“Aw, Misther Nol’n,” she began, “it’s been a haard winther on the poor, an’ Oi’ve had to save th’ pinnies, shure they’re scarce enough, an’ th’ laad with no job an’ me a poor widow woman. God forgive me”--her voice sank still lower, and into the whisper came a hard, rebellious note--“but some noights Oi’ve gone without me supper--” “But why didn’t ye tell?” asked Malachi, looking up in concern. “Oi’d die first!” she whispered hoarsely, while her wet eyes blazed. “It’ll niver be said Oi’m a beggar, an’ Oi wouldn’t have tould anny wan but you, sor”--she gave him a coaxing smile through her tears, and bent her head to one side in a way that seemed to recall her girlhood--“an’ maybe, sor, ye’d not saay annything ’bout it--there’s a good man, now. Oi’ve kep’ up th’ insurance an’ there’ll be enough to give me a dacent bur’al whin Oi die. Ye’ll excuse me fer”--she stretched a hand from the shawl and touched him on the shoulder--“fer runnin’ on loike this, but Oi couldn’t shlape th’ noight till Oi’d come down to thank ye--God bless ye, sor, Oi’ll pray fer ye every noight. We’ll be goin’ now.” She took a step toward the door, but turned back again, with that pleading inclination of the head, that smile, showing her long, wabbling teeth. “Ye must excuse me, sor,” she said, “fer throublin’ ye so, but ye’re a koind, saft-hearted man--ye couldn’t git th’ laad a job now--shure Oi know ye couldn’t--he’s an hones’ b’y an’ a willin’ worker, sor, whin he can git annything to do--ye must excuse me, sor.” Malachi was deeply chagrined. He actually got up and peeped again around the corner of the partition, and then said hastily, so as to close a painful and scandalous incident: “Let th’ b’y come down an’ see me in th’ marnin’, ma’am, an’ here’s a bit o’ caar fare fer ye. Do ye go now an’ take th’ caar home. ’Tis a long waays fer ye to walk, ye niver ought a done it.” The old woman objected at first, but finally consented to accept the coin on the basis of a loan, and then, blessing him again and again, courtesied herself in an old-fashioned, rheumatic way out of the door. And then Malachi tilted up his glass and drained the last drop. The toddy had grown quite cold. The law of moral reaction sent the gang home early that evening, and by ten o’clock it was plain that the day’s work was done. Malachi had the bartender help him on with the frieze overcoat, and was adjusting his hat to a skull that still was sore, when the door opened. Malachi turned with a scowl, when the draft struck him, and saw Sullivan, the ward committeeman, and Brennan, Malachi’s political residuary legatee. Brennan’s eyes were sparkling merrily, his red face was round with laughter, and he came in with a breeze like the March day.