"Maggie! Maggie! Glory be to goodness! where in the world has that
child gone off with herself to? _Maggie_! Sure I've been roarin' an'
bawlin' for ye this half-hour. Run up this minute to Mr.
Brophy's--they're afther gettin' a letther from America, an' they
can't get any one to read it for them, the cratur's. Hurry now, that's
a good little girl; I'm goin' up myself along wid ye. Poor Mrs.
Brophy'll be nearly out of her mind."
Mrs. Kinsella caught up her baby as she spoke, gave a hasty look round
to make sure that Micky and Nanny were not crawling into the fire,
enjoined Mary, her "second eldest" little girl, to "have an eye to
them" during her absence, and, hustling her firstborn before her,
hastily left the cabin.
"What is it at all?" asked Peggy Murphy, her next-door neighbour,
thrusting her head over the half-door. "What in the world has
happened? Is it goin' up to Brophys' ye are? I hope herself's not sick
or anything."
"Not at all; but Dan looked in on his way from town, an' says he,
'I've a letther in my pocket that the postmisthress is afther givin'
me, an' it's from America,' he says, 'but I'm sure I couldn't tell ye
who wrote it,' says he. 'I wisht,' he says, 'ye'd send up wan o' yer
little girls to read it to us,' says he, 'for neither herself nor me
is much hand at makin' out writin'.' An' here I'm afther sarchin' high
an' low for Maggie, an' where was she? Up in a tree, if ye plaze. Me
heart's scalded with that child. She'll break her neck on me before
she's done."
Maggie jerked her flaxen locks backwards with a slightly defiant air,
and inquired of her parent if she was comin' on out o' that. Mrs.
Kinsella in return curtly desired her to be off with herself, an' not
be standin' there givin' her impidence, an' Mrs. Brophy maybe killin'
herself wonderin' what could be in the letther at all.
Thus adjured, Maggie led the way up a steep and stony path, followed
by her mother, Mrs. Murphy, and sundry other of the neighbours, all
agog with excitement and curiosity.
Half-way up the rocky hillside they came upon the Brophys' abode, a
one-storied cabin, with a cabbage garden, a potato plot, and a scanty
patch of wheat climbing up the mountain at the rear.
Dan himself stood in the doorway, eagerly on the lookout for them;
while a querulous voice from within warned them that "herself" had
reached the limit of her patience.
Entering they descried her--a tiny old woman, bent almost double with
age and rheumatism, leaning forward in her elbow-chair with the letter
on her knee.
Maggie was hustled to the front and the packet placed in her hand. She
turned it over and over, and finally broke the seal.
"It's from America," she said.
"Bedad, alanna, I knew that before," returned old Dan, who was bending
over her, his weather-beaten face betraying the utmost mystification.
"Sure all of us knew that," murmured the bystanders.
"Well, give the child time to see what's in it," urged Mrs. Kinsella.
"Father Taylor himself couldn't tell yez what's in a letther before he
had it opened."
"Who's it from, Maggie asthore? Tell us that much," cried Mrs. Brophy
with shrill eagerness.
Maggie drew the letter from the envelope and slowly unfolded it. An
enclosure fell out. Several hands were outstretched to catch it, and
Mrs. Kinsella succeeded.
"What in the name o' goodness is this?" she asked. "There's print on
this. I hope to heaven it's not a summons, or a notice to quit, or
anything that way."
"Not at all, not at all," cried Peggy Murphy, "that's an ordher for
money. I knew the looks of it the minute I set eyes on it--the very
same as wan that Mrs. O'More sent me from Dublin, the price of a pair
o' chickens she sent for, afther she went up. Bedad, you're in luck,
Dan. How much is it for, now, Maggie?"
"Ah! good gracious! don't be axin' the child them things. Sure how in
the world could she tell, an' it afther bein' written in America?--God
bless us! let her have a look at the letther anyhow."
"'My dear uncle and aunt,'" began Maggie, slowly spelling out.
[Illustration: THE FLITTING OF THE OLD FOLKS
"My dear Uncle and Aunt," began Maggie]
Mrs. Brophy uttered a shrill scream, and clapped her hands together.
"It's from Larry! Lord bless an' save us! it's Larry himself, him that
I thought in his grave this fifteen year! God bless us, it's dramin' I
am--it can't be true! Dan, d'ye hear that? Good gracious, what's the
man thinkin' of, stan'in' there, lookin' about him, the same as if he
never heard a thing at all. _Dan_" (with an impatient tug at his
sleeve), "d'ye hear what I'm tellin' you? Larry isn't dead at all, an'
he's afther writin' to us from America."
"Well, to be sure," cried Mrs. Kinsella. "Your sister's son, wasn't
he, ma'am? La'rence Kearney. A fine young fellow he was, too. He went
an' listed on yez, didn't he?"
"Aye, an' she was near breakin' her heart when he done it," chimed in
Peggy Murphy; "sure, I remember it well."
Several other bystanders remembered it too, and expressed their
sympathy by divers nods and groans; old Dan at last impatiently
throwing out his hands for silence.
"Whisht! whisht! we can't be sure whether himself's in it at all yet.
Let the poor little girl be gettin' on wid the letther, can't yez?
Sure maybe it isn't Larry at all."
"Listen to the man, an' him the only nephew that ever we had," began
"herself" shrilly; but Maggie's childish pipe, proceeding with the
reading, drowned the rest of her remonstrance.
