"Your Aunt Jane told me that you had seventeen shillings and sixpence a
week.--Take my advice and live on the south side--two rooms easily and
most salubrious."
The young man coughed guardedly, he had received a rise of wages since
that information passed, but candour belongs to childhood, and one must
live these frailties down--
"Seventeen and six isn't very much, of course," said he, "but I am
young and strong----"
"It's more than I had," said his host, "when I was your age. Hello,
there's the post!"
Mrs. O'Reilly went to the door and returned instantly with a letter in
her hand. She presented it to her husband--
"It's addressed to you, O'Reilly," said she plaintively. "Maybe it's a
bill, but God's good and maybe it's a cheque."
Her husband nodded at the company and tore his letter open. He read
it, and, at once as it appeared, he went mad, he raved, he stuttered,
now slapping the letter with his forefinger and, anon, shaking his fist
at his wife--
"Here's your daughter, ma'm," he stammered. "Here's your daughter, I
say."
"Where?" cried the amazed lady. "What is it, O'Reilly?" She arose
hastily and rolled towards him.