“Finish your own,” said her husband, “an’ never heed me; jist let me alone.  Don’t you see that if I wanted it, I’d ate it, an’ what more would you have about!”

“Well, acushla, it’s your own loss, sure, of a sartinty.  An’ Rosha, whisper, ahagur, what can Owen or I do for you?  Throth, it would be a bad day we’d see you at a deshort * for a friend, for you never wor nothin’ else nor a civil, oblagin’ neighbor yourself; an’ him that’s gone before—­the Lord make his bed in heaven this day—­was as good a warrant as ever broke bread, to sarve a friend, if it was at the hour of midnight.”

     * That is at a loss; or more properly speaking, taken
     short, which it means.

“Ah! when I had him!” exclaimed the distracted widow, “I never had occasion to trouble aither friend or neighbor; but he s gone an’ now it’s otherwise wid me—­glory be to God for all his mercies—­a wurrah dheelish!  Why, thin, since I must spake, an’ has no other frind to go to—­but somehow I doubt Owen looks dark upon me—­sure I’d put my hand to a stamp, if my word wouldn’t do for it, an’ sign the blessed crass that saved us, for the payment of it; or I’d give it to him in oats, for I hear you want some, Owen—­Phatie oates it is, an’ a betther shouldhered or fuller-lookin’ grain never went undher a harrow—­indeed it’s it that’s the beauty, all out, if it’s good seed you want.”

“What is it for, woman alive?” inquired Owen, as he kicked a three-legged stool out of his way.”

“What is it for, is it?  Och, Owen darlin’, sure my two brave cows is lavin’ me.  Owen M’Murt, the driver, is over wid me beyant, an’ has them ready to set off wid.  I reared them both, the two of them, wid my own hands; Cheehoney, that knows my voice, an’ would come to me from the fardest corner o’ the field, an’ nothin’ will we have—­nothin’ will my poor sick boy have—­but the black wather, or the dhry salt; besides the butther of them being lost to us for rent, or a small taste of it, of an odd time, for poor Jimmy.  Owen, next to God, I have no friend to depind upon but yourself!”

“Me!” said Owen, as if astonished.  “Phoo, that’s quare enough!  Now do you think, Rosha,—­hut, hut, woman alive!  Come, boys, you’re all done; out wid you to your spades, an’ finish that meerin (* a marsh ditch, a boundary) before night.  Me!—­hut, tut!”

“I have it all but five pounds, Owen, an’ for the sake of him that’s in his grave—­an’ that, maybe, is able to put up his prayer for you”—­

“An’ what would you want me to do, Rosha?  Fitther for you to sit down an’ finish your dinner, when it’s before you.  I’m goin’ to get an ould glove that’s somewhere about this chist, for I must weed out that bit of oats before night, wid a blessin’,” and, as he spoke he passed into another room, as if he had altogether forgotten her solicitation, and in a few minutes returned.

“Owen, avick!—­an’ the blessin’ of the fatherless be upon you, sure, an’ many a one o’ them you have, any how, Owen!”