"Have ye been doin' well since ye left?" Nancy inquired.

"Aye, Mistress McVeigh. Corney helped me, you know. I went to work in his office the very day of my arrival in Chicago, and, thanks to your advice, I never allowed my old habits to interfere with my progress."

"Ye didn't think I doubted yer ability to do that?" she asked, reproachfully. Then, with a twinkle of humor in her eyes, she added, "It was yer love fer a certain young lady that kep' ye at it."

"Maybe," he assented, meditatively.

"An' I suppose Corney has a grand place, wi' a desk and books as thick as a family Bible?"

Young John laughed. "His office is as big as your house. He has twenty desks and a clerk for each one, and a private room, all glass, and leather-bound furnishings. I tell you, Mrs. McVeigh, your son has developed a wonderful business, and you will live to see him a rich man, too," he remarked, enthusiastically.

"Well, d'ye hear that now, the brains o' him! I always knew it!" Nancy ejaculated, with tears of pride glistening for a moment in her eyes. "It's been in me mind these ten years to go there an' see him. D'ye think he'll likely be Mayor o' Chicago?" she asked, wistfully.

Young John quibbled with an easy conscience. "His chances are as good as the best of them," he said. "But tell me about yourself, Nancy. How have you been keeping? And have you had any more young men to reform since I left?" he asked, suddenly changing the subject.

"Oh, barrin' the cold I got whin Moore left the switch open at the Junction, an' the pain at me heart over losin' Jennie, I'm as fit as iver," she answered, complacently. "Ye heard about Jennie's leavin'?"

"Corney read your letter to me," young John replied, sympathetically.

"It was a trial, to be sure, but I'm not complainin'. It's better fer the lass, and Katie Duncan helps me a'most as much. Ye see, Johnny, I'm goin' to be satisfied in this life, no matter what troubles I meet. I've plinty o' belongin's, an' a deal o' honest work to do, which leaves no time fer frettin'. I've had me ups and downs, an' it seems I've known all the sorrows o' me neighbors as well as me own, but I just keep smilin' an' fergittin'. There's so many bright spots whin one looks hard fer them. It's one thing to be wishin' fer somethin' in the future that never comes, and another to be content wi' the blessin's that we get every day. I try fer the last. Some people, if they had me tavern, would be wantin' a better house, or a fresh coat o' paint every year er two. If they had me garden they'd hope that a good angel would grow them enough fer themselves and a profit on what they could sell. They'd be always envyin' the Raeburns' fine horses, an' the grand house o' James Piper, an' their servants, and thinkin' the world was treatin' them unkindly because wishin' wouldn't satisfy their desires. But it's me honest pride in makin' the best o' things, and bein' thankful they're no worse, that keeps me smilin'."

"You are quite a philosopher," observed young John, gazing at her with the old affection lighting up his features.

"Philosopher or not, I care not a whit, but so long as Nancy McVeigh runs a tavern on the Monk Road there'll be no lost sunshine," she declared.

"Father tells me that the city company are building a summer hotel on the Point, and also that you may have to sell out," young John remarked, cautiously, lest he hurt the old inn-keeper's feelings.

"Faith, an' he's speakin' the truth, too," Nancy replied quite unconcernedly, and then she laughed quickly to herself at some recollection.

"I must tell ye about it, Johnny," she explained. "When the agent came up from the city to go over the property, he walks up and down past the tavern wi' a sheet o' paper in his hand, an' a map, or somethin' o' that nature. I went out on the verandah to see if he had lost his way, an' he comes over an' takes off his hat as politely as if I was the Queen.

"'Your tavern stands just where we want to put the gateway,' he remarked, consultin' his paper.

"'Is that so?' says I, my temper suddenly risin', fer I had heard a lot o' talk about the big hotel an' the driveway fer the carriages, an' the parks.

"'Of course, we will allow ye a fair price fer yer property when we need it,' he explained.

