"Ye've got to fight the divil wid fire," said Mary.
Diana made no reply. She sat sipping her tea, her expression one of troubled sadness, but she was not thinking of those who would take her property from her nor of their unfair methods. Mary Donovan was moving about the room tidying up.
Diana set her empty cup upon the rickety center table which supported an oil lamp, a bible, a red plush photograph album and a gilded conch shell, and sighed. Mrs. Donovan glanced at her out of the corner of her eye and guessed shrewdly that there was something more than New Yorkers troubling her. Presently she came and stood in front of the girl.
"What is it, mavourneen?" she asked. "Be after tellin' Mary Donovan."
Diana rose, half turned her head away and bit her lower lip in an effort to hide or sup
