"Mustn't he be the fine boy!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, after a pause. "I'd love to see him--but I'll niver get a chanst o' that, I s'pose. Will he be comin' here to see ye, ma'am?"

"He'll be comin' to take me out of it," returned the mother. "He doesn't raly know I'm in it at all. I'll tell ye now the way it is.

When the poor father died--the light o' heaven to him--an' bad times come, and we had to give up our own beautiful little place, Barney brought me to town an' put me with Mrs. Byrne, a very nice respectable woman that was married to a second cousin o' my poor husband's, an' I was to stop with her till he came back from America with his fortune made. Well," pursued Mrs. Brady, drawing in her breath with a sucking sound, which denoted that she had come to an interesting part of her narrative, "well, he kep' sendin' me money, ye know, a pound or maybe thirty shillin' at a time--whenever he could, the poor boy, an' I was able to work the sewin'-machine a little, an' so we made out between us till I took this terrible bad turn. Well, of course troubles niver comes single, an' the last letther I got from my poor little fella had only fifteen shillin' in it, an' he towld me he had the bad luck altogether, but, says he,'My dear mother, ye must on'y howld out the best way ye can. There's no work to be got in this place at all' (New York I think it was). 'But I am goin' out West,' says he, 'to a place where I'm towld there's fortunes made in no time, so I'll be over wid ye soon,' he says, 'wid a power o' money, an' I'm sure Mary Byrne'll be a good friend to ye till then. The worst of it is,' he says, 'it's a terrible wild outlandish place, and I can't be promisin' ye many letthers, for G.o.d knows if there'll be a post-office in it at all,'

says he; 'but I'll be thinkin' of ye often, an' ye must keep up your heart,' he says. Well," sucking up her breath again, "poor Mrs. Byrne done all she could for me, but of course when it got to be weeks an'

months that I was on my back not able to do a hand's turn for meself, an' no money comin' an' no sign o' Barney, what could she do, the crature? One day Dr. Isaacs says to her, 'Mrs. Byrne,' says he, 'why don't ye send poor Mrs. Brady to the Infirmary?' 'What Infirmary, sir?' says she. 'The Union Infirmary,' says he; 'it's the on'y place she's fit for except the Incurables in Dublin,' says he, 'an' I'm afraid there's no chance for there.' 'Oh, docther, don't mention it!'

says poor Mrs. Byrne--she was telling me about it aftherwards. 'Is it the Union? I wouldn't name it,' she says, 'to a decent respectable woman like Mrs. Brady. She's a cousin by marriage o' me own,' she says; 'I wouldn't _name_ it to her, I a.s.sure ye.' 'Just as you please,' says Docther Isaacs. 'It 'ud be the truest kindness you could do her all the same, for she'd get betther care and nourishment than you could give her.' Well, poor Mrs. Byrne kep' turnin' it over in her mind, but she raly couldn't bring herself to mention it, nor wouldn't, on'y she was druv to it at the end, the crature, with me bein' ill so long, an' the rent comin' so heavy on her an' all. So we settled it between the two of us wan day, an' she pa.s.sed me her word to bring me Barney's letther--if e'er a wan comes--the very minute she gets it, an' if he comes himself she says she won't let on where I am, all at wanst, but she'll tell him gradual. Sometimes I do be very unaisy in me mind, Miss Mahony, I a.s.sure ye, wondherin' what he'll say when he hears. I'm afeared he'll be ready to kill me for bringin' such a disgrace on him."

"Sure, what could ye do?" said Kate, a little tartly, for naturally enough as "an inmate" of many years' standing, she did not quite like her new friend's insistence on this point. "Troth, it's aisy talkin', but it's not so aisy to starve. An' afther all, there's many a one that's worse off nor us here, I can tell ye, especially since the Sisthers come, G.o.d bless them, with their holy ways. How'd ye like to be beyant at the ---- Union, where the nurses gobbles up all the nourishment that's ordhered for the poor misfortunate cratures that's in it, an leaves thim sthretched from mornin' till night without doin'

a hand's turn for them. Aye, an' 'ud go near to kill them if they dar'd let on to the Docther. Sure, don't I know well how it was before the Sisthers was here--we have different times now I can tell ye. Why, that very statye o' St. Pathrick that ye were talkin' of a while ago, wasn't it them brought it? An' there's St. Joseph over in the ward fornenst this, an' St. Elizabeth an' the Holy Mother above. See that now. Isn't it a comfort to be lookin' at them holy things, and to see the blessed Sisthers come walkin' in in the mornin' wid a heavenly smile for every one, an' their holy eyes lookin' into every hole an'

corner an' spyin' out what's wrong?"

"Aye, indeed," a.s.sented Mrs. Brady, a little faintly though, for however grateful she might be, and comfortable in the main, there was a bitterness in the thought of her "come down" that nothing could alleviate.

She and her neighbour were excellent friends all the same, and she soon shared Kate's enthusiasm for "the Sisthers," finding comfort moreover in the discovery that Sister Louise understood and sympathised with her feelings, and was willing to receive endless confidences on the subject of the "little boy," and to discuss the probability of his speedy advent with almost as much eagerness as herself.

But all too soon it became evident that unless Barney made great haste another than he would take Mrs. Brady "out of" the workhouse. Grim death was approaching with rapid strides, and one day the priest found her so weak that he told her he would come on the morrow to hear her confession and to give her the last Sacraments.

