“Why thin, you lost crathur, who or what are you at all?—­don’t, don’t—­for the sake of all the saints and angels of heaven, don’t come next or near me—­keep your distance—­but what are you, or how did you come to get that ‘good thing’ you carry about wid you?”

“Ay, indeed!” replied the woman bitterly, “as if I would or could tell you that!  I say, you woman, you’re doing what’s not right in asking me a question you ought not let to cross your lips—­look to yourself, and what’s over you.”

The simple woman, thinking her meaning literal, almost leaped off her seat with terror, and turned up her eyes to ascertain whether or not any dreadful appearance had approached her, or hung over her where she sat.

“Woman,” said she, “I spoke you kind an’ fair, an’ I wish you well—­but”—­

“But what?” replied the other—­and her eyes kindled into deep and profound excitement, apparently upon very slight grounds.

“Why—­hem—­nothin’ at all sure, only”—­

“Only what?” asked the stranger, with a face of anguish that seemed to torture every feature out of its proper lineaments.

“Dacent woman,” said Mrs. Sullivan, whilst the hair began to stand with terror upon her head, “sure it’s no wondher in life that I’m in a perplexity, whin a Lianhan Shee is undher the one roof wid me.  ’Tisn’t that I want to know anything’ at all about it—­the dear forbid I should; but I never hard of a person bein’ tormented wid it as you are.  I always used to hear the people say that it thrated its friends well.”

“Husht!” said the woman, looking wildly over her shoulder, “I’ll not tell:  it’s on myself I’ll leave the blame!  Why, will you never pity me?  Am I to be night and day tormented?  Oh, you’re wicked an’ cruel for no reason!”

“Thry,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “an’ bless yourself; call on God.”

“Ah!” shouted the other, “are you going to get me killed?” and as she uttered the words, a spasmodic working which must have occasioned great pain, even to torture, became audible in her throat:  her bosom heaved up and down, and her head was bent repeatedly on her breast, as if by force.

“Don’t mention that name,” said she, “in my presence, except you mean to drive me to utter distraction.  I mean,” she continued, after a considerable effort to recover her former tone and manner—­“hear me with attention—­I mean, woman—­you, Mary Sullivan—­that if you mention that holy name, you might as well keep plunging sharp knives into my heart!  Husht! peace to me for one minute, tormentor!  Spare me something, I’m in your power!”

“Will you ate anything?” said Mrs. Sullivan; “poor crathur, you look like hunger an’ distress; there’s enough in the house, blessed be them that sent it! an’ you had betther thry an’ take some nourishment, any way;” and she raised her eyes in a silent prayer of relief and ease for the unhappy woman, whose unhallowed association had, in her opinion, sealed her doom.