"'If ye think yer price'll put a gateway here, ye're sadly mistaken,' I said. 'Ye can put up yer hotel, an' every drop o' spirits that's sold in the country can go to ye, an' I'll no complain, but I warn ye that I've spent thirty-five years gettin' this tavern into my keepin', an' it'll take forty more to get it out again.' I jist let him have it straight, an' then I wint in an' slammed the door to show me contempt fer the loikes o' him.

"Then, a few days afterwards, two gentlemen called on me, an' they said they wanted to make a proposition to me, but I just told them to see me lawyers about it, an' they sort o' fidgitted awhile, an' then they asked me who I was employin' to look after my interests. I just bid them go and find out if they thought it worth while, an' I left them sittin' there like two bad boys in school," Nancy stopped while she laughed again, and young John broke in with a question.

"Was my father one of those two men?"

"Now, Johnny, ye needn't be mixin' yer father in the talk at all. Ye know he an' I never agreed," Nancy demurred.

"But I want to know for a reason," he persisted. "You have a payment—the last, I believe—on the mortgage falling due shortly?" he inquired.

"I have," she answered, somewhat perplexed.

"Well, my father would like you to miss making that payment, because he wants to get a commission for securing the sale of your property, and that would give him a hold on you. I can appreciate your desire to stay with the old place, so I would advise you to be early in sending him this amount. Can you raise it?" young John asked.

Nancy sat for awhile in mental perturbation, and then somewhat dubiously answered, "Yes."

"Oh, that just reminds me that Corney bade me give you a hundred dollars," young John said, hurriedly, his face lighting up.

"Now, John, it's yer wish to help me that's makin' ye talk nonsense," Nancy put in, but young John did not heed her.

"You will take the money?" he asked, pleadingly.

Nancy gazed back at her old ramshackle hotel, and then her eyes rested softly on young John's face.

"You made me promise once, now it's your turn," he continued.

"Ye're not deceivin' me, John?" she said, hesitatingly.

"It's from Corney, sure," he affirmed, handing her the roll of bills.

"It's in me will fer Corney an' the girls, an' it's all I have to leave them. I couldn't give it up," she said, brokenly, as she took the money.

"Faith, it's dinner time, an' I'm sittin' out a-gossipin' when I should be at work," she announced, springing up. "Ye'll stay fer dinner, surely?" she asked of young John.

"I will with pleasure, Nancy," he assented.

Miss Sophia Piper dropped into the tavern during the afternoon. She could not help it, for she was full of news, and her aversion to the premises was fast drifting from her. In her heart she loved the strange old woman with the kindly eyes and rugged manner. Her talk was all of young John Keene's return, and she confided with happy tears stealing down her cheeks that his marriage with Miss Trevor would take place the following week.

"The wedding will take place at our house, and I'm here especially to ask you to come," she added.

"And what would ye be thinkin' o' me, without fittin' clothes, a-mixin' wi' all yer foine folk?" Nancy asked.

"You are my friend, Mrs. McVeigh, and your dress will not alter that. Promise you'll come."

"Well, it's more than loikely I will," Nancy assented. "I'm thinkin' o' givin' up the bar and livin' quiet loike fer the rest o' me days," she remarked, reflectively.

Sophia Piper's heart gave a bound of delight, and she seized Nancy's hands in both of hers.

"I'm so glad to hear you say it," she burst out, and then she added, seriously, "Can you afford it?"

"Ye see," Nancy explained, "I've had a letter from my son Corney, an' he says he is goin' to make me a steady allowance. Anyhow, I'm tired o' the noise o' drunken men and the accusin' glances o' the good folk that passes. I've decided that it's not a fittin' occupation fer the mother o' the future mayor o' Chicago to be sellin' the stuff. Others want the license, an' they can have it. I used to like the servin' o' the public, but somehow me mind has been changed o' late," she sighed.

