Mr. O'Shane broke away from her, and, rushing into the house, presently returned bearing a dilapidated table in his hands.
"Have mercy, Mr. O'Shane. Pity me!" pleaded the woman, when he appeared.
"I do pity ye; 'pon me sowl, I do, thin; but what can a poor man like me do?" replied the landlord. "I live in a worse house nor this, and work like a mule, and I can't make enough, for the high prices, to take care of me family. Didn't I wait month after month for me rint, and sorra a cint I iver got? Sure it isn't Mike O'Shane that would do the likes of this if he could help it."
"But I will pay you all I owe, Mr. O'Shane."
"That's what ye been sayin' this twelvemonth; and I can't wait any longer. Why don't ye stir yoursilf, and go among the rich folks?"
"I can't beg, Mr. O'Shane."
"But ye better beg than chate me out of me honest dues. Go 'way wid ye! Pay me the rint, or give me the house; and sorra one of me cares which you do."
"I would move if I could. You know that my poor child is very sick. For her sake don't turn me out of the house to-day," added the woman, in the most beseeching tones.
"Didn't I wait six months for the child to die, and she didn't die? She won't die. Sure, don't she sit in the chair all day? and what harm would it do to move her?"
"I have no place to move her to."