Sweet water, pure milk, potatoes and bread, were the things he coveted in plenty for his people and himself, he said, calling forth an echo from Mrs.Lackstraw, and an invitation to come down to her farm in the Spring.

'That is, Mr.
O'Donnell, if you are still in London.' 'Oh, I'm bound apprentice for a year,' said he.
He was asked whether he did not find it tiresome work.
'A trifle so,' he confessed.
Then why did he pursue it, the question was put.
He was not alive for his own pleasure, and would like to feel he was doing a bit of good, was the answer.
Could one, Mrs.Lackstraw asked herself, have faith in this young Irishman?
He possessed an estate.

His brogue rather added to his air of truthfulness.

His easy manners and the occasional streak of correct French in his dialogue cast a shadow on it.

Yet he might be an ingenuous creature precisely because of the suspicion roused by his quaint unworldliness that he might be a terrible actor.