And so their life rolled on—the only break in its monotony was a slight difference between Mrs. Crooks, the landlady, and Mrs. O'Toole, which arose from their mutual affection for the parrot. Nurse asserted "it was a mighty knowledgeable craythur iv a bird;" and Poll verified the statement of her admirer, by repeating various phrases she learnt from Mrs. O'Toole, in a rich County Clare brogue. The poverty of the kitchen fire was a constant source of vexation to Mrs. O'Toole.
"Hesther, och! girl alive—will ye rouse up that fire a bit," was her constant cry; and Poll never beheld the much enduring handmaid of Mrs. Crooks, without screaming. "Hesther, Hesther, rouse up the fire a bit." "Hesther ye divil!" "Ah, speak pretty, Poll," Mr. Crooks would then exclaim, "don't say such ugly words—say dear mistress." "Ye divil," Poll would reply.
"Faith it would make ye break yer heart laughing, sir," said nurse, who was detailing the events of their warfare, to the Colonel and Kate, one evening. 'Spake pretty,' ses she, 'an don't be hollowin' out thim vulgar Hirish words,' ses she. 'Och, God help ye woman,' ses I, 'it's little ye know the differ between what's vulgar, an what's genteel in this counthry,' ses I. 'Ye'd lave a poor Queen, to go sarve a rich tinker, any hour of the twinty-four; an ye'd rummage through the blackest dirt iv London for a halfpenny, though yer pocket was full iv goold guineas, all the time—that's yer gintility in England,' sis I; 'an as for style, an rale quolity, faith it's so little—'"
"Dear nurse," interrupted Kate, gravely, "I wish you had not made such a long and irritating speech, to Mrs. Crooks; you must let me settle your differences, and in future turn a deaf ear to any casual remarks that may hurt your national vanity—they are not worth noticing."
"Och, my gracious, Miss Kate, is an impident thief iv a lodging-house keeper, to be let to have her talk about her betthers an—be the powers! there's the post," cried nurse interrupting herself, "an I dhreamt, I had a letther from—" she ran out hastily, and returned almost immediately, with a disappointed look, "It's for the masther."
"From Winter," said he, opening it. An enclosed letter, with the Indian post-mark fell from it. "From Egerton, I do believe," cried the Colonel; but no—within that again was another enclosure, the address, written in an intoxicated looking hand, and much blotted. "For Mrs. O'Toole, at the Kurnel's in England."
"It's for you, nurse," said Kate, with a heavy sensation of deep disappointment weighing down her heart.
"I'll engage it's from Dinny; athin read it for me, jewil!"
So Kate, disengaging its folds from the stiff adhesion of a large red wafer, and taking the liberty of correcting some very prominent errors of orthography, and transferring small into capital I's, read as follows:—