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"Always—indeed, always!" says Mona, with tears in her eyes; after which, with a last miserable glance, he strides away, and is lost to sight among the trees. This old woman, by hard work and sacrifice, had managed to rear the boys. She tanned robes for the hunters, made them moccasins worked with porcupine quills, and did everything she could to get a little food or worn out robes and hide, from which she made clothes for her boys. They never had new, brightly painted calf robes, like other children. They went barefoot in summer, and in winter their toes often showed through the worn out skin of their moccasins. They had no flesh. Their ribs could be counted beneath the skin; their cheeks were hollow; they looked always hungry. "It can't be much," says Geoffrey, who, to confess the truth, is by this time feeling a little sick and faint. "I never knew I was touched till now. Come, let us get back to the farm.".

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"But what was the subject of it?" "Eh, but this is bad news!" says old Scully, evidently terrified and disheartened by his niece's words. "Where will it all end? Come in, Misther Rodney: let me look at ye, boy. No, not a word out of ye now till ye taste something. 'Tis in bits ye are; an' a good coat it was this mornin'. There's the whiskey, Mona, agra, an' there's the wather. Oh! the black villain! Let me examine ye, me son. Why, there's blood on ye! Oh! the murthering thief!" Whereat the boy smiles and grins consumedly, as though charmed with his companion's metaphor, though in reality he understands it not at all. "What a dismal view you take of my trip! Perhaps, in spite of your forebodings, I shall enjoy myself down to the ground, and weep copiously on leaving Irish soil.".