“I often remark,” said his mother, “that fools spake mighty sinsible betimes; but their wisdom all goes with their gab. Why didn't you take a betther grip of your luck when you had it? You're wishing you wor a gintleman, and yet when you had the best part of a gintleman (the property, I mane) put into your way, you let it slip through your fingers; and afther lettin' a fellow take a rich wife from you and turn you out of your own house, you sit down on a stool there, and begin to wish indeed!—you sneakin' fool—wish, indeed! Och! if you wish with one hand, and wash with th' other, which will be clane first—eh?”
“What could I do agen eight?” asked Andy.
“Why did you let them in, I say again?” said the mother, quickly.
“Sure the blame wasn't with me,” said Andy, “but with—”
“Whisht, whisht, you goose!” said his mother. “Av course you'll blame every one and everything but yourself—'The losing horse blames the saddle.'”
“Well, maybe it's all for the best,” said Andy, “afther all.”
“Augh, howld your tongue!”
“And if it wasn't to be, how could it be?”
“Listen to him!”
“And Providence is over us all.”