h! Why, thin, since I must spake, an' has no other frind to go
to--but somehow I doubt Owen looks dark upon me--sure I'd put my hand to
a stamp, if my word wouldn't do for it, an' sign the blessed crass that
saved us, for the payment of it; or I'd give it to him in oats, for I
hear you want some, Owen--Phatie oates it is, an' a betther shouldhered
or fuller-lookin' grain never went undher a harrow--indeed it's it
that's the beauty, all out, if it's good seed you want."

"What is it for, woman alive?" inquired Owen, as he kicked a
three-legged stool out of his way."

"What is it for, is it? Och, Owen darlin', sure my two brave cows is
lavin' me. Owen M'Murt, the driver, is over wid me beyant, an' has them
ready to set off wid. I reared them both, the two of them, wid my own
hands; _Cheehoney_, that knows my voice, an' would come to me from the
fardest corner o' the field, an' nothin' will we have--nothin' will my
poor sick boy have--but the black wather, or the dhry salt; besides the
butther of them being lost to us for rent, or a small taste of it, of an
odd time, for poor Jimmy. Owen, next to God, I have no friend to depind
upon but yourself!"

"Me!" said Owen, as if astonished. "Phoo, that's quare enough! Now do
you think, Rosha,--hut, hut, woman alive! Come, boys, you're all done;
out wid you to your spades, an' finish that _meerin_ (* a marsh ditch, a
boundary) before night. Me!--hut, tut!"

"I have it all but five pounds, Owen, an' for the sake of him that's in
his grave--an' that, maybe, is able to put up his prayer for you"--

"An' what would you want me to do, Rosha? Fitther for you to sit down
an' finish your dinner, when it's before you. I'm goin' to get an ould
glove that's somewhere about this chist, for I must weed out that bit
of oats before night, wid a blessin'," and, as he spoke he passed into
another room, as if he had altogether forgotten her solicitation, and in
a few minutes returned.

"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