As Mrs. Dalton had occupied a good deal of time in unsuccessfully seeking for relief from other sources, it is unnecessary to say that the day had now considerably advanced, and the heavy shadows of this dismal and unhealthy evening had thrown their gloom over the aspect of all nature, to which they gave an appearance of desolation that was in painful keeping with the sickness and famine that so mercilessly scourged the kingdom at large.  A pot of water hung upon a dark slow fire, in order that as little time as possible might be lost in relieving their physical wants, on Mrs. Dalton’s return with the relief which they expected.

“Here’s my mother,” said one of her daughters, looking with a pale cheek and languid eye out of the door; for she, too, had been visited by the prevailing illness; “an’, my God! she’s comin’ as she went—­empty handed!”

The other sister and Con, her brother, went also to look out, and there she was, certainly without relief.

“She isn’t able to carry it herself,” said their father; “or maybe she’s comin’ to get one of you—­Con, I suppose—­to go for it.  Bad as Skinadre is, he wouldn’t have the heart to refuse us a lock o’ meal to keep the life in us.  Oh! no, he’d not do that.”

In a few moments Mrs. Dalton entered, and after looking upon the scene of misery about her, she sat down and burst into tears.  “Mother,” said the daughter, “there’s no relief, then?  You came as you went, I see.”

“I came as I went, Nanty; but there is relief.  There’s relief for the poor of this world in Heaven; but on this earth, an’ in this world, there is none for us—­glory be to the name of God, still.”

“So Skinadre refused, then?” said her husband; “he wouldn’t give the meal?”

“No,” she replied, “he would not; but the truth is, our woful’ state is now so well known, that nobody will trust us; they know there’s no chance of ever bein’ paid, an’ they all say they can’t afford it.”

“I’m not surprised at what Tom says,” observed our friend, young Con, “that the meal-mongers and strong farmers that keep the provisions up on the poor desarves to be smashed and tramped under foot; an’ indeed they’ll get it, too, before long, for the people can’t stand this, especially when one knows that there’s enough, ay, and more than enough, in the country.”

“If had tobacco,” said the old man, “I didn’t care—­that would keep the hunger off o’ me; but it’s poor Mary, here, now recoverin’ from the sickness, that I pity; don’t cry, Mary, dear; come here, darlin’, come here, and turn up that ould creel, and sit down beside me.  It’s useless to bid you not to cry, avourneen machree, bekaise we all know what you feel; but you have one comfort—­you are innocent—­so are you all—­there’s nothing on any of your minds—­no dark thought to lie upon your heart—­oh, no, no; an’ if it was only myself that was to suffer, I could bear it; but to see them that’s innocent sufferin’ along