I.

"Where's Nora?"

The speaker was a small, serious-looking old Irishman, one of those

Patricks who are almost never called Pat. He was well-dressed and

formal, and wore an air of dignified authority.

"I don't know meself where's Nora then, so I don't," answered his

companion. "The shild would n't stop for a sup o' breakfast before she

'd go out to see the town, an' nobody 's seen the l'aste smitch of her

since. I might sweep the streets wit' a broom and I could n't find

her."

"Maybe she's strayed beyand and gone losing in the strange place,"

suggested Mr. Quin, with an anxious glance. "Did n't none o' the folks

go wit' her?"

"How would annybody be goin' an' she up an' away before there was a

foot out o' bed in the house?" answered Mike Duffy impatiently. "'T

was herself that caught sight of Nora stealin' out o' the door like a

thief, an' meself getting me best sleep at the time. Herself had to

sit up an' laugh in the bed and be plaguin' me wit' her tarkin'. 'Look

at Nora!' says she. 'Where's Nora?' says I, wit' a great start. I

thought something had happened the poor shild. 'Oh, go to slape, you

fool!' says Mary Ann. ''T is only four o'clock,' says she, 'an' that

grasshopper greenhorn can't wait for broad day till she go out an' see

the whole of Ameriky.' So I wint off to sleep again; the first bell

was biginnin' on the mill, and I had an hour an' a piece, good, to

meself after that before Mary Ann come scoldin'. I don't be sleepin'

so well as some folks the first part of the night."

Mr. Patrick Quin ignored the interest of this autobiographical

statement, and with a contemptuous shake of the head began to feel in

his pocket for a pipe. Every one knew that Mike Duffy was a person

much too fond of his ease, and that all the credit of their prosperity

belonged to his hard-worked wife. She had reared a family of

respectable sons and daughters, who were all settled and doing well for

themselves, and now she was helping to bring out some nephews and

nieces from the old country. She was proud to have been born a Quin;

Patrick Quin was her brother and a man of consequence.

"'Deed, I 'd like well to see the poor shild," said Patrick. "I'd no

thought they 'd land before the day or to-morrow mornin', or I 'd have

been over last night. I suppose she brought all the news from home?"

"The folks is all well, thanks be to God," proclaimed Mr. Duffy

solemnly. "'T was late when she come; 't was on the quarter to nine

she got here. There 's been great deaths after the winther among the

old folks. Old Peter Murphy's gone, she says, an' his brother that

lived over by Ballycannon died the same week with him, and Dan Donahoe

an' Corny Donahoe's lost their old aunt on the twelfth of March, that

gave them her farm to take care of her before I came out. She was old

then, too."

"Faix, it was time for the old lady, so it was," said Patrick Quin,

with affectionate interest. "She 'd be the oldest in the parish this

tin years past."

"Nora said 't was a fine funeral; they 'd three priests to her, and

everything of the best. Nora was there herself and all our folks. The

b'ys was very proud of her for being so old and respicted."

"Sure, Mary was an old woman, and I first coming out," repeated

Patrick, with feeling. "I went up to her that Monday night, and I

sailing on a Wednesday, an' she gave me her blessing and a present of

five shillings. She said then she 'd see me no more; 't was poor old

Mary had the giving hand, God bless her and save her! I joked her that

she 'd soon be marrying and coming out to Ameriky like meself. 'No,'

says she, 'I 'm too old. I 'll die here where I was born; this old

farm is me one home o' the world, and I 'll never be afther l'avin' it;

't is right enough for you young folks to go,' says she. I could n't

get my mouth open to answer her. 'T was meself that was very homesick

in me inside, coming away from the old place, but I had great boldness

before every one. 'T was old Mary saw the tears in me eyes then.

'Don't mind, Patsy,' says she; 'if you don't do well there, come back

to it an' I 'll be glad to take your folks in till you 'll be afther

getting started again.' She had n't the money then she got afterward

from her cousin in Dublin; 't was the kind heart of her spoke, an'

meself being but a boy that was young to maintain himself, let alone a

family. Thanks be to God, I 've done well, afther all, but for me

crooked leg. I does be dr'amin' of going home sometimes; 't is often

yet I wake up wit' the smell o' the wet bushes in the mornin' when a

man does be goin' to his work at home."

