III

With his greeting of "Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Nolan!" Tim stowed the

widow's little bundle under his left arm.

"And good afternoon to you, sir; but you'll be sp'iling your fine

clothes, sir!"

"And if I do it's small loss." He gripped her right elbow. "It's the

hard walking it is, Mrs. Nolan--what with the wind and the steep hill

and an old lady of your age."

"Oh, yeh, it is--coming on to seventy-five."

"Seventy-five? And you still hopping about active as a grasshopper! A

great age that. 'Tis little, I'm afraid, many of us young ones will be

thinking of climbing steep hillsides when we're coming on to

seventy-five. 'Tis you was the active one in your young days, I'll

wager."

"'Tis me that was, sir; but oh, I'm not that now."

"It's sad it must be to be looking back on the bright dancin' days o'

youth, Mrs. Nolan."

"Sure and it is, sir; but why--the fine bouncin' lad ye are--why should

you be sayin' it?"

"Ah, sure, youth has its trials and tribulations too, ma'am, sometimes.

And is this your little place?"

"It is. An' will you come in, sir?"

"I will and thank ye kindly, ma'am. 'Tisn't every day a lady invites me

into her place."

"Whisht! There are ladies enough to be pleasant to a fine strappin' lad

like you, with nothing on earth to be botherin' you."

Tim laughed as he sat down.

"Nothing? Oh, ma'am----"

"And what is it can be worryin' you, sir?"

"What is it? Well, if you had my job, Mrs. Nolan, I'm thinkin' you'd be

worrying, too; even if 'twas big and strong and a man you were, and but

thirty years of age. I'm the Republican speaker, ma'am, that has been

sent to ye here. And for why? To convert ye, ma'am."

"And so you're a Republican, sir? Well, well--but, savin' your presence,

you don't look it or talk it. Sure, you're as Irish as myself!"

"I'm that Irish, ma'am, that if you were to take the Irish from out of

me it's faded and limp as a mornin'-glory at two in the afternoon I'd

be."

"And what's your name, may I ask?"

"Riley, ma'am. Timothy Joseph Riley, to be exact."

"Riley--Tim Riley! Well, you're the first Riley ever I knew was a

Republican. That thin-necked one in the bank, and that other one, the

fat-necked one in the real-estate place--sure, you don't favor them no

more than--Yet there must be good men Republicans, too. Will you have a

cuppeen o' tea? 'Tisn't much; but 'twill war-rm you, maybe, on the chill

day."

"Thank you; and 'twill taste fine--a cup o' tea on a chill day like

this. And like to be chiller, Mrs. Nolan."

"True for ye. And gen'rally I feels it; but not so to-day, sir. Mr.

Kearney gave me a dollar, sayin' it was from a stranger and I wasn't to

mention it--and I won't; but"--she shot a quick, warm glance at

Tim--"God guard the kind heart of him, whoever he is. To-morrow I'll be

orderin' some beautiful groceries with it. Tis a gran' sinsation to be

goin' into a store and orderin' things."

She stooped for her little bundle of fagots, but Tim forestalled her. He

undid them, arranged them craftily in the stove with rolls of old

newspaper beneath, and touched a match to the fire.

"There, ma'am."

"We'll have the little kittle b'ilin' in a minute now, sir."

"And what will you do against the cold winter comin', ma'am?"

"Oh, yeh! I'll do, no doubt, what I've done every winter since I come

here--live through it."

"With the cold wind coming through the wide cracks and the snow piling

high on the wintry mornings, it won't be the tightest place in the

world, ma'am."

"Thanks be to God I have it--the same little cabin!"

"Thank God you have! Whisht, ma'am"--- Tim laid a restraining hand on

hers as she spooned the tea out of the can--"you won't be leaving

yourself any at all."

"Sure, there's enough for the breakfast. And if we could always be sure

of our breakfast it's little we'd have to complain of. And now let me

get out my cups and saucers. I have two of each, thank God!"

"Let me, Mrs. Nolan--I see them."

"Well, well--but 'tis the spry lad ye are! Sure, you're across the floor

in one leap--like a stag just."

"Oh, sure; my legs are young. And one spoonful o' sugar is it, ma'am?"

"One--yes. And now sit down. And so it's a Republican ye are? And an

Irishman, too? Well, well--they do be queer happenin's in the world!"

