“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.”