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Updated: June 11, 2025
Musha, Owen, ate your dinner as you ought to do, wid your capers! How can you take a spade in your hand upon that morsel?" "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?
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! 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?
"Faix, the accounts that's abroad, sir, about the gintleman from Dublin, that's so full of larnin', your reverance, and so rich, they say." "Then it was the mere accounts that wrought this change in you?" "Dhamnu orth a Rosha, go dhe shin dher thu?" said the husband in Irish; for he felt that the wife was more explicit than was necessary.
"Arrah, what harm did the crathur do," asked his wife, "that you'd kick her for, that way? an' why but you ate out your dinner?" "I'm done," he replied, "but that's no rason that Rosha, an' you, an' thim boys that has the work afore them, shouldn't finish your male's mate."
Little hopes I'd have from him, even if I did; he's paid for gatherin' in his rents; but it's well known he wants the touch of nathur for the sufferins of the poor, an' of them that's honest in their intintions." "I'll go over wid you, Rosha, if that will be of any use," replied Owen, composedly; "come, I'll go an' spake to Frank M'Murt.
"Somethin' bitther an' out o' the common coorse, is a throuble to you, Rosha," said she, "or you wouldn't be in the state you're in.
Rosha, put your cloak about you, and let us go down to the agint, or clerk, or whatsomever he is sure, that makes no maxin anyhow; I suppose he has power to give a resate. Jemmy, go to bed again, you're pale, poor bouchal; and, childhre, ye crathurs ye, the cows won't be taken from ye this bout. Come, in the name of God, let us go, and see-everything rightified at once hut, tut come."
Owen only nodded to her, and continued to eat his dinner, as if he felt no interest in her distress. Rosha sat down at a distance, and with the corner of a red handkerchief to her eyes, shed tears in that bitterness of feeling which marks the helplessness of honest industry under the pressure of calamity. "In the name o' goodness, Rosha," said Mrs. M'Carthy, "what ails you, asthore?
However, I know what he's exterminatin' for; he wants you to marry Kathleen Cavanagh." "Ay do I, Rosha; and she might make him a respectable man yet, that is, if any woman could." "Geological again, mother; well, really now, Katsey Cavanagh is a splendid girl, a fine animal, no doubt of it; all her points are good, but, at the same time, Mr. Burke, a trifle too plebeian for Hycy the accomplished."
Owen sat at dinner with his family when she entered the house in tears, and, as well as her agitation of mind permitted, gave him a detailed account of her embarrassment. "The blessin' o' God be upon all here," said she, on entering. "The double o' that to you, Rosha," replied Owen's wife: "won't you sit in an' be atin'? here's a sate beside Nanny; come over, Rosha."
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