Mike Duffy looked at his brother-in-law with curiosity; the two men

were sitting side by side before Mike's house on a bit of green bank

between the sidewalk and the road. It was May, and the dandelions were

blooming all about them, thick in the grass. Patrick Quin readied out

and touched one of them with his stick. He was a lame man, and had

worked as section hand for the railroad for many years, until the bad

accident which forced him to retire on one of the company's rarely

given pensions. He had prevented a great disaster on the road; those

who knew him well always said that his position had never been equal to

his ability, but the men who stood above him and the men who were below

him held Patrick Quin at exactly the same estimate. He had limped

along the road from the clean-looking little yellow house that he owned

not far away on the river-bank, and his mind was upon his errand.

"I come over early to ask the shild would n't she come home wit' me an'

ate her dinner," said Patrick. "Herself sent me; she's got a great

wash the day, last week being so rainy, an' we niver got word of Nora

being here till this morning, and then everybody had it that passed by,

wondering what got us last night that we were n't there."

"'T was on the quarter to nine she come," said Uncle Mike, taking up

the narrative with importance. "Herself an' me had blown out the

light, going to bed, when there come a scuttlin' at the door and I

heard a bit of a laugh like the first bird in the morning"--

"'Stop where you are, Bridget,' says I," continued Mr. Quin, without

taking any notice, "'an' I 'll take me third leg and walk over and

bring Nora down to you.' Bridget's great for the news from home now,

for all she was so sharp to be l'aving it."

"She brought me a fine present, and the mate of it for yourself," said

Mike Duffy. "Two good thorn sticks for the two of us. They 're inside

in the house."

"A thorn stick, indeed! Did she now?" exclaimed Patrick, with unusual

delight. "The poor shild, did she do that now? I 've thought manny 's

the time since I got me lameness how well I 'd like one o' those

old-fashioned thorn sticks. Me own is one o' them sticks a man 'd

carry tin years and toss it into a brook at the ind an' not miss it."

"They 're good thorn sticks, the both of them," said Mike complacently.

"I don't know 'ill I bring 'em out before she comes."

"Is she a pritty slip of a gerrl, I d' know?" asked Patrick, with

increased interest.

"She ain't, then," answered his companion frankly. "She does be thin

as a young grasshopper, and she 's red-headed, and she 's freckled,

too, from the sea, like all them young things comin' over; but she 's

got a pritty voice, like all her mother's folks, and a quick eye like a

bird's. The old-country talk's fresh in her mouth, too, so it is; you

'd think you were coming out o' mass some spring morning at home and

hearing all the girls whin they'd be chatting and funning at the boys.

I do be thinking she's a smart little girl, annyway; look at her off to

see the town so early and not back yet, bad manners to her! She 'll be

wanting some clothes, I suppose; she's very old-fashioned looking; they

does always be wanting new clothes, coming out," and Mike gave an

ostentatious sigh and suggestive glance at his brother-in-law.

"'Deed, I 'm willing to help her get a good start; ain't she me own

sister's shild?" agreed Patrick Quin cheerfully. "We 've been young

ourselves, too. Well, then, 'tis bad news of old Mary Donahoe bein'

gone at the farm. I always thought if I 'd go home how I 'd go along

the fields to get the great welcome from her. She was one that always

liked to hear folks had done well," and he looked down at his

comfortable, clean old clothes as if they but reminded him how poor a

young fellow he had come away. "I 'm very sorry afther Mary; she was a

good 'oman, God save her!"

"Faix, it was time for her," insisted Mike, not without sympathy.

"Were you afther wanting her to live forever, the poor soul? An' the

shild said she 'd the best funeral was ever in the parish of Dunkenny

since she remimbered it. What could anny one ask more than that, and

she r'aching such an age, the cr'atur'! Stop here awhile an' you 'll

hear all the tark from Nora; she told over to me all the folks that was

there. Where has she gone wit' herself, I don't know? Mary Ann!" he

turned his head toward the house and called in a loud, complaining

tone; "where's Nora, annyway?"

