“Where _can_ I go?—what will become of me?” she murmured, looking around with affright. “Will no one have pity on me?” That moment a woman passed her carrying a basket of clothes on her arm. “She is going home,” said Catharine, gazing after her through the blinding tears that filled her eyes. “Did you speak to me, ma’am?” inquired the woman, turning back at the sound of her voice. A faint cry broke from the poor girl, and seizing the woman joyfully by the arm, she called out. “Oh, is it you?—is it you?” Mary Margaret Dillon sat down her basket in utter astonishment, and seizing the hand that detained her, shook it heartily. “Well, if this isn’t something, innyhow; me jist thinking of ye, and here ye are to the fore; but ye’re looking white as me apron yet, bad luck to the doctors—come by, and let us have a word of talk togither.” “Will you let me go with you?” inquired Catharine, anxiously, for she had been so often and so cruelly rebuffed that this kindness scarcely seemed real. “Will I let ye go with me, bless ye’re sowl; that’s a question to put to a Christian woman, now, isn’t it? In course I’ll let ye go with me; why not?” “But I have no home, nor a cent to pay for—for—everybody has abandoned me—I haven’t a friend in the wide world.” “Hist, now, that’s talkin’ traison and rank hathenism. Where d’ye think is Mary Margaret Dillon, with her strong hands and a shanty over her head which no one else has a right to, baring a triflin’ claim on the lot o’ ground. Isn’t that a home for ye, I’d like to know?” “But I shall be trouble—I shall crowd you,” faltered Catharine, trembling with anxiety to have her objections overruled. “Did ye ever see a poor man’s house so full that one more couldn’t find a corner to rest in—faix, if ye did, it wasn’t in the cabin of an out-and-out Irishman,” said Margaret, lifting her basket of clothes and settling herself for a walk. “Come along; I want ye to see the childer, bliss’em, and the old mon, to say nothin’ of the pig and three geese, that’ll be proud as anythin’ to have ye for company.” “Thank you—oh, thank you with all my heart. I will go; perhaps I can do something to pay for the trouble,” said Catharine, to whom this vision of a home seemed like a glimpse of paradise; and folding her shawl about her, she prepared to move on with a feeling almost of cheerfulness, certainly of intense gratitude. “No trouble in life,” answered Margaret, briskly. “The old man and the childer’ll just resave ye as if ye was one of ’em. Come along, come along, and we’ll have a taste of supper and a drop of tae as a remimbrance of this matein atween old friends, d’ye see?” “Let me help with your basket.” “No, no, jist be aisy there; ye’re not strong enough for that, and faix it’s a sin and a shame that sich a dilicate young crathur should iver be put to the work; home or not, my opinion is ye’re a born lady, and that I’ll stick to agin the world.”