Why don't you rise up, man alive," she added, turning to him, "and let her hear how much of the divil's lingo you can give ?--It's hard, if you can't prophesy as much evil as she can.

Shake yourself, ruffle your feathers, or clap your wings three times, in the divil's name, an' tell her she'll be hanged; or, if you wish to soften it, say she'll go to Heaven in a string.

Ha, ha, ha!" At this moment, a poor, famine-struck looking woman, with three or four children, the very pictures of starvation and misery, came to the door, and, in that voice of terrible destitution, which rings feeble and hollow from an empty and exhausted frame, she implored them for some food.
"We haven't it for you, honest woman," said Nelly, in her cold, indifferent voice--"it's not for you now." The hope of relief was nearly destroyed by the unfeeling tones of the voice in which she was answered.

She looked, however, at her famishing children, and once more returned to the door, after having gone a few steps from it.
"Oh, what will become of these ?" she added, pointing to the children.

"I don't care about myself--I think my cares will soon be over." "Go to the divil out o' that!" shouted the prophet--"don't be tormentin' us wid yourself and your brats." "Didn't you hear already," repeated his wife, "that you got your answer?
We're poor ourselves, and we can't help every one that comes to us.