Not one word did the old woman utter in reply. She lay there with her eyes closed and her poor old face puckered up, unheeding all Kate Mahony's attempts at consolation. These, though well meant, were slightly inconsistent, as she now a.s.sured her friend that indeed it was well for her, and asked who wouldn't be glad to be out o' that; and in the next moment informed her that maybe when she was anointed she might find herself cured out an' out, as many a wan had before her, an' wasn't it well known that them that the priest laid his holy hands on, as likely as not took a good turn immaydiate?

Later on Sister Louise bent over Mrs. Brady with gentle rea.s.suring words.

"G.o.d knows best, you know," she said, at the end of her little homily; "you will say 'His will be done,' won't you?"

"Sure Sisther, how can I?" whispered Mrs. Brady, opening her troubled eyes; her face almost awful to look on in its grey pallor. "How can I say 'His will be done' if I'm to die in the workhouse? An' me poor little boy comin' as fast as he can across the say to take me out of it, an' me breakin' my heart prayin' that I might live to see the day!

An' when he comes back he'll find the parish has me buried. Ah, Sisther, how am I to resign meself at all? In the name o' G.o.d how _am_ I to resign meself?"

The tears began to trickle down her face, and Sister Louise cried a little too for sympathy, and stroked Mrs. Brady's hand, and coaxed, and cajoled, and soothed and preached to the very best of her ability; and at the end left her patient quiet but apparently unconvinced.

It was with some trepidation that she approached her on the morrow.

Mrs. Brady's att.i.tude was so unusual that she felt anxious and alarmed. As a rule the Irish poor die calmly and peacefully, happy in their faith and resignation; but this poor woman stood on the brink of eternity with a heart full of bitterness, and a rebellious will.

Mrs. Brady's first words, however, rea.s.sured her.

"Sisther, I'm willin' now to say 'His will be done.'"

"Thank G.o.d for that," cried Sister Louise fervently.

"Aye. Well, wait till I tell ye. In the night when I was lying awake I took to lookin' at St. Pathrick beyant, wid the little lamp flickerin'

an' flickerin' an' shinin' on his face, an' I thought o' Barney, an'

that I'd niver see him agin, an' I burst out cryin'. 'Oh, St Pathrick!' says I, 'how'll I ever be able to make up my mind to it at all?' An' St. Pathrick looked back at me rale wicked. An' 'Oh,' says I again, 'G.o.d forgive me, but sure how can I help it?' An' there was St.

Pathrick still wid the cross look on him p'intin' to the shamrock in his hand, as much as to say 'There is but the wan G.o.d in three divine Persons an' Him ye must obey.' So then I took to baitin' me breast an'

sayin' 'The will o' G.o.d be done!' an' if ye'll believe me, Sisther, the next time I took heart to look at St. Pathrick there he was smilin' for all the world the moral o' poor Barney. So says I, 'afther that!' Well, Sisther, the will o' G.o.d be done! He knows best, Sisther alanna, doesn't He? But," with a weak sob, "my poor little boy's heart 'ill be broke out an' out when he finds I'm afther dyin' in the workhouse!"

"We must pray for him," said the Sister softly; "you must pray for him and offer up the sacrifice that G.o.d asks of you, for him. Try not to fret so much. Barney would not like you to fret. He would grieve terribly if he saw you like this."

"Heth he would," said Mrs. Brady, sobbing again.

"Of course he would. But if he heard you were brave and cheerful over it all, it would not be half so bad for him."

Mrs. Brady lay very quiet after this, and seemed to reflect.

When the priest came presently to administer the Sacraments of the dying to her, she roused herself and received them with much devotion, and presently beckoned Sister Louise to approach.

"Sisther, when Barney comes axin' for me, will ye give him me bades an' the little medal that's round me neck, an' tell him I left him me blessin'--will ye, dear?"

"Indeed I will."

"G.o.d bless ye! An' tell him," speaking with animation and in rather louder tones. "Tell him I didn't fret at all, an' died quite contint an' happy an'--an' thankful to be in this blessed place, where I got every comfort. Will ye tell him that, Sisther alanna?"

The Sister bowed her head: this time she could not speak.

It was nearly two months afterwards that Sister Louise was summoned to the parlour to see "Mr. Brady," who had recently arrived from America, and to whom his cousin, Mrs. Byrne, had broken the news of his mother's death.

Sister Louise smiled and sighed as she looked at this big, strapping, prosperous-looking young fellow, and remembered his mother's description of him. The black eyes and curly hair and rosy cheeks were all there, certainly, but otherwise the likeness to "St. Patrick" was not so very marked.

"Mr. Brady wants to hear all about his poor mother, Sister," said the Sister Superior. "This is Sister Louise, Mr. Brady, who attended your poor mother to the last."

Mr. Brady, who seemed a taciturn youth, rolled his black eyes towards the new comer and waited for her to proceed.

Very simply did Sister Louise tell her little story, dwelling on such of his mother's sayings, during her last illness, as she thought might interest and comfort him.

"There are her beads, and the little medal, which she always wore. She left them to you with her blessing."

Barney thrust out one huge brown hand and took the little packet, swallowing down what appeared to be a very large lump in his throat.

"She told me," pursued the Sister in rather tremulous tones, "to tell you that she did not fret at all at the last, and died content and happy. She did, indeed, and she told me to say that she was thankful to be here--"

But Barney interrupted her with a sudden incredulous gesture and a big sob, "Ah, whisht, Sisther!" he said.

THE FLITTING OF THE OLD FOLKS

"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."