“Troth she do that!” spoke Mrs. McGonagle, “an’ sorra a few have doide in the parish in the last thirty years that she haven’t put the shroud on. Ye’ll have till have some wan, Mary, an’ yez moight as well put the troifle av money in the poor owld crayture’s way.”
The door bell rang softly, and Mary went to answer it.
“Is Rosie not here the noight Ellen?” asked Mrs. Burns.
“She do be in her bed, the crayter,” answered Ellen rather stiffly. “It’s up t’ree nights han’ runnin’ she’s bin wid him,” with a nod toward the box, “as he lay sick; an’ a bit av slape’ll do her no hurt.”
“Rosie have a good heart,” said Mrs. Clancy.
“True for yez,” put in Mrs. McGonagle, “sure an’ iv it hadn’t been for her, what ’ud Mary done at all, at all!”
“Spakin’ av Mary,” said Mrs. McGlory; “where did she get her eddycation? It’s carry herself very ladyloike, she do.”
“She wur taught in a convent in Dublin,” said Mrs. Clancy.
“I t’ought it wur somethin’ av the koind,” said the contractor’s wife, “seein’ that she goes till the altar ivery second Sunday. It’s a good livin’ girl she is.”
“None better. But, God betune us an’ all harm, it’s delicate she is. She have a bad cough.”