And then Mrs. Maccabe, a powerful, formidable matron, in a large black bonnet, would seize an ox tail, kept for the purpose, and lay about her vigorously among the listening, sniggering street urchins, whilst Mrs. Redmond would stalk back majestically to her bath-chair--and subsequently send a pencilled order for a sheep’s head. Mrs. Maccabe was an authority in the town; even her grown-up married sons quailed before her tongue and her ox tail, and Maria Finny (herself a fearless speaker) stood in respectful awe of the butcher’s widow. “One day,” to quote that championess, who related the story with virtuous complacency, “she made a holy show of Miss Finny before the whole street.” Maria, on frugal thoughts intent, had stepped in to remonstrate about a bit of gristle which she produced carefully wrapped in paper. “Av course, I know that to please _some_ people bastes must be made without skin, and sinews and bone. Weigh it, Sam!” shouted Mrs. Maccabe to her son. “_One_ ounce. Cut Miss Maria an ounce of mate!” “There, miss,” solemnly presenting it in paper, “I daresay it will serve you for a dinner.” Maria flung the packet into the middle of the street, and followed it in a fury, whilst her opponent placed her hands upon her fat sides and shook with wheezy laughter. The widow had her good points, of course, or she would have had but few customers, on whom to sharpen her terrible tongue. Indeed her poorer patrons did not care a straw for her abuse, and paid her honestly in her own coin, with ruthless and ready answers. She was most charitable in secret, and many a fine chop and steak, and many a strong bowl of broth, was given away _quite_ on the sly. She was long-suffering to those who were really badly off, a devout Catholic, and a liberal contributor to her own Church: besides this, her meat was prime--unsurpassed in the whole province--and no better judge of a beast ever stood in a fair than Bridget Maccabe. As the poor innocent animals passed unconsciously before her, she could tell to a pound how they would cut up! Her purchases were young, healthy, and well-fed; she scorned to deal in tough old, milch cows, and skinny strippers, and boasted that no second-class joint ever hung beneath the sign of “B. Maccabe and Sons.” During the days in which George Holroyd had developed so brisk an acquaintance with Noone, he had never once come across Betty Redmond. She was not kept out of his way in the upper or lower regions (as might be suspected), in case her claims to attention should clash with those of her cousin. Oh dear, no! Belle had no sincerer admirer. Betty was her willing drudge: she sewed for her, brought her breakfast in bed, and ran her errands with alacrity, Belle accepting these services with smiling thanks, and honeyed speeches. Her cheap fascinations secured for her a devoted attendant, and saved her a lady’s-maid.