“Is it your daughter she is, ma'am?” (This to Salemina.)
“She's from Ameriky, the poor mischancy crathur.”
“Give her a toothful of whisky, your ladyship. Sure it's nayther bite nor sup she's had the morn, and belike she's as impty as a quarry-hole.”
When this last expression from the mother of the long weak family fell upon Salemina's cultured ears she looked desperate.
We could not leave a fellow-countrywoman, least of all could Salemina forsake a fellow-citizen, in such a hapless plight.
“Take one cab with Francesca and the luggage, Penelope,” she whispered. “I will bring the girl with me, put her to bed, find her friends, and see that she starts on her journey safely; it's very awkward, but there's nothing else to be done.”
So we departed in a chorus of popular approval.
“Sure it's you that have the good hearts!”
“May the heavens be your bed!”
“May the journey thrive wid her, the crathur!”