“It was very kind of you, Misther Rogerson, to offer to go security for him,” said Frank; “but if security was wantin, sir, Id not be willin’ to let anybody but myself back him.  I’d go all I’m worth in the world—­an’ by my sowl, double as much—­for the same man.”

“I know that, Frank, an’ I thank you; but I could put security in Mr. Rogerson’s hands, here, if it was wanted.  Good-mornin’ an’ thank you both, gintleman.  To tell yez the thruth,” he added, with a smile, “I long to be among my ould friends—­manin’ the people, an’ the hills, an’ the green fields of Tubber Derg—­agin; an’ thanks be to goodness, sure I will soon.”

In fact, wherever Owen went, within the bounds of his native parish, his name, to use a significant phrase of the people, was before him.  His arrival at Frank Farrel’s was now generally known by all his acquaintances, and the numbers who came to see him were almost beyond belief.  During the two or three successive days, he went among his old “cronies;” and no sooner was his arrival at any particular house intimated, than the neighbors all flocked to him.  Scythes were left idle, spades were stuck in the earth, and work neglected for the time being; all crowded about him with a warm and friendly interest, not proceeding from idle curiosity, but from affection and respect for the man.

The interview between him and widow Murray’s children was affecting.  Owen felt deeply the delicate and touching manner in which they had evinced their gratitude for the services he had rendered them; and young Murray remembered with a strong gush of feeling, the distresses under which they lay when Owen had assisted them.  Their circumstances, owing to the strenuous exertions of the widow’s eldest son, soon afterwards improved; and, in accordance with the sentiments of hearts naturally grateful, they had taken that method of testifying what they felt.  Indeed, so well had Owen’s unparalleled affection for his favorite child been known, that it was the general opinion about Tubber Derg that her death had broken his heart.

“Poor Owen, he’s dead,” they used to say; “the death of his weeny one, while he was away in Dublin, gave him the finishin’ blow.  It broke his heart.”

Before the week was expired, Owen had the satisfaction of depositing the lease of his new farm, held at a moderate rent, in the hands of Frank Farrel; who, tying it up along with his own, secured it in the “black chest.”  Nothing remained now but to return home forthwith, and communicate the intelligence to Kathleen.  Frank had promised, as soon as the Lacy’s should vacate the house, to come with a long train of cars, and a number of his neighbors, in order to transfer Owen’s family and furniture to his new dwelling.  Everything therefore, had been arranged; and Owen had nothing to do but hold himself in readiness for the welcome arrival of Frank and his friends.

Owen, however, had no sense of enjoyment when not participated in by his beloved Kathleen.  If he felt sorrow, it was less as a personal feeling than as a calamity to her.