When young John Keene and Miss Mary Trevor were made a happy unit the next week, Nancy was there with a new silk dress, which she and Katie Duncan had worked long into the previous nights to finish. Her sweet old face was radiant with smiles, and when it was all over, and she had a chance to speak alone to Sophia Piper, she whispered:

"I'm celebratin' doubly, ye see, miss; I've just sold me stock o' spirits to the summer hotel people and had a big sign put over the bar door marked 'Privit.'"

"God bless you, Nancy McVeigh," Sophia Piper whispered back.



CHAPTER VII.

THE STRENGTH OF TEN.

It was the sudden termination of the jingling of sleigh-bells that caused Nancy McVeigh to look curiously from her window. People seldom stopped before the old tavern since the transfer of the license to the summer hotel back on the lake shore. At one time it was an odd thing for anyone to pass without dropping in, if only for a chat or an excuse to water his horses at the pump trough. Nancy sighed when she remembered it, for it had brought much gossip and change into her daily existence. When a chance visitor did intrude upon her quietude, his welcome was assured. Also she did much of her knitting by the front window, so that she could catch glimpses of her old customers, even if she could not speak to them.

On this wintry day in the early January, it was Dr. Dodona, from town, who tied his horse to a verandah post and rapped briskly at her door.

"It's a real pleasure to see ye, doctor," Nancy exclaimed, as she gave him admittance. "Ye must be cold. I'll just give ye me best chair by the fire, an' ye can smoke a pipe while ye're tellin' yer errand."

"You're very kind, Mistress McVeigh. People like yourself make a doctor's work less arduous," the doctor answered, heartily.

"It's good of ye to say so, doctor, fer it's little demand fer service ye get out o' me an' mine."

"I'm on my return from James Piper's, down the road. His two children are ill with the cold, and I am afraid something more serious may be expected. Miss Sophia has them well in hand, and I have left a course of treatment, but I'm not at all satisfied."

"Did ye recommend goose grease and turpentine? The winter Jennie had a bad throat I used them in plenty, an' it's what saved her," Nancy remarked, sagaciously.

"Well, not exactly those remedies, but they are very good," the doctor admitted, laughing. "Miss Sophia bade me tell you about the children, as you were expecting her to call some day this week," he continued.

Nancy nodded her head understandingly. "An' what d'ye expect will develop from their colds?"

"You needn't be frightened, Mistress McVeigh, as your children are all grown up. The boy Willie has a very weak throat, and it was terribly inflamed to-day. I am quite worried about it."

"It's bad news ye're bringing to-day, doctor, but niver expect trouble. Maybe they'll change fer the better before mornin'. Ye'll have some tea?" she asked suddenly.

"It's putting you to a lot of trouble," the doctor said, reluctantly, but Nancy was gone before he had finished his sentence.

When the doctor was ready to depart, she asked, anxiously, "Ye'll let me know how they are tomorrow?"

"Most assuredly," the doctor called from the verandah.

Two or three days followed, and each brought Dr. Dodona to Nancy's door with a brief message as to the condition of his patients. His visits were very short, however, but he remained longer at the Piper household, and Nancy missed the smile from his face. She discussed the trend of affairs with Katie Duncan, who was her only confidant now that Will Devitt had gone out West because Nancy McVeigh's bar no longer needed his services, and she was somewhat pessimistic in her remarks. A week went over, and they only saw Dr. Dodona as his big sorrel mare drew his cutter over the Monk Road in a whirl of snow. Then one day he passed, accompanied by James Piper, and Nancy could endure the suspense no longer.

"We'll just have an early supper, an' I'll go over an' ask at the house," she said, decisively, to Katie Duncan. But a heavy rap at the door disturbed them at their meal. Nancy hastened to answer the summons, for she knew it was the doctor.

"I regret my not keeping to my word, Mistress McVeigh, but I am travelling fast these days. I have a lot of sick people to attend to, and the Pipers are in very bad shape."

Nancy's eyes bespoke her sympathy as he continued: "Willie Piper has diphtheria. Little Annie has it also, and to-day Miss Sophia has broken down. I'm afraid she is in for it, too."

