Apart from the lament of the wind, there was silence in the gloomy kitchen. Cassie ’Connor, looked across at the silent figure of her mother Ellen, huddled over the dying embers of the fire. 
    "Will I get more sticks?" she asked. Her mother nodded. Cassie didn’t really expect her to answer; in fact she hadn’t spoken since her father drowned three weeks earlier.
    She emerged from the low doorway, and hastily glanced at the little huddled houses, showing stark against the bright blue sky. She was small and skinny for her ten years, with a shock of unkempt black curling hair, and a small pinched face making her round green eyes look too big, giving her a haunted appearance.
    She climbed up the slope to the whin hill, and began breaking off the dead thorny branches. When she had broken off an armful, she straightened her back, and looked out towards the ocean. The sun was dropping on the far horizon; it’s last beams making a blood-red pathway across the turbulent Atlantic waters. The pangs of hunger made her stagger, as she bent down to pick up the sticks. The stormy sea meant that the fishing boats wouldn’t be out, and that meant no fish. She went to the port on calm evenings in the hope that one of the fishermen would take pity on her, and give her a couple of herring, or whatever was spare. And they mostly did. But unless Johnny Molly brought them some milk, she would have to go to bed with the pains of hunger again. Cassie recalled that she had been hungry since her father died. When the potatoes failed, he had to give up his job as a teacher, and become a fisherman. The fish he caught kept them fed; until three weeks ago. The memory of him came to her now clearly; strong, safe arms reaching towards her in a thankful grasp. She saw his laughing green eyes, so much like her own, and the strong gentle reassurance that made her ache with love for him. But the memory always slid away when she tried to catch it.
    She stumbled back down the hill, with her burden of sticks, held by skinny, scratched, and blood stained arms. As she rounded the gable of the house, she saw the two horses. A man in a red coated uniform stood silently between them holding the reins. Dropping the sticks at her feet, she stood watching, her face, as pale as death, mirroring the terror in her soul. She could hear a man’s loud voice coming from within. She ran inside, distraught. "Please, don’t put us out...please," she added, in a near whisper. He turned around to face her, and heaved a deep sigh. 
    "I have a job to do. If you pay the back rent you can stay."
    "We have no money. My father’s dead, and we’re famished," her small voice trailed away. Going over closer to where Ellen sat, he looked down at her for a while in silence.
    "If you’re hungry now, then there’s no chance of you surviving the winter. Go to the workhouse. That’s all’s for you."
Ellen stared at the dead fire without comment, her pale thin face, and tragic eyes making her seem barely alive. It was a sight to appeal to the better instincts of any man, but this was not permitted to sway John Brown, in pursuit of what he called his duty. Then swinging around to Cassie again, he asked, "why won’t she speak, for God’s sake. I haven’t all day to stand around here."
    "She hasn’t spoke a word since my Daddy was drowned."
    "Look, either you go to the workhouse, or you pay the rent."
    "No we won’t. We won’t," cried Cassie in a half sob.
From the door he turned again to face her, before adding, "you have one week from now."
When he had gone, Cassie slumped down to the floor, and listened to the sound of the horse’s hooves fade into the distance. She sat there rocking to and fro, with strange small sounds, coming from her throat.