Owen had not gone far, when Kathleen called to him:  “Owen, ahagur—­stand, darlin’; but don’t come back a step, for fraid o’ bad luck."*

* When an Irish peasant sets out on a journey, or to transact business in fair or market, he will not, if possible, turn back.  It is considered unlucky:  as it is also to be crossed by a hare, or met by a red-haired woman.

“Did I forget anything, Kathleen?” he inquired.  “Let me see; no; sure I have my beads an’ my tobaccy box, an’ my two clane shirts an’ handkerchers in the bundle.  What is it, acushla?”

“I needn’t be axin’ you, for I know you wouldn’t forget it; but for ’fraid you might—­Owen, whin you’re at Tubber Derg, go to little Alley’s grave, an’ look at it; an’ bring me back word how it appears.  You might get it cleaned up, if there’s weeds or anything growin’ upon it; an’ Owen, would you bring me a bit o’ the clay, tied up in your pocket.  Whin you’re there, spake to her; tell her it was the lovin’ mother that bid you, an’ say anything that you think might keep her asy, an’ give her pleasure.  Tell her we’re not now as we wor whin she was wid us; that we don’t feel hunger, nor cowld, nor want; an’ that nothin’ is a throuble to us, barrin’ that we miss her—­ay, even yet—­a suillish machree (* light of my heart), that she was—­that we miss her fair face an’ goolden hair from among us.  Tell her this; an’ tell her it was the lovin’ mother that said it, an’ that sint the message to her.”

“I’ll do it all, Kathleen; I’ll do it all—­all, An’ now go in, darlin’, an’ don’t be frettin’.  Maybe we’ll soon be near her, plase God, where we can see the place she sleeps in, often.”

They then separated again; and Owen, considerably affected by the maternal tenderness of his wife, proceeded on his journey.  He had not, actually, even at the period of his leaving home, been able to determine on what particular friend he should first call.  That his welcome would be hospitable, nay, enthusiastically so, he was certain.  In the meantime he vigorously pursued his journey; and partook neither of refreshment nor rest, until he arrived, a little after dusk, at a turn of the well-known road, which, had it been daylight, would have opened to him a view of Tubber Derg.  He looked towards the beeches, however, under which it stood; but to gain a sight of it was impossible.  His road now lying a little to the right, he turned to the house of his sterling friend, Frank Farrell, who had given him and his family shelter and support, when he was driven, without remorse, from his own holding.  In a short time he reached Frank’s residence, and felt a glow of sincere satisfaction at finding the same air of comfort and warmth about it as formerly.  Through the kitchen window he saw the strong light of the blazing fire and heard, ere he presented himself, the loud hearty laugh of his friend’s wife, precisely as light and animated as it had been fifteen years before.