“I say, what—er—ye want—er—her for, any’ow?”
The Sister turns away, and addresses herself once more to Mamma.
“I cannot understand why that girl may not have proper care,” she says, sternly. “If her intellect has been shattered by the use of liquor, this is not the place for her,” pointing her remark by a glance at Franz and the empty bottle. “Body and soul will both be sacrificed here. I shall not let this matter rest, and if I find that you have no legal authority—”
But again fury overmasters prudence. Mamma springs toward her with a yell of rage.
“Ah, you cat-o’-the-world,” she cries, “go home with yer pious cant! The gal’s—”
The words die away in a gurgle; the hand of Franz, roughly pressed against her mouth, has stopped her utterance.
“Oh, get out, old woman!” he exclaims, pushing her away and steadying himself after the effort. “Ye’re gittin’ too familiar, ye air.”
Then seeing that the Sister, convinced of her inability to reason with the unreasonable, had turned to go, he cried out:
“Hold on, mum; if ye want that gal, ye kin have her. I’m runnin’ this.”
“I shall not forget that poor creature,” says the Sister, still addressing Mamma and ignoring Franz; “and if I find that she is not—”