Owen sat at
dinner with his family when she entered the house in tears, and, as well
as her agitation of mind permitted, gave him a detailed account of her
embarrassment.
"The blessin' o' God be upon all here," said she, on entering.
"The double o' that to you, Rosha," replied Owen's wife: "won't you sit
in an' be atin'?--here's a sate beside Nanny; come over, Rosha."
Owen only nodded to her, and continued to eat his dinner, as if he felt
no interest in her distress. Rosha sat down at a distance, and with the
corner of a red handkerchief to her eyes, shed tears in that bitterness
of feeling which marks the helplessness of honest industry under the
pressure of calamity.
"In the name o' goodness, Rosha," said Mrs. M'Carthy, "what ails you,
asthore? Sure Jimmy--God spare him to you--wouldn't be dead?"
"Glory be to God! no, avourneen machree. Och, och! but it 'ud be the
black sight, an' the black day, that 'ud see my brave, boy, the staff
of our support, an' the bread of our mouth, taken away from us!--No, no,
Kathleen dear, it's not that bad wid me yet. I hope we'll never live to
see his manly head laid down before us. 'Twas his own manliness, indeed,
brought it an him--backin' the sack when he was bringin' home our last
_meldhre_ * from the mill; for you see he should do it, the crathur, to
show his strinth, an' the sack, when he got it an was too heavy for him,
an' hurted the small of his back; for his bones, you see, are too young,
an' hadn't time to fill up yet.
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