“Troth, I dar’ say, you’re ill off—­as who isn’t in these times? an’ it’s worse they’re gettin’ an’ will be gettin’ every day.  Troth, I say, my heart bleeds for you; but we can’t dale; oh, no! butther, as I said, is only dirt now.”

“For God’s sake, thin,” exclaimed the alarmed creature, “take it for whatever you like.”

“It ’ud go hard wid me to see your poor family in a state of outther want,” he replied, “an’ it’s not in my nature to be harsh to a struggling person—–­so whether I lose or gain, I’ll allow you three-pence a pound for it.”

A shade of bitterness came across her features at this iniquitous proposal; but she felt the truth of that old adage in all its severity, that necessity has no law.

“God help us,” she exclaimed—­“threepence a pound for such butther as this!—­however, it’s the will of God sure, an’ it can’t be helped—­take it.”

“Ay, it’s aisy said, take it; but not to say what’ll I do wid it, when I have it; however, that’s the man I am, an’ I know how it’ll end wid me—­sarvin’ every one, workin’ for every one, an’ thinkin’ of every one but myself, an’ little thanks or gratitude for all—­I know I’m not fit for sich a world—­but still it’s a consolation to be doin’ good to our fellow-creatures when we can, an’ that’s what lightens my heart.”

A woman now entered, whose appearance excited general sympathy, as was evident from the subdued murmurs of compassion which were breathed from the persons assembled, as soon as she entered the room.  There was something about her which, in spite of her thin and worn dress, intimated a consciousness of a position either then or at some previous time, above that of the common description of farmer’s wives.  No one could mistake her for a highly-educated woman—­but there was in her appearance that decency of manner resulting from habits of independence and from moral feeling, which at a first glance, whether it be accompanied by superior dress or not, indicates something which is felt to entitle its proprietor to unquestionable respect.  The miser, when she entered, had been putting away the dish of butter into the outshot we have mentioned, so that he had not yet an opportunity of seeing her, and, ere he returned to the scales, another female possessing probably not less interest to the reader, presented herself—­this was Mave or Mabel, the young and beautiful daughter of the pious and hospitable Jerry Sullivan.

Skinadre on perceiving the matron who preceded her, paused for a moment, and looked at her with a wince in his thin features that might be taken for an indication of either pleasure or pain.  He’ closed the sympathetic eye, and wiped it—­but this not seeming to satisfy him, he then closed both, and blew his nose with a little skeleton mealy handkerchief that lay on a sack beside him for that purpose.

“Hem—­a-hem! why, thin, Mrs. Dalton, it isn’t to my poor place I expected you would come.”