This virtuous poor woman flushed with a sense of outraged modesty, with scorn and indignation, left the room; and with a distracted mind and a breaking heart, sought her orphan, whose innocent face of wonder she bedewed on her return home with tears of the bitterest sorrow.
It is not our intention to describe at full length the several melancholy scenes which occurred between poverty and dependence on one side and cold, cruel, insolent authority, on the other. It is needless and would be painful to tell how much age and helplessness suffered at the hands of these two persons; especially at those of Phil, whose chief delight appeared to consist in an authoritative display of pomp and natural cruelty.
The widow had not been more than a minute gone, when the door opened, and in walked, without note or preparation, a stout swarthy looking fellow named M'Clean. “Well, Tom,” said Val, “is this you?”
“Brother M'Clean,” said Solomon, “how are you?”
“What would ail me?” said M'Clean, “there's nothing wrong with me but what money could cure—if I had it.”
“And you have no money, Tom!” said Val, smiling, “that, Tom, is a bad business—for we never wanted it more than we do at present. Seriously, have you the rent?”
“D—n the penny, brother M'Clutchy; and what's more, won't have it for at least three months.”
“That's bad again, Tom. Any news?—any report?”
“Why, ay—there was a gun, or a pistol, or a pike, or something that way, seen with the Gallaghers of Kilscaddan.”
“Ha—are you sure of that?”