“Poor people like the Kellys!” shouted the widow, now for the first time really angry with Daly—­“not so poor, Mr Daly, as to do dirthy work for anyone.  I wish I could say as much this day for your mother’s son!  Poor people, indeed!  I suppose, now, you wouldn’t call Barry Lynch one of your poor people; but in my mind he’s the poorest crature living this day in county Galway.  Av’ you’ve done now, Mr Daly, you’ve my lave to be walking; and the less you let the poor Kellys see of you, from this time out, the betther.”

When Anty’s sobs commenced, Martin had gone over to her to comfort her, “Ah, Anty, dear,” he whispered to her, “shure you’d not be minding what such a fellow as he’d be saying to you?—­shure he’s jist paid for all this—­he’s only sent here by Barry to thry and frighten you,”—­but it was of no avail:  Daly had succeeded at any rate in making her miserable, and it was past the power of Martin’s eloquence to undo what the attorney had done.

“Well, Mr Daly,” he said, turning round sharply, “I suppose you have done here now, and the sooner you turn your back on this place the betther—­An’ you may take this along with you.  Av’ you think you’ve frightened my mother or me, you’re very much mistaken.”

“Yes,” said Daly, “I have done now, and I am sorry my business has been so unpleasant.  Your mother, Martin, had betther not disregard that notice.  Good morning, Miss Lynch:  good morning, Mrs Kelly; good morning, Martin;” and Daly took up his hat, and left the room.

“Good morning to you, Mr Daly,” said Martin:  “as I’ve said before, I’m sorry to see you’ve taken to this line of business.”

As soon as the attorney was gone, both Martin and his mother attempted to console and re-assure poor Anty, but they did not find the task an easy one.  “Oh, Mrs Kelly,” she said, as soon as she was able to say anything, “I’m sorry I iver come here, I am:  I’m sorry I iver set my foot in the house!”

“Don’t say so, Anty, dear,” said the widow.  “What’d you be sorry for—­an’t it the best place for you?”

“Oh! but to think that I’d bring all these throubles on you!  Betther be up there, and bear it all, than bring you and yours into law, and sorrow, and expense.  Only I couldn’t find the words in my throat to say it, I’d ’ve tould the man that I’d ’ve gone back at once.  I wish I had—­indeed, Mrs Kelly, I wish I had.”

“Why, Anty,” said Martin, “you an’t fool enough to believe what Daly’s been saying?  Shure all he’s afther is to frighthen you out of this.  Never fear:  Barry can’t hurt us a halfporth, though no doubt he’s willing enough, av’ he had the way.”

“I wish I was in a convent, this moment,” said Anty.  “Oh!  I wish I’d done as father asked me long since.  Av’ the walls of a convent was around me, I’d niver know what throubles was.”

“No more you shan’t now,” said Martin:  “Who’s to hurt you?  Come, Anty, look up; there’s nothing in all this to vex you.”