“Very true, very true. I have often felt this when addressed by individuals who—who claim help here. Sometimes one is forced to bring the duty of respect before them in forcible language; but it is sure to come, sometimes in silent homage, sometimes in tears, sometimes with sullen discontent; but it’s sure to come, before a dollar is paid out from the funds of this institution.” “Well,” said Mary Margaret, innocently; “if yer ladyship buys up respect by the dollar’s worth, I’m just the person that’ll sell bushel-baskets full at a time, especially regarding yer honor’s ladyship, for I’m brimming over with reverence for ye, from the crown of yer head to the sowl of yer foot, and ye’re welcome to it all; only give this poor young crathur a helpen’ hand into the wide, wide world again. It isn’t for the likes of her to be kept in a shanty like ours, anyhow.” Even this singular blending of irony and blarney had its effect upon the Lady-Bountiful, who had learned to feed her voracious vanity with husks as well as grain. She smiled sublime condescension on the buxom Irish woman, and gave her hands an extra twirl, stretching her neck and rustling her dress like a heron pluming itself. “You seem a very sensible woman. Such warmth of piety does you credit,” she said. “It is persons like you, strong and healthy, ready to work in return for our charity, and to feel the depth of the benefit conferred, that our Society rejoices in helping. How many children have you, my good woman?” Mary Margaret gave the number of her children, finishing with a burst of maternal eulogium on the health and beauty of the youngest-born. “Then,” she continued, “there is the little charity baby, just as good as my own, that’s got a face like an angel’s, and eats like a hathen. Arrah, but that’s the boy for ye, with his soft, sunshiny hair, and eyes like the bluest robin’s egg; to say nothing of the old man, who wins mate and drink for us all, when there’s work to be had.” “Then you did not come for help?” “Not on me own account, yer ladyship’s reverence, if I may call ye so on account of the beauty and holiness that’s in ye. There is potaties growin’ in the bit of garden, and a pig at the back door, that’ll keep the hunger out yet a while; but this sweet young crathur, if yer reverential piety will just turn itself on her!” “So many children, and a husband without work! that is a hard case,” persisted the Lady-Bountiful brimming over with gratified vanity, which she solemnly believed to be an outburst of charity,—“something must be done for you. Wait a moment.” The lady arose, opened a store-room adjoining her parlor, and after some research, drew forth a pair of heavy, woollen stockings, which some blessed old farmer’s wife had sent down to the city in a donation of old clothes, firm in the belief that her little mite would work out a miracle of redemption somewhere among the reprobates of a great city.