We could help him, perhaps," Sheila insisted.
The mother shook her head mournfully.
"My child, we could do him no good at all--none whatever.

Besides, I can't afford to visit Dublin now.

It's an expensive journey, and the repairs we've been doing here have run me close." A look of indignation, almost of scorn, came into the girl's face.
"Well, if I were being tried for my life, as Dyck Calhoun is going to be, and if I knew that friends of mine were standing off because of a few pounds, shillings, and pence, I think I'd be a real murderer!" The mother took her daughter's hand.

She found it cold.
"My dear," she said, clasping it gently, "you never saw him but three times, and I've never seen him but twice except in the distance; but I would do anything in my power to help him, if I could, for I like him.
The thing for us to do--" "Yes, I know--sit here, twist our thumbs, and do nothing!" "What more could we do if we went to Dublin, except listen to gossip, read the papers and be jarred every moment?
My dear, our best place is here.

If the spending of money could be of any use to him, I'd spend it--indeed I would; but since it can't be of any use, we must stay in our own home.