"Here's Nora, then," a sweet girlish voice made unexpected reply, and a

light young figure flitted from the sidewalk behind him and stood lower

down on the green bank.

"What's wanting wit' Nora?" and she stooped quickly like a child to

pick some of the dandelions as if she had found gold. She had a sprig

of wild-cherry blossom in her dress, which she must have found a good

way out in the country.

"Come now, and speak to Patrick Quin, your mother's own brother, that's

waiting here for you all this time you 've been running over the

place," commanded Mr. Duffy, with some severity.

"An' is it me own Uncle Patsy, dear?" exclaimed Nora, with the sweetest

brogue and most affectionate sincerity. "Oh, that me mother could see

him too!" and she dropped on her knees beside the lame little man and

kissed him, and knelt there looking at him with delight, holding his

willing hand in both her own.

"An' ain't you got me mother's own looks, too? Oh, Uncle Patsy, is it

yourself, dear? I often heard about you, and I brought you me mother's

heart's love, 'deed I did then! It's many a lovely present of a pound

you 've sent us. An' I 've got a thorn stick that grew in the hedge,

goin' up the little rise of ground above the Wishin' Brook, sir; mother

said you 'd mind the place well when I told you."

"I do then, me shild," said Patrick Quin, with dignity; "'tis manny the

day we all played there together, for all we 're so scattered now and

some dead, too, God rest them! Sure, you 're a nice little gerrl, an'

I give you great welcome and the hope you 'll do well. Come along wit'

me now. Your Aunty Biddy's jealous to put her two eyes on you, an' we

never getting the news you 'd come till late this morning. 'I 'll go

fetch Nora for you,' says I, to contint her. 'They 'll be tarked out

at Duffy's by this time,' says I."

"Oh, I 'm full o' tark yet!" protested Nora gayly. "Coom on, then,

Uncle Patsy!" and she gave him her strong young hand as he rose.

"An' how do you be likin' Ameriky?" asked the pleased old man, as they

walked along.

"I like Ameriky fine," answered the girl gravely. She was taller than

he, though she looked so slender and so young. "I was very

downhearted, too, l'avin' home and me mother, but I 'll go back to it

some day, God willing, sir; I could n't die wit'out seeing me mother

again. I 'm all over the place here since daybreak. I think I 'd like

work best on the railway," and she turned toward him with a resolved

and serious look.

"Wisha! there 's no work at all for a girl like you on the Road," said

Uncle Patsy patiently. "You 've a bit to learn yet, sure; 't is the

mill you mane."

"There 'll be plinty work to do. I always thought at home, when I

heard the folks tarking, that I 'd get work on the railway when I 'd

come to Ameriky. Yis, indeed, sir!" continued Nora earnestly. "I was

looking at the mills just now, and I heard the great n'ise from them.

I 'd never be afther shutting meself up in anny mill out of the good

air. I 've no call to go to jail yet in thim mill walls. Perhaps

there 'd be somebody working next me that I 'd never get to like, sir."

There was something so convinced and decided about these arguments that

Uncle Patsy, usually the calm autocrat of his young relatives, had

nothing whatever to say. Nora was gently keeping step with his slow

gait. She had won his heart once for all when she called him by the

old boyish name her mother used forty years before, when they played

together by the Wishing Brook.

"I wonder do you know a b'y named Johnny O'Callahan?" inquired Nora

presently, in a somewhat confidential tone; "a pritty b'y that's

working on the railway; I seen him last night and I coming here; he

ain't a guard at all, but a young fellow that minds the brakes. We

stopped a long while out there; somethin' got off the rails, and he

adwised wit' me, seeing I was a stranger. He said he knew you, sir."

"Oh, yes, Johnny O'Callahan. I know him well; he 's a nice b'y, too,"

answered Patrick Quin approvingly.

"Yis, sir, a pritty b'y," said Nora, and her color brightened for an

instant, but she said no more.