to fetch him home.  Where she hides it I know no more nor you, but she wears a sight of old rags, one atop of another, and pockets in all of ’em for aught I know—­hold your din, ye unrewly children!—­there’s folks coming.  I’ll let ye in.  I lock t’ old lass up when I go out, for she might be wandering, and there’s them hereabouts that would reckon nought of putting her out of t’ way and taking what she’s got, if they heard tell on’t.”

At last the door was unlocked, and we went in.  And sitting on a low box, dressed as before, even to the old coat and the spotted kerchief over her bonnet, sat Biddy Macartney.

When she lifted her face, I saw that it was much wasted, and that her fine eyes had got a restless uneasy look in them.  Suddenly this ceased, and they lit up with the old intelligence.  For half an instant I thought it was at the sight of me, but she did not even see me.  It was on Dennis O’Moore that her eyes were bent, and they never moved as she struggled to her feet, and gazed anxiously at his face, his cap, and his seafaring clothes, whilst, for his part, Dennis gazed almost as wildly at her.  At last she spoke: 

“GOD save ye, squire!  Has the old counthry come to this?  Is the O’Moore an alien, and all?”

“No, no.  I’m the squire’s son,” said Dennis.  “But tell me quick, woman, what are you to Barney Barton?”

“Barney is it?  Sure he was brother to me, as who knows better than your honour?”

“Did you live with us, too?”

“I did, acushla.  In the heighth of ease and comfort, and done nothin’ for it.  Wasn’t I the big fool to be marryin’ so early, not knowin’ when I was well off!”

“I know.  Barney has told me.  A Cork man, your husband, wasn’t he?  A lazy, drunken, ill-natured rascal of a fellow.”

“That’s him, your honour!”

“Well, you’re quit of him long since.  And, as your son’s in New York, and all I have left of Barney is you ——­”

“She doesn’t hear you, Dennis.”

I interrupted him, because in his impetuosity he had not noticed that the wandering look had come back over the old woman’s face, and that she sat down on the box, and fumbled among her pockets for Micky’s letter, and then crouched weeping over it.

We stayed a long time with her, but she did not really revive.  With infinite patience and tenderness, Dennis knelt beside her, and listened to her ramblings about Micky, and Micky’s hardships, and Micky’s longings for home.  Once or twice, I think, she was on the point of telling about her savings, but she glanced uneasily round the room and forbore.  Dennis gave the other woman some money, and told her to give Biddy a good meal—­to have given money to her would have been useless—­and he tried hard to convince the old woman that Micky was quite able to leave America if he wished.  At last she seemed to take this in, and it gave her, I fear, undue comfort, from the conviction that, if this were so, he would soon be home.