“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 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?”