“Hand it here, I say,” returned Sarah, whose eyes flashed in a moment; “it's Peggy Murray's rag, I suppose—hand it here, I bid you.”
The woman shook her head and replied, “I can't—not till you get the box.”
Sarah replied not a word, but sprang at it, and in a minute had it in her hands.
“I would tear it this minute into ribbons,” she exclaimed, with eyes of fire and glowing cheeks, “and tramp it undher my feet too; only that I want it to show her, that I may have the advantage over her.”
There was a sharp, fierce smile of triumph on her features as she spoke; and altogether her face sparkled with singular animation and beauty.
“God bless me!” said the strange woman, looking at her with a wondering yet serious expression of countenance; “I wanst knew a face like yours, an' a temper the aiquil of it—at any rate, my good girl, you don't pay much respect to a stranger. Is your stepmother at home?”
“She is not, but my father is; however, I don't think he'll see you now. My stepmother's gone to Darby Skinadre, the meal-monger's.”
“I'm goin' there.”
“An' if you see her,” replied the other, “you'll know her; a score on her cheek—ha, ha, ha; an' when you see it, maybe you'll thank God that I am not your step-daughter.”
“Isn't there a family named Sullivan that lives not far from Skinadre's?”