“Whist a bit, while I light the lamp,” said Mary Margaret, raking the embers in a portable furnace so hurriedly together that the sparks flew all around her, “let the ould man slape his fill; he must be up and at work by six in the morning.” Catharine hardly drew her breath, for she was seized with terror lest the sleeping man should awake and resent her intrusion into his dwelling. “Sit down fornent the furnace, while I boil a sup of water for the tay,” whispered the hostess, kindling her tin lamp; “jist give Michael’s coat and hat a toss and take the chair yersel’; faix! ye look tired and white enough for anything.” Catharine sat down, for she was indeed quite exhausted, and relieved of the anxiety that had tortured her so long, she almost fell asleep while Mary Margaret made her tea, and cut the loaf which had been carefully put aside for the family breakfast. There was not much refinement in Mary Margaret’s method of serving up her meals; but she certainly made an effort to render things rather genteel than otherwise. A clean sheet, taken from a pile of clothes ready to be sent home, was folded twice and laid on the table for a cloth, and Mary brought forth an old china cup in an earthenware saucer, which she garnished with a pewter spoon, as an especial honor to her guest. As for herself, she sipped her portion of the “tay” daintily from a little tin cup that belonged to the youngest child. With all its drawbacks, this was a delicious meal to poor Catharine, and she partook of it with a sense of gratitude so full and gushing that it amounted almost to happiness. Two or three times she turned her eyes upon Mary Margaret and made an effort to thank her, but the words were lost in a glow of emotions, and she could only falter out,— “Oh, Mrs. Dillon, how I want to thank you for all this, but no human being ever was so poor, I have not even words.” She spoke with some energy, and before Mrs. Dillon could protest against all this waste of gratitude, which she was just attempting, a cry arose from the bed on one side of Dillon, which was echoed by a half-smothered response from under the blankets close by the wall. Catharine started to her feet. The faintest cry of an infant was enough to thrill every drop of blood in her veins. “Whose—whose child is that?” she inquired, breathlessly; “surely I heard _two_ voices!” “In course ye did, and why not?” said Margaret, with a baby under one arm, while she plunged about among the blankets for the little creature next the wall. “Come out here, little felly, and show yer blue eyes to the lady. Isn’t he a beauty, out and out?”