Off darted the little girl, much to Mr. Price’s gratification; and much to Larry’s joy. After getting the gentleman snugly to bed, he received a dollar for his evening’s services, with a request to call in the morning and assist him to rise. But the morning found Mr. Price, although able to rise, in so much pain that there was no hope of proceeding on his journey; he, therefore, after securing Larry’s services during those intervals allotted to the labourers at the forge, quietly settled it in his mind that here he must remain until the ankle recovered its strength. Mrs. M’Curdy was gentle, neat and attentive; anticipating his wants, and only wishing that more was to be done. But Mr. Price was neither troublesome nor ungracious, and before the dinner hour approached she wondered how so good-natured a gentleman could dislike children. “To be sure,” said she, finishing her thoughts aloud, “Larry’s little ones are very noisy, and not over clean, and poor Jemmy’s are still worse than noisy; for they are rude and mischievous. But Norah is not like other children, sir, and she knows a world of stories, your honour, if it is stories out of books would amuse you. Sure will you try and coax the little creature in to sit by you a bit, till I come back from the grocer; and if she tires you, just let her go when Larry comes in.” “Well, send her in,” said Mr. Price, “and let me hear her little stories. I will promise to get rid of her when she becomes troublesome.” “Then your honour will want to keep her for ever at your side, for Norah is never troublesome. She is an orphan, your honour, and that, as your honour knows, is a child without father or mother; although in Philadelphia they have found out, it is said, that an orphan means a child with one parent. But little Norah’s mother died broken-hearted because her husband left her and married another woman. She had too much feeling for her little girl to prosecute him; so she bore it all and died. Since that time her husband is dead; but I keep it all to myself, not letting his hard-hearted family know of little Norah. Indeed, I have kept purposely from knowing where they now are; for out of pride, like, they would take her away from me, and put her to some grand boarding-school; for, from what I could learn from him, they are rich.” The grandmother brought in the blushing little girl, almost by force, to the gentleman’s arm-chair; but on his stroking her hair, and speaking tenderly, she, by degrees, began to look up and cast side glances at him; and, finally, on his asking her to hand him a glass of water, she shook back her curly locks, and, with the movement, threw off part of her fright. “Well, you are no longer afraid of me, Norah; you have a little chair there, I see; bring it here, and sit by me till your grandmother comes back. How old are you?”