"Then don't--leave me here, I am from Salem--myself," whereupon
without any more warning she promptly fainted away on the trunk.

The situation was becoming embarrassing. The assemblage grew
larger, and a more interesting and sympathetic audience I never saw.
To an Irish crowd, always warm-hearted and kindly, willing to take
any trouble for friend or stranger, and with a positive terror of
loneliness, or separation from kith and kin, the helpless creature
appealed in every way. One and another joined the group with a
"Holy Biddy! what's this at all?"

"The saints presarve us, is it dyin' she is?"

"Look at the iligant duds she do be wearin'."

"Call the docthor, is it? God give you sinse! Sure the docthors is
only a flock of omadhauns."

"Is it your daughter she is, ma'am?" (This to Salemina.)

"She's from Ameriky, the poor mischancy crathur."

"Give her a toothful of whisky, your ladyship. Sure it's nayther
bite nor sup she's had the morn, and belike she's as impty as a
quarry-hole."

When this last expression from the mother of the long weak family
fell upon Salemina's cultured ears she looked desperate.