“I do, darlin’.  Fourteen years all but three days.  He’ll be gone fifteen if we all live till Wednesday week.”

“Fifteen?  But, Mother, if he were like me when he went, he can’t be very like me now.  He must be a middle-aged man.  Do you think you’d know him?”

This question was more unfortunate than the other, and produced such howling and weeping, and beating of Biddy’s knees as she rocked herself among the beans, that I should have thought every soul in the docks would have crowded round us.  But no one took any notice of us, and by degrees I calmed her, chiefly by the assertion—­“He’ll know you, Mother, anyhow.”

“He will so, god bless him!” said she, “And haven’t I gone over it all in me own mind, often and often, when I’d see the vessels feelin’ their way home through the darkness, and the coffee staymin’ enough to cheer your heart wid the smell of it, and the laste taste in life of something betther in the stone bottle under me petticoats.  And then the big ship would be coming in with her lights at the head of her, and myself sitting alone with me patience, god helping me, and one and another strange face going by.  And then he comes along, cold maybe, and smells the coffee.  ‘Bedad, but that’s a fine smell with it,’ says he, for Micky was mighty particular in his aitin’ and drinkin’.  ’I’ll take a dhrop of that,’ says he, not noticing me particular, and if ever I’d the saycret of a good cup he gets it, me consayling me face.  ‘What will it be?’ says he, setting down the mug, ‘What would it be, Micky, from your Mother?’ says I, and I lifts me head.  Arrah, but then there’s the heart’s delight between us.  ‘Mother!’ says he.  ‘Micky!’ says I. And he lifts his foot and kicks over the barra, and dances me round in his arms, ‘Ochone!’ says the spictators; ’there’s the fine coffee that’s running into the dock.’  ‘Let it run,’ says I, in the joy of me heart, ’and you after it, and the barra on the top of ye, now Micky me son’s come home!’”

“Wonderfully jolly!” said I.  “And it must be pleasant even to think of it.”

But Biddy’s effort of imagination seemed to have exhausted her, and she relapsed into the lowest possible spirits, from which she suddenly roused herself to return to her neglected coffee-stall.

“Bad manners to me, for an old fool! sitting here whineging and lamenting, when there’s folks, maybe, waiting for their coffee, and yourself would have been the betther of some this half-hour.  Come along wid ye.”

And giving a tighter knot to the red kerchief, which had been disordered by her lamentations, the old woman went down the dock, I following her.

We had not to go far.  Biddy’s coffee-barrow was placed just as the pieman had advised.  It was as near the ships as possible.  In fact it was actually under the shadow of a big black-looking vessel which loomed large through the fog, and to and from which men were coming and going as usual.  With several of these the old woman interchanged some good-humoured chaff as she settled herself in her place, and bade me sit beside her.