“Oh, Mr. Dennis, I’m glad to see you as kind as your promise, meeting me here,” said the widow O’Neil, walking up to him;
“I’m sure you’ll speak a good word for me: here’s the lases—who will I offer this to?” said she, holding the glove-money and sealing-money, “for I’m strange and ashamed.”
“Oh, don’t be ashamed—there’s no strangeness in bringing money or taking it,” said Mr. Nicholas Garraghty, holding out his hand. “Is this the proper compliment?”
“I hope so, sir: your honour knows best.”
“Very well,” slipping it into his private purse. “Now what’s your business?”
“The lases to sign—the rent’s all paid up.”
“Leases! Why, woman, is the possession given up?”
“It was, plase your honour; and Mr. Dennis has the key of our little place in his pocket.”
“Then I hope he’ll keep it there. Your little place—it’s no longer yours; I’ve promised it to the surveyor. You don’t think I’m such a fool as to renew to you at this rent.”
“Mr. Dennis named the rent. But any thing your honour plases—any thing at all that we can pay.”