
"What? a Paddy!" replied the other, with a jolly laugh; "don't mention it!" then calling to the poor stranger, who was resignedly walking away; "Come on Irish!" he cried. "Do you want anything?"
"Av you plaze, sir," answered the Irishman, "I'd like to rest meself."
"Sit down, poor fellow!" said Polly, dusting a chair, and handing it towards him.
"I don't mane that, ma'm; a lean o' the wall, an' an air o' the fire'll do. The blessin's on ye for lettin' me have it!" so saying, he placed himself near the cheerful fire-place, and warmed his chilled frame.
"A big lump of a fellow like you, wouldn't it be better for you to be at work than lounging about in idleness?" said Tom.