V.
One night the agent was sitting alone in his large, half-furnished
house. Mary Moynahan, his housekeeper, had gone up to the church.
There was a timid knock at the door.
There were two persons waiting, a short, thick-set man and a pale
woman with dark, bright eyes who was nearly a head taller than her
companion.
"Come in, Ellen; I'm glad to see you," said the agent. "Have you got
your wheel-barrow, Mike?" Almost all the would-be planters of the
field had come under cover of darkness and contrived if possible to
avoid each other.
"'Tisn't the potatoes we're after asking, sir," said Ellen. She was
always spokeswoman, for Mike had an impediment in his speech. "The
childher come up yisterday and got them while you'd be down at the
counting-room. 'Twas Mary Moynahan saw to them. We do be very thankful
to you, sir, for your kindness."
"Come in," said the agent, seeing there was something of consequence
to be said. Ellen Carroll and he had worked side by side many a long
day when they were young. She had been a noble wife to Mike, whose
poor fortunes she had gladly shared for sake of his good heart, though
Mike now and then paid too much respect to his often infirmities.
There was a slight flavor of whisky now on the evening air, but it was
a serious thing to put on your Sunday coat and go up with your wife to
see the agent.
"We've come wanting to talk about any chances there might be with the
mill," ventured Ellen timidly, as she stood in the lighted room; then
she looked at Mike for reassurance.
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