“It’s some of Docthor Porther’s boys, that’s been gettin’ themselves shipwracked on the other side,” said O’Rafferty, “and haven’t had a bite to ate for two days, savin’ an’ exceptin’ a bit of cowld lobster, which isn’t aisy aitin’. An’ however they got ashore on there, widout oars, bates me intirely,--widout countin’ that thim same has been workin’ like slaves a day or more, on impty stomachs, buildin’ a camp and carryin’ fire-wood, which is hard enough work to kill a man, let alone boys like these. And so stir yer stumps, Molly avick, and bring out praties an’ bacon, the best ye have, and a drawin’ of tay, an’ chayse, an’ bread and butter. It’s starvin’ they all are intoirely, or me name’s not Dinny O’Rafferty.” “Ah, thin,” cried the old woman, “the saints stand betune us and harrum. What’s that ye’r sayin’, Dinny O’Rafferty? Is it shipwracked ye wer’, thin, ye darlin’s of the wurruld? Sure it’s not much an owld woman like me can do for the likes of ye; but I’ll give ye the best I’ve got, so I will. Sure an’.it’s starvin’ ye must be, if ye’ve had nothin’ to ate for so long.” Nothing could exceed the kindness and warmth of welcome which O’Rafferty and his wife gave the boys. The old woman bustled about, and kindled a fire, and put on the pot and kettle, and laid the table, occasionally stopping to look at the boys, one after the other, with a peculiar fondness of expression and a low, crooning noise, such as nurses make over children. “Sure it’s like a breath of fresh air to a captive in a dungeon to look at your swate faces,” she cried. “Niver a boy’s face have I seen since the dark day when my own boy took his swate face from me eyes foriver. An’ that was fifteen year ago. An’ we came here, an’ lived here ever since.” The old woman gave a long sigh, and sitting down, she held her head in her hands, rocking herself to and fro. “Ah, well,” she said, getting up and going out to the barn, “it’s not much longer to live we have thin.” “Fifteen years,” said O’Raflerty, as his wife went out. “It’s fifteen years since we lost the boy. We lived in Parrsboro, an’ had as nice a house and farm as the likes of us could ever wish for. But whin we lost him, we lost all heart for the place. The old woman wud have died if she had staid; an’ so I bought this bit of a place, an’ what with farmin’ an’ fishin’ we manage to grub along, though it’s seldom or niver that we see anybody but our own two selves. Well, well; wud ye like to look at the place?” he continued, rising. “It isn’t much of a place; but it’s not long we have to live, and it’ll do for us.”