“Somethin' bitther an' out o' the common coorse, is a throuble to you, Rosha,” said she, “or you wouldn't be in the state you're in. The Lord look down on you this day, you poor crathur--widout the father of your childhre to stand up for you, an' your only other depindance laid on the broad of his back, all as one as a cripple; but no matther, Rosha; trust to Him that can be a husband to you an' a father to your orphans--trust to Him, an' his blessed mother in heaven, this day, an' never fear but they'll rise up a frind for you. Musha, Owen, ate your dinner as you ought to do, wid your capers! How can you take a spade in your hand upon that morsel?” “Finish your own,” said her husband, “an' never heed me; jist let me alone. Don't you see that if I wanted it, I'd ate it, an' what more would you have about!” “Well, acushla, it's your own loss, sure, of a sartinty. An' Rosha, whisper, ahagur, what can Owen or I do for you? Throth, it would be a bad day we'd see you at a _deshort_ * for a friend, for you never wor nothin' else nor a civil, oblagin' neighbor yourself; an' him that's gone before--the Lord make his bed in heaven this day--was as good a warrant as ever broke bread, to sarve a friend, if it was at the hour of midnight.” * That is at a loss; or more properly speaking, taken short, which it means. “Ah! when I had him!” exclaimed the distracted widow, “I never had occasion to trouble aither friend or neighbor; but he s gone an' now it's otherwise wid me--glory be to God for all his mercies--a wurrah dheelish! 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!”