He felt her trembling, and went on again, quickly, "It's not I that
should go away, Mary. It's yourself. You hate the place--it's terrible
for you to have to live here. Have you never thought of going away?"

She did not answer at once, and when she did the excitement was gone
from her voice; it was flat and dull with despair. "'Tis no use to think
of me. There's nothin' I can do--there's nothin' any girl can do when
she's poor. I've tried--but 'tis like bein' up against a stone wall. I
can't even save the money to get on a train with! I've tried it--I been
savin' for two years--and how much d'ye think I got, Joe? Seven dollars!
Seven dollars in two years! No--ye can't save money in a place where
there's so many things that wring the heart. Ye may hate them for being
cowards--but ye must help when ye see a man killed, and his family
turned out without a roof to cover them in the winter-time!"

"You're too tender-hearted, Mary."

"No, 'tis not that! Should I go off and leave me own brother and sister,
that need me?"

"But you could earn money and send it to them."

"I earn a little here--I do cleanin' and nursin' for some that need me."

"But outside--couldn't you earn more?"

"I could get a job in a restaurant for seven or eight a week, but I'd
have to spend more, and what I sent home would not go so far, with me
away. Or I could get a job in some other woman's home, and work fourteen
hours a day for it. But, Joe, 'tis not more drudgery I want, 'tis