“Bekaise, achora, it wasn’t agreeable to me to do so.  I’m beginnin’ to got ould an’ stiff, an’ its time for me to take care of myself.”

“Stiffer may you be, then, soon, an’ oulder may you never be, an’ that’s the best I wish you!”

“Aren’t you afeard to talk to me in that way?” said the elder of the two.

“No—­not a bit.  You won’t flake me now as you used to do.  I am able an’ willin’ to give blow for blow at last, thank goodness; an’ will, too, if ever you thry that thrick.”

The old woman gazed at her angrily, and appeared for a moment to meditate an assault.  After a pause, however, during which the brief but vehement expression of rising fury passed from her countenance, and her face assumed an expression more of compassion than of anger, she simply said, in a calm tone of voice—­

“I don’t know that I ought to blame you so much for your temper, Sarah.  The darkness of your father’s sowl is upon yours; his wicked spirit is in you, an’ may Heaven above grant that you’ll never carry about with you, through this unhappy life, the black an’ heavy burden that weighs down his heart!  If God hasn’t said it, you have his coorse, or something nearly as bad, before you.  Oh! go to the wake as soon as you like, an’ to the dance, too.  Find some one that’ll take you off of my hands; that’ll put a house over your head—­give you a bit to ait, an’ a rag to put on you; an’ may God pity him that’s doomed to get you!  If the woeful state of the country, an’ the hunger an’ sickness that’s abroad, an’ that’s comin’ harder an’ faster on us every day, can’t tame you or keep you down, I dunna what will.  I’m sure the black an’ terrible summer we’ve had ought to make you think of how we’ll get over all that’s before us!  God pity you, I say again, an’ whatever poor man is to be cursed wid you!”

“Keep your pity for them that wants it,” replied the other, “an’ that’s not me.  As for God’s pity, it isn’t yours to give, and even if it was, you stand in need of it yourself more than I do.  You’re beginning to praich to us now that you’re not able to bait us; but for your praichments an’ your baitins, may the divil pay you for all alike!—­as he will—­an’ that’s my prayer.”

A momentary gush of the step-mother’s habitual passion overcame her; she darted at her step-daughter, who sprung to her limbs, and flew at her in return.  The conflict at first was brief, for the powerful strength of the elder female soon told.  Sarah, however, quickly disengaged herself, and seizing an old knife which lay on a shell that served as a dresser, she made a stab at the very heart of her step-mother, panting as she did it with an exulting vehemence of vengeance that resembled the growlings which a savage beast makes when springing on its prey.

“Ha!” she exclaimed, “you have it now—­you have it!  Call on God’s pity now, for you’ll soon want it.  Ha! ha!”