"Let him, and wilcome. Shure wouldn't I say as much to Barry Lynch
himself? What do I care for the blagguard?--only this, I wish I'd niver
heard his name, or seen his foot over the sill of the door. I'm sorry I
iver heard the name of the Lynches in Dunmore."

"You're not regretting the throuble Anty is to you, mother?"

"Regretting? I don't know what you mane by regretting. I don't know is
it regretting to be slaving as much and more for her than I would for
my own, and no chance of getting as much as thanks for it."

"You'll be rewarded hereafther, mother; shure won't it all go for
charity?"

"I'm not so shure of that," said the widow. "It was your schaming to
get her money brought her here, and, like a poor wake woman, as I was,
I fell into it; and now we've all the throuble and the expinse, and the
time lost, and afther all, Barry'll be getting everything when she's
gone. You'll see, Martin; we'll have the wake, and the funeral, and the
docthor and all, on us--mind my words else. Och musha, musha! what'll
I do at all? Faix, forty pounds won't clear what this turn is like to
come to; an' all from your dirthy undherhand schaming ways."

In truth, the widow was perplexed in her inmost soul about Anty; torn
and tortured by doubts and anxieties. Her real love of Anty and true
charity was in state of battle with her parsimony; and then, avarice
was strong within her; and utter, uncontrolled hatred of Barry still
stronger. But, opposed to these was dread of some unforeseen evil--some
tremendous law proceedings: she had a half-formed idea that she was