"Fer land sakes, ye don't say so!" Nancy exclaimed, more to punctuate his words, so that she could digest their import thoroughly.

"They've got to have a nurse, and at the present moment I don't know where such a person can be secured," the doctor declared, desperately.

"An' have ye fergotten the blarney ye gave me the night o' the accident?" Nancy inquired, in a hurt tone.

"You don't mean you will go?" he asked, his face lighting up suddenly.

"An' why not? Faith, an' I'm fair sick meself stayin' about the house doin' nothin' but keepin' comfortable; an' my experience with Jennie will help me. Old Mrs. Conors is at the p'int of starvation since her husband died, an' I've been thinkin' o' takin' her in fer company. I'll just send Katie over the night to tell her to come in the mornin', so that the child won't be alone."

"I knew that you would help me out of this difficulty, Mistress McVeigh. I don't want anything to happen to Miss Sophia, she is such a great friend of mine."

Nancy was about to speak, then checked herself and looked at him keenly. "The wonders o' the world are no dead yit," she ejaculated, under her breath.

"I took the liberty of mentioning your name to James Piper before I came here to-day, and he will see that you are well paid for your work," the doctor added, hurriedly, guessing what was passing in the mind of the old woman.

"Ye can just tell James Piper I'll have none o' his money. The very impudence o' him to offer it! It's to help the children and Miss Sophia, an' not fer any consideration o' that sour-faced dragon, that I go," Nancy flung back her reply in a somewhat scornful manner.

"I'll go now, but will see you there in the morning," Doctor Dodona called, as he hastened away.

"So that's how the wind blows," Nancy muttered, thoughtfully, as she watched him depart; then she laughed softly in spite of the bad news.

Mrs. Conors, growing very feeble, was garrulously comfortable before the fire in Nancy McVeigh's kitchen. She was in a happy frame of mind, as her worldly anxieties were now very much a dream of the past. Nancy herself, with her strong, resolute face, her kindly eyes and tall gaunt frame, enrobed in a plain, home-made black dress, was setting things to rights in the home of James Piper. Her coming brought order, and a fearless performance of the doctor's commands. She was a herald of fresh hope, and carried into the gloomy house her sense of restful security. Her sixty-five years of life, a portion of which was spent as proprietress of a tavern, wherein the worst element of a rough countryside disported itself, had given her nerves of steel, and yet the chords to her heart were tuned to the finest feelings of sympathy. Sophia Piper felt the glow of her presence as she lay tossing and moaning in the first grips of the malady. The children cried less frequently, and Willie's temperature lowered two points by the doctor's thermometer after the first day's service of the new nurse. And yet Nancy only went about doing the doctor's wishes and whispering to each in her motherly way. Her confidence in herself seemed to exert a pleasing influence with the sick ones, and then she was so strong. The hours of night found her wakeful to the slightest noise, yet patient with their fretful humors, and in the morning she came to them as fresh as a new flower in spring.

Doctor Dodona noticed the change, and marvelled. He came morning and evening, and each time sat a long while by Miss Sophia's bedside. He was wondering why he had never guessed something long before, and he did not suspect that Nancy read him like an open book. He had known Sophia for years, had gone to the same school with her, had worked by her side on committees of the charitable and religious organizations of the county, and here he was on the verge of confirmed bachelorhood and only learning the rudiments of love.

"His heart's fair breakin' fer her," was Nancy's muttered comment.

