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           Hiswifesatbythefireandwept,withherfaceinherhands;hiseldestsonwascroucheduponthefloor,runningoveragreatmassofpapersandnowandagainsettingonealightandburningittothebitterend;allthewhileaservantlasswitharedfacewasrummagingabouttheroom,inablindhurryoffear,andwhimperingasshewent;andeverynowandagainoneofthemenwouldthrustinhisfacefromtheyard,andcryfororders.

           AtlastJamescouldkeephisseatnolonger,andbeggedmypermissiontobesounmannerlyaswalkabout.“Iambutpoorcompanyaltogether,sir,”sayshe,“butIcanthinkofnothingbutthisdreadfulaccident,andthetroubleitisliketobringuponquiteinnocentpersons.”

           Alittleafterheobservedhissonburningapaperwhichhethoughtshouldhavebeenkept;andatthathisexcitementburstoutsothatitwaspainfultowitness.Hestrucktheladrepeatedly.

           “Areyougonegyte?”hecried.“Doyouwishtohangyourfather?”andforgetfulofmypresence,carriedonathimalongtimetogetherintheGaelic,theyoungmanansweringnothing;onlythewife,atthenameofhanging,throwingherapronoverherfaceandsobbingoutlouderthanbefore.

           Thiswasallwretchedforastrangerlikemyselftohearandsee;andIwasrightgladwhenAlanreturned,lookinglikehimselfinhisfineFrenchclothes,though(tobesure)theywerenowgrownalmosttoobatteredandwitheredtodeservethenameoffine.