"Owen, avick!--an' the blessin' of the fatherless be upon you, sure, an'
many a one o' them you have, any how, Owen!"
"Well, Rosha--well?"
"Och, och, Owen, it's low days wid me to be depindin' upon the
sthranger? little thim that reared me ever thought it 'ud come to this.
You know I'm a dacent father's child, an' I have stooped to you, Owen
M'Carthy--what I'd scorn to do to any other but yourself--poor an'
friendless as I stand here before you. Let them take the cows, thin,
from my childhre; but the father of the fatherless will support thim an'
me. Och, but it's well for the O'Donohoes that their landlord lives at
home among themselves, for may the heavens look down on me, I wouldn't
know where to find mine, if one sight of him 'ud save me an' my childre
from the grave! The Agent even, he lives in Dublin, an' how could I lave
my sick boy, an' small girshas by themselves, to go a hundre miles, an'
maybe not see him afther all. Little hopes I'd have from him, even if I
did; he's paid for gatherin' in his rents; but it's well known he wants
the touch of nathur for the sufferins of the poor, an' of them that's
honest in their intintions."
"I'll go over wid you, Rosha, if that will be of any use," replied Owen,
composedly; "come, I'll go an' spake to Frank M'Murt.''
"The sorra blame I blame him, Owen," replied Rosha, "his bread's
depindin' upon the likes of sich doins, an' he can't get over it; but a
word from you, Owen, will save me, for who ever refused to take the word
of a M'Carthy?"
When Owen and the widow arrived at the house of the latter, they found
the situation of the bailiff laughable in the extreme.
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