“I did,” replied the other; “a friend that heard of your present distress, and thinks you don't desarve it, sent it to you.”
Mrs. Dalton raised the burning straw, and looked for about half a minute into her face, during which the woman carried the meal over and placed it on the hearth.
“I met you to-day, I think,” said Mrs. Dalton, “along with Donnel Dhu's wife on your way to Darby Skinadre's?”
“You might,” replied the woman; “for I went there part o' the road with her.”
“And who are we indebted to for the present?” she asked again.
“I'm not at liberty to say,” replied the other; “barrin' that it's from a friend and well-wisher.”
Mrs. Dalton clasped her hands, and looking with an appearance of abstraction, on the straw as it burned in the fire, said in a voice that became infirm by emotion—
“Oh! I know it; it can be no other. The friend that she speaks of is the girl—the blessed girl—whose goodness is in every one's mouth—Gra Gal Sullivan. I know it, I feel it.”
“Now,” said the woman, “I must go; but before I go, I wish to look on the face of Condy Dalton.”
“There's a bit of rush on the shelf there,” said Mrs. Dalton to one of her daughters; “bring it over and light it.”