"Me father hasn't stirred out o' that chimley corner for years an' years," urged Mike; "an' me mother, God help her! she's near as bad as him wid the weakness an' the terrible cough she has this while back. It 'ud be the death of her out an' out—sure, where could the cratur's go?"
"Let them go to the poor-house, unless you can make a livin' for them somewhere out o' this. I'll not have ye here, mind. Ye needn't come an' work to-morrow, an' ye may tell your father an' mother to be gettin' ready to march, for they'll be havin' the bailiff in on them as soon as I can get him."
A deep flush replaced Mike's pallor and a shiver of indignation shook him from head to foot.
"Mr. Rorke," he cried, "ye don't mane what ye are sayin'. Ye'd never have the heart to turn them two ould craturs out on the roadside to die?"
"Wouldn't I though?" retorted Peter; "ye'll soon find out for yourselves whether I would or not."
He turned and was hastening homewards, when Mike called after him. The old man faced him, still sneering.
"This will not bring you luck," cried Mike, his young voice quivering, his face working with emotion, his usually merry eyes ablaze with passion. "I tell you it'll bring a curse on you. You'll live to rue the day you turned on us that way—an' maybe it won't be long before ye are sorry."
Peter's only answer was an ironical laugh, and he once more resumed his homeward journey, leaving Mike standing pale and trembling beside the hedge.
Peter entered the house, flushed with triumph, and, calling loudly for Roseen, informed her that he was after sendin' that fine young sweetheart of hers about his business.
"Ye don't mane to say you turned him off!" cried the girl, in dismay. "The poor fellow, how is he to live at all, him that has his old father and mother to keep as well as himself?"