"Aw, Misther Nol'n," she began, "it's been a haard winther on the poor, an' Oi've had to save th' pinnies, shure they're scarce enough, an' th' laad with no job an' me a poor widow woman. God forgive me"—her voice sank still lower, and into the whisper came a hard, rebellious note—"but some noights Oi've gone without me supper—"
"But why didn't ye tell?" asked Malachi, looking up in concern.
"Oi'd die first!" she whispered hoarsely, while her wet eyes blazed. "It'll niver be said Oi'm a beggar, an' Oi wouldn't have tould anny wan but you, sor"—she gave him a coaxing smile through her tears, and bent her head to one side in a way that seemed to recall her girlhood—"an' maybe, sor, ye'd not saay annything 'bout it—there's a good man, now. Oi've kep' up th' insurance an' there'll be enough to give me a dacent bur'al whin Oi die. Ye'll excuse me fer"—she stretched a hand from the shawl and touched him on the shoulder—"fer runnin' on loike this, but Oi couldn't shlape th' noight till Oi'd come down to thank ye—God bless ye, sor, Oi'll pray fer ye every noight. We'll be goin' now." She took a step toward the
