"What do you suppose he'll do, Mr. Jolly? — McGowan, I mean."

"I expect he'll do what the law 'll let him, Mr. Ringgan; I
don't know what 'll hinder him."

"It's a worse turn than I thought my infirmities would ever
play me," said the old gentleman after a short pause — "first
to lose the property altogether, and then not to be permitted
to wear out what is left of life in the old place — there wont
be much."

"So I told him, Mr. Ringgan. I put it to him. Says I, 'Mr.
McGowan, it's a cruel hard business; there ain't a man in town
that wouldn't leave Mr. Ringgan the shelter of his own roof as
long as he wants any, and think it a pleasure, if the rent was
anyhow.' "

"Well — well!" said the old gentleman, with a mixture of
dignity and bitterness, — "it doesn't much matter. My head
will find a shelter somehow, above ground or under it. — The
Lord will provide. — Whey! stand still, can't ye! What ails
the fool? The creature's seen years enough to be steady," he
added, with a miserable attempt at his usual cheerful laugh.

Fleda had turned away her head and tried not to hear when the
lowered tones of the speakers seemed to say that she was one
too many in the company. But she could not help catching a few
bits of the conversation, and a few bits were generally enough
for Fleda's wit to work upon; she had a singular knack at
putting loose ends of talk together. If more had been wanting,