"'I hope you are quite well, as this leaves me at present. You will be
very much astonished to get this letter, but when we meet, as I trust
we soon shall, I hope to have the pleasure of explainin' to you all
that has befell me since I left yous an' my happy home to join her
Majesty's corpse!'"
"What's that?" cried Dan in alarm. "Corpse! Didn't I tell yez he was
dead?"
"Sure how could he be dead," put in Mrs. Brophy, "when it was himself
that wrote the letther? There isn't anythin' about a corpse in it,
Maggie asthore, is there?"
"'C-o-r-p-s,' spelled out Maggie, "corpse; yes, there it is, as plain
as print."
"Sure he manes 'rig'ment,' "shouted out some well-informed person from
the background. "'Corpse'--that's what they do be callin' the army."
"Oh, that indeed?" resumed Dan, much relieved. "Go on, Maggie."
"'I am now, however, at the end of my rovin's,'" read the child, "'an'
you'll be glad to hear that I am just afther gettin' married to a very
nice young lady, with a good bit o' money of her own. I have also
contrived to save a tol'rable sum, an' am now lookin' forward to a
life of contentment an' prosperity in the company of my bride.'"
"That's Larry," exclaimed Mrs. Brophy with conviction. "That's
himself--the very turn of him. He always had that fashion, ye know, of
pickin' out them grand words. I could tell 'twas him the very minit
she began, God bless him."
"'My fond memory, however, turns to them that in the days of my
childhood was the same as a father an' a mother to me. I made sure
that yous must both be under the daisy-quilt, an' me first thought was
to send some money to the reverend gentleman, whoever he may be,
that's parish priest in Clonkeen now, an' ax him to put up a rale
handsome monument over your remains; but by the greatest good fortune
I came across poor Bill Kinsella not long sence, an' he tould me yous
were to the fore, an' not a sign o' dyin' on yous yet.'"
"Look at that now," cried Mrs. Kinsella, with shrill glee; "sure
that's me own first cousin's son that went over beyant a couple of
years ago. Well, now to think--"
"Ah, for goodness' sake, let's hear the end of the letther," cried Dan
and his wife together, both violently excited.
"'Me an' me wife both feels,' went on Maggie, 'that we couldn't rest
happy unless we made sure that yous ended your days in peace and
comfort. This is a big house and a comfortable place, with room an' to
spare for the two of yous, and you'll get the warmest of welcomes from
nephew and niece. So I am sendin' you the price of your journey, with
maybe a few dollars over, for fear you should come short, an' I hope
you'll come out by the next boat, for there isn't much time to spare,
an' you'll be gettin' too old for travellin'. I will say no more this
time, my dear uncle and aunt, but _cead mille failthe_ from your
affectionate La'rence Kearney."
"Sure it isn't across the say he wants us to go," cried Dan in dismay;
"is it to America?"
"God bless him!" exclaimed the wife, with fervour; "it's him that
always had the good heart. To think of him plannin' an' contrivin'
everythin' that way, even to the monyement."
"I wonder," said Dan regretfully, "what sort of a monyement at all
he'd have put over us? 'Pon me word it 'ud have looked elegant
beyant."
"Would ye have goold letthers on it, ma'am?" put in Peggy Murphy
admiringly. "I seen wan at Kilpedder wan time that I went up when a
cousin o' me own was buried, an' it was the loveliest ye ever seen.
There was goold letthers, an' a crass on the top, an' at the four
corners of it there was a kind of an ornamentation the same as a
little skull--'pon me word, the natest thing ye could see! No bigger
nor me fist, ye know; but all set out elegant with little
weeshy-dawshy teeth, all as perfect as ye could imagine. It was some
rale grand ould gentleman that was afther puttin' it up for his wife.
I wondher if yez 'ud have had wan made anything that shape."
Dan looked pensive, and rubbed his hands slowly together, tantalised
perhaps by the magnificence of the vision; but "herself" shook her
head with a proud little smile.
"There's no knowin' what we'd have had," she observed. "Larry said
he'd have axed Father Taylor to choose us the best, an' I b'lieve his
reverence has very good taste."
"'Deed an' he has, ma'am. But will yez be goin' off wid yourselves to
America out o' this?"
"Aye will we," responded Mrs. Brophy, with spirit. "Bedad, if Dan an'
me is ever to see the world it's time we started."
"It's very far off," said poor old Dan nervously; "it's a terrible
long way to be goin', alanna. If it wasn't for Larry expectin' us over
beyant--"
"What would ye do, then?" interrupted his energetic little wife
fiercely. "Stop at home, perishin' wid the cold an' hunger, an' the
rain droppin' down on us while we're atin' our bit o' dinner; me that
bad wid the rheumatiz I can hardly move hand or fut, an' yourself
taken wid them wakenesses so that it's all ye can do to lift the
potaties."
"Dear knows, it's himself that ought to leppin' mad wid j'y," cried
one of the neighbours. "To get such a chance! Isn't it in the greatest
good luck ye are, Dan, to be goin' off to that beautiful place, where
ye'll be livin' in the heighth o' comfort an' need never do another
hand's turn for yourselves? Troth, I wish it was me that had the offer
of it."
Many murmurs of approval greeted this sally; every one being convinced
that Dan was indeed in luck's way, while his wife wrathfully opined
that he didn't know when he was well off.