Then came the long night's fight for the life of Annie, the little daughter of James Piper. A struggle where only two could join, the doctor and the Widow McVeigh, as the infectious nature of the disease forbade any assistance from without. Annie's illness had taken a very serious turn just as the doctor arrived on his evening call. He studied her case for a long ten minutes, and then he remarked to Nancy, "It is the crisis." Nancy smiled, not that his words amused her, but rather as an expression of her confidence in her powers to hold the spark of life in the little body. From then until early dawn they watched her, the life flickering like a spent torch in the wind. The doctor had taken extreme measures to combat the disease, and his greatest fear was that his efforts to cure might have a contrary effect by reason of the frailty of the child. Once he despaired, but, looking up, caught a momentary glint of steel in Nancy's eyes. His very fear that she might detect his weakness compelled him to continue. For ten hours she sat with the child on a pillow in her lap, apparently impassive, yet conscious of the slightest change in the hot, gasping breathing. Occasionally the doctor arose and passed into the room where the others lay, to see that they were not suffering through lack of attention. Returning from one of these silent visits, just as the sun shot its first shafts of light under the window blind, he noted a change in the little maid.

"She'll live," he declared.

"I've not been doubtin' the fact at all, at all," Nancy responded, bravely trying to cover her weariness.

From that night both children began to mend rapidly, and more time was left for the care of the elder patient. The case of Miss Sophia was somewhat different. Her age made it a much more difficult problem to unseat the poison from her system. It had committed sad ravages with her constitution before she had given in, and though Dr. Dodona felt reasonably certain that he could check the trouble, yet it seemed doubtful if her strength would sustain the fight.

As the days passed he could see plainly that she was unimproved. His professional training told him that, and he threw into the work all the skill that he possessed. He suddenly became conscious that he had lost some of the assurance in himself which had been the backbone of his former successes, but it took him a short while to comprehend fully his own incapacity. As he drove over the miles of snowy road into town, after an evening at her bedside, the truth became a conviction in his mind. His heart was too deeply concerned, and it had shattered his nerves.

He wired to the city for a specialist before going to his home. Next morning he told Nancy McVeigh of his action. That good old soul fell in with the idea on the spot, and her comments caused him to turn away his face in foolish embarrassment.

"It's what I have been expectin' ye to do all along, but I didn't care to suggest it to ye before, as yer professional pride might not welcome my interference. It's her poor, thin face an' her smile that kapes yer mind from the rale doctorin'. Ye just git a smart man from the city, an' it'll do ye both a power o' good," she said.

When he was gone Nancy went to the sick-chamber.

"Are ye able to stand good news?" she inquired.

Miss Sophia turned her face towards her, and smiled encouragingly.

"Surely, if it is really bright and hopeful," she replied, weakly.

"Ye may suppose I'm takin' liberties wi' yer privit concerns, but ye will learn to fergive me whin ye are well an' the spring is here again wi' its quiet sunshine, its flowers an' the grass growin' by the roadside wi' patterns worked in dandelions like a foine carpet."

"I love the spring!" Miss Piper exclaimed, with animation.

It had seemed a wonderful thing to the doctor, the power to rouse the suffering woman contained in the homely phrases of Nancy McVeigh.

"As if that was all to love," Nancy impatiently returned. "Did it ever come right home to yer heart that ye loved a man an' ye didn't recognize the feelin' fer a long time afterwards. Fer instance, one who is makin' piles o' money out o' the ills o' others?" she added, pausing in her dusting to gaze shrewdly at her friend.

"It's all a riddle to me," Miss Sophia answered, although her words betrayed a rising interest.

"Aye, a foine riddle, to be sure, an' one that has its answer in the face of Doctor Dodona."

Sophia Piper's pallid face suddenly changed color, and she frowned irritably. Nancy sat down on the foot of the bed and took the sick woman's hand in her own long, hardened fingers.

"Ye must get well soon, dearie; the doctor's fair beside himself thinkin' he might lose ye, an' he can scarce compose himself long enough to mix his own medicines. He's a lonely man; can't ye see it, child?"

"Do you think so?" Miss Sophia whispered, wonderingly.

"It's not a matter o' thinkin', it's the rale truth, so it is. What is that rhyme I hear the young ones say, 'Somethin' borrowed, somethin' blue, somethin' old and somethin' new'? May I be somethin' old at yer weddin'?" Nancy asked, tenderly.

