“An’ how is young Con doin’, Frank?”

“Hut, divil a much time he has to do aither well or ill, yit.  There was four tenants on Tubber Derg since you left it, an’ he’s the fifth.  It’s hard to say how he’ll do; but I believe he’s the best o’ thim, for so far.  That may be owin’ to the landlord.  The rent’s let down to him; an’ I think he’ll be able to take bread, an’ good bread too, out of it.”

“God send, poor man!”

“Now, Owen, would you like to go back to it?”

“I can’t say that.  I love the place, but I suffered too much in it.  No; but I’ll tell you, Frank, if there was e’er a snug farm near it that I could get rasonable, I’d take it.”

Frank slapped his knee exultingly.  “Ma chuirp!—­do you say so, Owen?”

“Indeed, I do.”

“Thin upon my song, thats the luckiest thing I ever knew.  There’s, this blessed minute, a farm o’ sixteen acres, that the Lacys is lavin’—­goin’ to America—­an’ it’s to be set.  They’ll go the week afther next, an’ the house needn’t be cowld, for you can come to it the very day afther they Live it.”

“Well,” said Owen, “I’m glad of that.  Will you come wid me to-morrow, an’ we’ll see about it?”

“To be sure I will; an’ what’s betther, too; the Agint is a son of ould Misther Rogerson’s, a man that knows you, an’ the history o’ them you came from, well.  An’, another thing, Owen!  I tell you, whin it’s abroad that you want to take the farm, there’s not a man in the parish will bid agin you.  You may know that yourself.”

“I think, indeed, they would rather sarve me than otherwise,” replied Owen; “an’, in the name o’ God, we’ll see what can be done.  Misther Rogerson, himself, ’ud spake to his son for me; so that I’ll be sure of his intherest.  Arrah, Frank, how is an ould friend o’ mine, that I have a great regard for—­poor Widow Murray?”

“Widow Murray.  Poor woman, she’s happy.”

“You don’t mane she’s dead?”

“She’s dead, Owen, and happy, I trust, in the Saviour.  She died last spring was a two years.”

“God be good to her sowl!  An’ are the childhre in her place still?  It’s she that was the dacent woman.”

“Throth, they are; an’ sorrow a betther doin’ family in the parish than they are.  It’s they that’ll be glad to see you, Owen.  Many a time I seen their poor mother, heavens be her bed, lettin’ down the tears, whin she used to be spakin’ of you, or mintion how often you sarved her; espeshially, about some way or other that you privinted her cows from bein’ canted for the rint.  She’s dead now, an’ God he knows, an honest hard-workin’ woman she ever was.”

“Dear me, Frank, isn’t it a wondher to think how the people dhrop off!  There’s Widow Murray, one o’ my ouldest frinds, an’ Pether M’Mahon, an’ Barny Lorinan—­not to forget pleasant Rousin’ Red-head—­all taken away!  Well!—­Well!  Sure it’s the will o’ God!  We can’t be here always.”