Glory be to the name
o' God for it!"
"Throth, I believe you," replied the farmer's wife; "there's thruth an'
honesty in your face; one may easily see the remains of dacency about
you all. Musha, throw your little things aside, an' stay where ye are
today: you can't bring out the childre under the teem of rain an' sleet
that's in it. Wurrah dheelish, but it's the bitther day all out! Faix,
Paddy will get a dhrookin, so he will, at that weary fair wid the
stirks, poor bouchal--a son of ours that's gone to Bally-boulteen to
sell some cattle, an' he'll not be worth three hapuns afore he comes
back. I hope he'll have sinse to go into some house, when he's done,
an' dhry himself well, anyhow, besides takin' somethin' to keep out the
could. Put by your things, an' don't, think of goin' out sich a day."
"We thank you," replied Owen. "Indeed we're glad to stay undher your
roof; for poor things, they're badly able to thravel sich a day--these
childre."
"Musha, ye ate no breakfast, maybe?" Owen and his family were silent.
The children looked wistfully at their parents, anxious that they should
confirm what the good woman surmised; the father looked again at his
famished brood and his sinking wife, and nature overcame him.
"Food did not crass our lips this day," replied Owen; "an' I may say
hardly anything yestherday."
"Oh, blessed mother! Here, Katty Murray, drop scrubbin' that dresser,
an' put down, the midlin' pot for stirabout.
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