“Who was your master, my child?”
“The great' Mr.———, sir. If Mr. O'Brien, the curate of the parish, hadn't been ill himself at the same time, or if Mr. O'Rorke's son, Thady, hadn't been laid on his back, too, sir, I wouldn't suffer what I did.”
“Has the curate been kind to you?”
“Sir, only for him and the big boys I couldn't stay in the school, on account of the master's cruelty, particularly since my money was out.”
“You are better now—are you not?” said the other gentleman.
“Thank God, sir!—oh, thanks be to the Almighty, I am! I expect to be able to lave this place to-day or to-morrow.”
“And where do you intend to go when you recover?”
The boy himself had not thought of this, and the question came on him so unexpectedly, that he could only reply—
“Indeed, sir, I don't know.”
“Had you,” inquired the second stranger, “testimonials from your parish priest?”