Miss Sophia drew the old woman's hand to her cheek and kissed it affectionately.

'Twas after the above conversation that Sophia Piper began to evince a determined desire to recover her health.

"Will the doctor be here this afternoon?" she asked.

"Ye couldn't kape him away. He's bringin' a friend wi' him, too," Nancy vouchsafed.

"Then you'll please tidy my hair, and have the curtains drawn back from the windows so that the sun can shine in the room," she ordered, sweetly.

"An' I'll put some fresh flowers on yer table," Nancy agreed.

The specialist came in the afternoon. He was a portly man, with iron-grey hair, clean-shaven face and a habit of emphasizing his remarks by beating time to them with his spectacles. He examined the patient thoroughly, whilst Dr. Dodona stood by deferentially, though impatiently, awaiting his opinion. Then they adjourned to another apartment, and the great man carefully diagnosed the case to his confrere. "She has been very ill," he admitted, summing up the loose ends of his notations, "but I see no necessity for a change in your remedies.

"Do you not see a recent improvement?" he asked, shortly.

Dr. Dodona shrugged his shoulders. "Since last night, yes."

"Continue as you have been doing. I will give you a few written suggestions as to diet and tonic," the specialist explained, and then he dropped his professional air and slapped his fellow-practitioner familiarly on the shoulder.

"You were afraid because you have lost your heart as well as your nerve. Is that a correct diagnosis?" he asked jovially.

"Evidently you have diagnosed symptoms in the wrong party," Dr. Dodona answered, drily.

"You had better settle it while I am here," advised the city medical man, who showed much aptitude for other things than cases of perverse illness.

"By Jove, I will!" the doctor burst out, and in he went with a rash disregard of the noise he was making. He did not heed the warning "Sh-h!" of the widow McVeigh, so engrossed was he in his mission.

Sophia Piper's face lit up with a glad welcome, and she held her hands towards her lover in perfect understanding.

"Hivin bless them! In all me experience I have niver met with such a love-sick pair before. They're old enough to be more discreet," Nancy observed to the specialist, who chatted with her whilst the two were settling their future happiness.

"And you are a judge of human nature, too?" put in the learned man, admiringly.

"The older we git the wiser we grow, sometimes," was Nancy's retort.



CHAPTER VIII.

A DESERTER FROM THE MONK ROAD.

Father Doyle had just stepped from the white heat of an August day on the Monk Road into the modest parlor of the widow McVeigh. He was growing very stout as his years advanced upon him, and trudging through the dust was warm exercise. But the sultriness without made the cool interior of the tavern (for such the people still called the old place, although Mrs. McVeigh no longer extended hospitality to the public) more appreciable. Wild pea vines clambered over the windows, and the ancient copings protruded outwards far enough to cast a shade, so that the breeze which entered was freshened and sweetened with a gentle aroma of many-colored blossoms.

Nancy McVeigh was unburdening a whole week's gossip whilst the priest helped himself generously to the jug of buttermilk which she had brought in from her churning.

"I have seen wonderful changes on the Monk Road in my time," he said, reflectively, in answer to Nancy's observations concerning the summer hotel on the Point, now filled to overflowing with people seeking health and pleasure in its picturesque surroundings.

"One would scarcely know the place. What with grand rigs full o' chatterin' women and children a-drivin' past the door, and the whole Point a picture o' lawns an' pretty dresses," sighed Nancy. "But it does me heart good to see the brown on the cheeks o' the little 'uns after they've been here awhile."

"Doubtless you find some trade with them?" the priest surmised.

"Considerable; first in the mornin' it's someone askin' if I have fresh eggs, then it's milk or butter or home-made bread, and so it keeps agoin' all day long. I'm no needin' much o' their money, now that Corney sends me my allowance once a month as regular as the sun, but I've still quite a family to support, so I just charge 'em enough to make them appreciate what they're gettin'. I've got Mrs. Conors an' old Donald still on me hands, an' Katie Duncan's at an age whin she wants a little spendin' fer ribbons and fancy things. So many foine people about just pricks the envy o' the child, an' I wouldn't, fer the sake o' a dollar or two, have her ashamed o' her position. It's different from the old days, as ye say, Father Doyle."

