“Niver mind, Pat,” said Mrs. McGuire, who was sanguine and hopeful, “we’ll live somehow. I’ve got a bit of money upstairs, and I’ll earn something by washing. We won’t starve.”
“I’ll get work ag’in soon, maybe,” said Pat, encouraged.
“Shure you will.”
“And if I don’t, I’ll help you wash,” said her husband, humorously.
“Shure you’d spoil the clothes,” said Bridget, laughing.
In the evening Phil played, and they had a merry time. Mr. McGuire quite forgot that he was out of work, and, seizing his wife by the waist, danced around the kitchen, to the great delight of the children.
The next morning Phil thanked Mrs. McGuire for her kindness, and prepared to go away.
“Why will you go?” asked Bridget, hospitably. “Shure we have room for you. You can pay us a little for your atin’, and sleep with the childer.”
“I should like it,” said Phil, “but——”
“But what?”