“No,” said she, “not a word; but the curse o' heaven on Brian M'Loughlin! Was my fine young man worth no more than his garran of a horse, that he didn't steal either, till he was put to it by the Finigans.”
“Well, sure two o' them were sent over soon afther him, if that's any comfort.”
“It's no comfort,” replied Poll, “but I'll tell you what's a comfort, the thought that I'll never die till I have full revenge on Brian M'Loughlin—ay, either on him or his—or both. Come, Raymond, have you ne'er a spare curse now for Brian M'Loughlin?—you could give a fat one to M'Clutchy this minute and have you none for Brian M'Loughlin?”
“No,” replied, the son, “he doesn't be harryin' the poor.”
“Well, but he transported your brother.
“No matter; Frank used to beat me—he was bad, an Brian M'Loughlin was good to me, and does be good to me; he gives me my dinner or breakfast whenever I go there—an' a good bed in the barn. I won't curse him. Now!”
“It's no use,” continued Poll, whose thin features had not yet subsided from the inflammatory wildness of expression which had been awakened by the curse, “it's no use, he'll only do what he likes himself, an' the best way is to never heed him.”
“I believe so,” said Darby, “but where's your daughter Lucy now, Poll?”
“Why,” said Poll, “she has taken to my trade, an' thravels up to the Foundling; although, dear knows, it's hardly worth her while now—it won't give her salt to her kale, poor girl.”
“Why, are the times mendin'?” asked Darby, who spoke in a moral point of view.