“Shure, Mal’chi Nol’n, ye know it yersilf--shtep up here, Jamesy, an’ make yer t’anks to ’im. Th’ laad’s a bit bashful, ye must excuse ’im, sor, he’s th’ best b’y ever lived, though it’s mesilf says it p’hat oughtn’t to.” The boy still hung back, but the old woman hitching up the shawl that was shamelessly revealing the moth-eaten waist she wore, plucked him by the sleeve, and dragged him to the rail that separated them from Malachi. The boy jerked away from his mother’s grasp, yet lifted his unsteady eyes for an instant to blurt out: “Well, I’m much obliged, see?” And then, as if ashamed of so much politeness, he hung his head and squeezed the toe of his shoe between the spokes of the railing. The old woman folded her arms in the shawl and gazed on him with a fond smile that showed the few loose, yellow teeth that always wobbled in their gums when she spoke. Presently she turned to Malachi again: “Ye mustn’t think haard o’ him, Misther Nol’n, he’s a bit back’ard shp’akin’ to th’ loikes o’ ye, ye moind, but he’s a good b’y, an’ he’d never got into throuble if it hadn’t been for this bad comp’ny he be’s dhragged into. Shure, he niver shtays out later’n tin o’clock o’ noights widout tellin’ me p’here he’s been. This afthernoon Oi was shcrubbin’ awaay all alone, an’ who should come in all o’ a suddint but him, bless th’ b’y, an’ saay, ‘Ma,’ he says, ‘Alderman Nol’n got me a paardon an’ Oi--’” “That’s all right, Misthress McGlone--” “An’ God’ll bless ye, sor,” the old woman broke in, unable to restrain the flood of tears that filled her filmy eyes and zigzagged down her cheeks. She cried softly a moment, then suddenly looked up in a crafty, cunning way. “They’s wan thing, Misther Nol’n,” she said, “some wan was so good,” she looked all about to make sure that none was within hearing, and lowered her voice to a rough whisper, “as to sind me a ton o’ coal in a pushcaart th’ day. Oi wonder now who could that be?” The alderman raised his heavy face with fine innocence. “Where did it come from?” he asked. “Misther Degnan’s yaards,” the woman answered. “Thin I suppose’t was Degnan himsilf sint it.” “Aw, there now!” the old woman cried, with the triumph of a vindicated prophet. “Oi knowed ye’d saay that, Oi knowed ye’d saay that--but, shure Oi think’t was yersilf done it.” “L’ave off, l’ave off, now,” said Malachi almost roughly, “’tis no place, do ye mind, fer a woman, an’ no place fer th’ laad.” He gave the boy a penetrating glance that made the shifting eyes fall suddenly. “An’ ’tis late--did ye come down on th’ caar?” The old woman’s tears running down her cheeks had left stains in the wrinkles, and she began plucking at something under her shawl. Presently she drew forth a handkerchief folded in a soft little white square, fresh and clean from the iron, and shaking it out she dabbed at her weak old eyes and wiped away the tear stains. Her voice was a whisper again.