"Queer enough. And from what part of Ireland are ye, ma'am?"

"Galway."

"A fine place, ma'am. I know it."

"Do ye now? But you're not Galway?"

"I wouldn't lie to ye, ma'am, though I'm tempted--I'm not; but I had an

uncle, as fine a man as ever lived, who died there. I went to see him

there once, and a grand time I had with salmon-fishin' in the loch and

fishin' with the Claddagh men in the bay--and on a Saturday night the

little boys singin' the old Irish songs in the streets and before Mrs.

Mack's hotel door. And was it in Galway the last of your people died?"

"It wasn't. And they didn't die--they were killed, God rest their

souls!"

"Amen!"

The sticks in the little stove crackled; the water in the little kettle

spluttered; a gaunt black cat crowded his way through the poorly

fastened door and rubbed himself against Tim's legs, whereat the widow

threw a stick of wood at him.

"Out o' that, you with your mud on you from the quarry pools sp'ilin'

the gentleman's fine clothes!"

"Small harm he'll do, ma'am."

"It's better manners he ought to be havin', though 'tis fine to see a

man like yourself hasn't too much conceit of his clothes. But now have

your tea, avic."

"I will. Ah-h! and the fine tea, it is, too. And isn't it a queer thing

now, Mrs. Nolan, that I can go to the finest hotels in the land and not

get the like o' this for tea? The finest of hotels--yes; and here in a

little cabin, with the wind blowing through the cracks, I'm havin' tea

that for its equal I'd have to go--well, to China itself, I'm thinking.

But tell me, Mrs. Nolan--it's as a friend I ask--what misfortune was it

brought you to be living in a little shebeen on this rocky hillside?"

The old woman made no response, except to add three or four little

sticks of wood from her pile to freshen the fire. It was still chilly

and outside it was windy, and Tim drew the man's worn coat about her

shoulders and made her sit closer to the fire. And by and by she told

him.

When she had done the twilight was on them and the fire long gone out.

Through the one little window of the cabin they could see the increasing

lights in the town below, and from the road they could hear the tramping

of heavy-booted men.

"They'll be hurrying home from the quarries now. And 'tis not a lonesome

home they will be finding."

"True, ma'am."

And Tim sat there smoking the last of the three cigars he had bought

that afternoon, and thinking--thinking--sometimes of the evening's work

before him, but mostly of the old woman's story.

"Oh, yeh; if it was but a stone I had to put on their two graves in the

cemetery below!" she said after a long silence.

"And why shouldn't you have the stone to put over them?" Tim jumped up

and patted her white, straggling hair. "And you will have it, Nanna.

Come with me to-night and I'll guarantee you'll have it."

"And where will I go?"

"With me and have a fine, hot supper at Kearney's--and then to the town

hall to hear me speak."

"Indeed and I'd like that fine, Mr. Riley; but they don't be invitin'

women--old women--to any rallies."

"Tis me is giving the rally, and I'll invite whom I please--I mean, if

you're not afraid of the rioting when they don't like, maybe, what I'm

going to say to them."

"Me afraid? Of what? Sure and they could be liftin' the roof itself from

the town hall and a lone woman like myself would be safe among them. But

why should you be wanting me there?"

"Why? I'll tell you, Nanna, and you must take it for the true reason

until I can give you a better. And who knows it isn't the true reason?

I'm that vain, Nanna, that I want some one soul there that isn't against

me--some one that, before ever I begin, I know will hear me out. If

you're there I know whose heart will be warm to me while I'm speaking.

For 'tis terrible discouraging to see nothing but cold faces staring up

from the benches and your heart bursting to tell them what's in it."

"Sure and it must be, avic. The cold heart--'tis an awful thing. A bony

black cat itself is more company in the house than one of ourselves when

the heart is ice. But whisper"--she leaned doubtfully toward him--"d'y'

think there'd be hope of you turnin' Dimicrat?"

"I'm afraid I'm fixed where I am. I'm not easily turned, Nanna."

"Oh, yeh! Well, well--in one minute, Timmie avic, I'll be along with

you."

And she dusted the hearth and gathered up her cups and saucers, which,

as she washed, Tim dried. And presently he was guiding her halting steps

down the hill.