“Arrah, what harm did the crathur do,” asked his wife, “that you'd kick her for, that way? an' why but you ate out your dinner?”
“I'm done,” he replied, “but that's no rason that Rosha, an' you, an' thim boys that has the work afore them, shouldn't finish your male's mate.”
Poor Rosha thought that by his withdrawing he had already suspected the object of her visit, and of course concluded that her chance of succeeding was very slender.
The wife, who guessed what she wanted, as well as the nature of her suspicion, being herself as affectionate and obliging as Owen, reverted to the subject, in order to give her an opportunity of proceeding.
“Somethin' bitther an' out o' the common coorse, is a throuble to you, Rosha,” said she, “or you wouldn't be in the state you're in. The Lord look down on you this day, you poor crathur—widout the father of your childhre to stand up for you, an' your only other depindance laid on the broad of his back, all as one as a cripple; but no matther, Rosha; trust to Him that can be a husband to you an' a father to your orphans—trust to Him, an' his blessed mother in heaven, this day, an' never fear but they'll rise up a frind for you. Musha, Owen, ate your dinner as you ought to do, wid your capers! How can you take a spade in your hand upon that morsel?”
“Finish your own,” said her husband, “an' never heed me; jist let me alone. Don't you see that if I wanted it, I'd ate it, an' what more would you have about!”
“Well, acushla, it's your own loss, sure, of a sartinty. An' Rosha, whisper, ahagur, what can Owen or I do for you? Throth, it would be a bad day we'd see you at a deshort * for a friend, for you never wor nothin' else nor a civil, oblagin' neighbor yourself; an' him that's gone before—the Lord make his bed in heaven this day—was as good a warrant as ever broke bread, to sarve a friend, if it was at the hour of midnight.”
* That is at a loss; or more properly speaking, taken
short, which it means.
“Ah! when I had him!” exclaimed the distracted widow, “I never had occasion to trouble aither friend or neighbor; but he s gone an' now it's otherwise wid me—glory be to God for all his mercies—a wurrah dheelish! Why, thin, since I must spake, an' has no other frind to go to—but somehow I doubt Owen looks dark upon me—sure I'd put my hand to a stamp, if my word wouldn't do for it, an' sign the blessed crass that saved us, for the payment of it; or I'd give it to him in oats, for I hear you want some, Owen—Phatie oates it is, an' a betther shouldhered or fuller-lookin' grain never went undher a harrow—indeed it's it that's the beauty, all out, if it's good seed you want.”
“What is it for, woman alive?” inquired Owen, as he kicked a three-legged stool out of his way.”