"It is that, sure enough," he agreed.

"I'm thinkin' o' takin' a trip," she remarked, with an air of mystery.

"And where are you going?" he asked, in surprise.

"To Chicago," she vouchsafed, proudly.

"Is that not rather far for your old bones?" he inquired, with a merry twinkle.

"Ye're fergittin', Father Doyle, that I'm only as ould as I feel, an' that's not beyond a bit o' pleasure an' the sight o' my boy. It's such a time since I've seen the lad that I'm most afeared I'll not be knowin' me own son."

"Tut, tut! You don't think that. I'd know a McVeigh anywhere if I met him," the priest expostulated.

"I've been savin' me odd change these two or three years, an' I've plinty to pay me way comfortably. I'm wonderin', though, how the ould place would git on without me!" Nancy remarked, dubiously.

"Never suffer in the least," the priest affirmed.

"Ye may think so, but whin I've been here day in an' day out since me hair was as fair as Katie Duncan's, ye can understand it takes a deal o' courage fer me to trust to others," she retorted.

The priest nodded his head slowly in acquiescence.

Two weeks of laborious calculations and preparations preceded the day set for Nancy's departure, and during the interval her many friends discussed the journey so fully with her that her mind was a maze of conflicting doubts. But her contumacious nature did not permit a retreat from her decision, and to make it utterly impossible she went over to the new station and gave over forty-eight dollars for a ticket. It seemed a reckless expenditure, but a peep every night at the photographs on the wall of her room drove the mercenary aspect of it from her and left her firmly resolved and intensely happy.

The fateful hour came at last, and quite a gathering of familiar faces was at the station to see her depart. Father Doyle, Mrs. Jim Bennet and family, Katie Duncan, Mrs. Conors, old Donald, Dr. Dodona and wife, the two Piper children and a host of others saw that she was comfortably established in the big car, much to the evident amusement of the loitering tourists. She must have kissed at least twenty people before the conductor came briskly on the scene and sent them pell-mell on to the platform. The whistle shrieked and the train glided slowly away. Nancy, a strange figure, with widow's bonnet, bright colored shawl and face wreathed in smiles, leaned far out of the window, waving an answer to the shouted farewells.

Mistress McVeigh spent a major portion of the evening in getting acquainted with her environments. Her previous ride in the cars had been her honeymoon, but that was so long ago that she had forgotten even the sensation. Its novelty now intruded on her peace of mind, and she enjoyed it, although it was tiring. She sat gazing about in silent contemplation until the lamps had been lighted and the negro porter was shouting his evening dinner call. His words reminded her that she had a basket of good things, so she took off her bonnet, spread her shawl on the adjacent seat and proceeded to lay out the contents. Most of the people in the coach were going forward to the diner, but such extravagance did not appeal to her. But she did notice that a very delicately featured lady, with a small baby and a boy of two or three, was endeavoring with patient though apparently ineffectual effort to satisfy the fretful wants of her little ones. The worried flush in the young mother's cheek, and the trembling of her lips, roused Nancy's compassionate nature, and, although she would not have confessed it, she was lonesome. To be amongst people unspoken to and unnoticed was a revelation that had never existed in her tiny world. She watched the struggling woman covertly for a short time, while she nibbled at her lunch, and then she could bear it no longer, so she stepped across the aisle.

"If ye please, ma'am, I'll take the baby fer a spell, while ye give the boy his supper," she volunteered.

The lady shot a grateful glance at the queer old body who had accosted her.

"If you don't mind the bother," she replied, sweetly.

"It's no bother, sure," Nancy declared, emphatically, and her eyes dwelt over-long on her new acquaintance. The lady reminded her of someone, then like a flash it came to her, and she looked again so persistently that the lady was embarrassed. It was Jennie's mother she remembered, the night she came, sick and broken, into the tavern, with her baby in her arms.

