“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 doing what she had no right to do, and that she might some day be walked off to Galway assizes.  Then again, she had an absurd pride about it, which often made her declare that she’d never be beat by such a “scum of the ’arth” as Barry Lynch, and that she’d fight it out with him if it cost her a hundred pounds; though no one understood what the battle was which she was to fight.

Just before Anty’s illness had become so serious, Daly called, and had succeeded in reconciling both Martin and the widow to himself; but he had not quite made them agree to his proposal.  The widow, indeed, was much averse to it.  She wouldn’t deal with such a Greek as Barry, even in the acceptance of a boon.  When she found him willing to compromise, she became more than ever averse to any friendly terms; but now the whole ground was slipping from under her feet.  Anty was dying:  she would have had her trouble for nothing; and that hated Barry would gain his point, and the whole of his sister’s property, in triumph.

Twenty times the idea of a will had come into her mind, and how comfortable it would be if Anty would leave her property, or at any rate a portion of it, to Martin.  But though the thoughts of such a delightful arrangement kept her in a continual whirlwind of anxiety, she never hinted at the subject to Anty.  As she said to herself, “a Kelly wouldn’t demane herself to ask a brass penny from a Lynch.”  She didn’t even speak to her daughters about it, though the continual twitter she was in made them aware that there was some unusual burthen on her mind.