Barney has told me.

A Cork man, your husband, wasn't he?
A lazy, drunken, ill-natured rascal of a fellow." "That's him, your honour!" "Well, you're quit of him long since.

And, as your son's in New York, and all I have left of Barney is you -- --" "She doesn't hear you, Dennis." I interrupted him, because in his impetuosity he had not noticed that the wandering look had come back over the old woman's face, and that she sat down on the box, and fumbled among her pockets for Micky's letter, and then crouched weeping over it.
We stayed a long time with her, but she did not really revive.

With infinite patience and tenderness, Dennis knelt beside her, and listened to her ramblings about Micky, and Micky's hardships, and Micky's longings for home.

Once or twice, I think, she was on the point of telling about her savings, but she glanced uneasily round the room and forbore.