V.

It was many and many a long month after this that an old man and a

young woman and a baby were journeying in a side-car along one of the

smooth Irish roads into County Kerry. They had left the railroad an

hour before; they had landed early that morning at the Cove of Cork.

The side-car was laden deep with bundles and boxes, but the old horse

trotted briskly along until the gossoon who was driving turned into a

cart-track that led through a furzy piece of wild pasture-ground up

toward the dark rain-clouded hills.

"See, over there's Kinmare!" said the old man, looking back. "Manny 's

the day I 've trudged it and home again. Oh, I know all this country;

I knew it well whin ayther of you wa'n't born!"

"God be thanked, you did, sir!" responded the gossoon, with fervent

admiration. He was a pleasant-looking lad in a ragged old coat and an

absolutely roofless hat, through which his bright hair waved in the

summer wind. "Och, but the folks 'll be looking out of all the doors

to see you come. I 'll be afther saying I never drove anny party with

so rich a heart; there ain't a poor soul that asked a pinny of us since

we left Bantry but she's got the shillin'. Look a' the flock coming

now, sir, out of that house. There's the four-legged lady that pays

the rint watchin' afther them from the door, too. They think you 're a

gintleman that's shootin', I suppose. 'T is Tom Flaherty's house, poor

crathur; he died last winter, God rest him; 'twas very inconvanient for

him an' every one at the time, wit' snow on the ground and a great dale

of sickness and distress. Father Daley, poor man, had to go to the

hospital in Dublin wit' himself to get a leg cut off, and we 'd nothing

but rain out of the sky afther that till all the stones in the road was

floatin' to the top."

"Son of old John Flaherty, I suppose?" asked the traveler, with a

knowing air, after he had given the eager children some pennies and

gingerbread, out of a great package. One of the older girls knew Nora

and climbed to the spare seat at her side to join the company. "Son of

old John Flaherty, I suppose, that was there before? There was

Flahertys there and I l'aving home more than thirty-five years ago."

"Sure there 's plinty Flahertys in it now, glory be to God!" answered

the charioteer, with enthusiasm. "I 'd have no mother meself but for

the Flahertys." He leaped down to lead the stumbling horse past a deep

rut and some loose stones, and beckoned the little girl sternly from

her proud seat. "Run home, now!" he said, as she obeyed: "I 'll give

you a fine drive an' I coming down the hill;" but she had joined the

travelers with full intent, and trotted gayly alongside like a little

dog.

The old passenger whispered to his companion that they 'd best double

the gossoon's money, or warm it with two, or three shillings extra, at

least, and Nora nodded her prompt approval. "The old folks are all

getting away; we 'd best give a bitteen to the young ones they 've left

afther them," said Uncle Patsy, by way of excuse. "Och, there's more

beggars between here and Queenstown than you 'd find in the whole of

Ameriky."

It seemed to Nora as if her purseful of money were warm against her

breast, like another heart; the sixpences in her pocket all felt warm

to her fingers and hopped by themselves into the pleading hands that

were stretched out all along the way. The sweet clamor of the Irish

voices, the ready blessings, the frank requests to those returning from

America with their fortunes made, were all delightful to her ears. How

she had dreamed of this day, and how the sun and shadows were chasing

each other over these upland fields at last! How close the blue sea

looked to the dark hills! It seemed as if the return of one prosperous

child gave joy to the whole landscape. It was the old country the same

as ever,--old Mother Ireland in her green gown, and the warm heart of

her ready and unforgetting. As for Nora, she could only leave a wake

of silver six-pences behind her, and when these were done, a duller

trail of ha'pennies; and the air was full of blessings as she passed

along the road to Dunkenny.

By this time Nora had stopped talking and laughing. At first everybody

on the road seemed like her near relation, but the last minutes seemed

like hours, and now and then a tear went shining down her cheek. The

old man's lips were moving,--he was saying a prayer without knowing it;

they were almost within sight of home. The poor little white houses,

with their high gable-ends and weather-beaten thatch, that stood about

the fields among the green hedges; the light shower that suddenly fell

out of the clear sky overhead, made an old man's heart tremble in his

breast. Round the next slope of the hill they should see the old place.

The wheel-track stopped where you turned off to go to the Donahoe farm,

but no old Mary was there to give friendly welcome. The old man got

stiffly down from the side-car and limped past the gate with a sigh;

but Nora hurried ahead, carrying the big baby, not because he could n't

walk, but because he could. The young son had inherited his mother's

active disposition, and would run straight away like a spider the

minute his feet were set to the ground. Now and then, at the sight of

a bird or a flower in the grass, he struggled to get down. "Whisht,

now!" Nora would say; "and are n't you going to see Granny indeed?

Keep aisy now, darlin'!"

The old heart and the young heart were beating alike as these exiles

followed the narrow footpath round the shoulder of the great hill; they

could hear the lambs bleat and the tinkling of the sheep-bells that

sweet May morning. From the lower hillside came the sound of voices.

The neighbors had seen them pass, and were calling to each other across

the fields. Oh, it was home, home! the sight of it, and the smell of

the salt air and the flowers in the bog, the look of the early white

mushrooms in the sod, and the song of the larks overhead and the

blackbirds in the hedges! Poor Ireland was gay-hearted in the spring

weather, and Nora was there at last. "Oh, thank God, we 're safe

home!" she said again. "Look, here's the Wishing Brook; d' ye mind

it?" she called back to the old man.

"I mind everything the day, no fear for me," said Patrick Quin.

The great hillside before them sloped up to meet the blue sky, the

golden gorse spread its splendid tapestry against the green pasture.

There was the tiny house, the one house in Ireland for Nora; its very

windows watched her coming. A whiff of turf-smoke flickered above the

chimney, the white walls were as white as the clouds above; there was a

figure moving about inside the house, and a bent little woman in her

white frilled cap and a small red shawl pinned about her shoulders came

and stood in the door.

"Oh, me mother, me mother!" cried Nora; then she dropped the baby in

the soft grass, and flew like a pigeon up the hill and into her

mother's arms.