"The poor wee thing's fair excited," she murmured, as she cuddled the tiny bundle against her breast.

"Won't you take tea with us?" the mother inquired, her face lighting up at the prospect.

"Ye must just help yerselves from my basket, then," Nancy protested, as she brought it over.

Mrs. Morris, for such was the lady's name, proved an excellent travelling companion. She was not only a splendid conversationalist, but also she knew how to procure warm tea from the porter. Soon she and Nancy were quite at ease with each other, Nancy contributing her share at the entertaining, with her homely gossip of the Monk Road and its people. The baby was her chief solace, however, and its mother only had it during the midnight hours, so constant a nurse was she. And the atom itself was tractable beyond its own mother's belief.

The process of making up the beds in the sleeper gave Nancy an unpleasant half-hour. She did not admire the masculine performances of the porter.

"It's no work for an ignorant black man," she informed Mrs. Morris, in a deprecatory tone. Then she spoke directly to the negro: "Ye can just pull down the cover, an' I'll do me own fixin'."



"Yes, mum," he answered, grinning, but he did not desist from his duties.

"He's one of thim furriners, who don't know what ye're sayin', I suppose," she observed, resignedly.

When the conductor made his last round of the cars, before the lamps were extinguished, Nancy stopped him and questioned anxiously, "Ye'll be sure to waken me at Chicago?"

"Why, ma'am, we won't arrive there until tomorrow evening," he answered.

"So ye say, but I'm strange to the run o' trains, an' I don't want to be goin' miles past the place and niver know it," she objected.

"Never fear, missus, you'll be looked after properly," he said, consolingly.

The night and day journey to Chicago was so full of pleasant happenings that Nancy could scarcely realize it was almost over. With the Morris baby asleep in her arms, she would gaze from the window at the panorama of country drifting past, interested in its strangeness only in a superficial sort of way, while her inmost thoughts pictured the great city to which she was going, and wherein she expected her son to be the most predominant figure. Each hour seemed to be bringing him closer to her, and a mild yearning centred about her heart. Occasionally a twinge of apprehension would mar her tranquillity. She wondered if he would know her, and if he had received the postcard which she had written with so much care a week previous. She was too conscious of her happiness to let such thoughts disturb her for long, and then Mrs. Morris lived in Chicago and had promised to watch over her welfare until she was safe in Corney's keeping.

The gradual increase in houses clustered into villages along the way warned her of the near approach to her destination.

"I hope I may see more of ye," she observed to Mrs. Morris, after a long silence of reflection.

"It's a big city, and you will be very busy," the little lady explained. "But I shall never forget your kindness to me. I should have been very lonely and tired if you hadn't made friends," she continued.

"It's been a God's blessin', the knowin' o' ye an' the kiddies," Nancy assured her.

This simple-minded old body had made a deep inroad into the city mother's affections, and her joy at the early prospect of meeting her husband was tempered with a sincere sadness at the parting which it would entail.

The evening was growing quickly into darkness as they sped along, and an unusual bustle amongst the other passengers had commenced. Now that the hugeness of the outlying districts of Chicago were being unfolded to Nancy with the long lines of lighted street, and starry streaks of electric cars flashing by like meteors in a southern sky, she became aware of a keen sense of fear. It was all so different from anything in her past experience. It seemed as if she had broken ties with everything familiar except the sweet face of her companion and the two sleeping children. The roar of the city had now enveloped the train, and presently it began to slacken speed, as it had done a score of times before in the last hour. The conductor came into the car, calling out, "Chicago!" and Nancy's heart beat so that it almost choked her. The bright glare of the station came down into their window from the roofs of adjacent trains, and then, before she rightly understood what was happening, she was out on to the platform with her arms full of her own and Mrs. Morris' bundles. A short man detached himself from a crowd that waited without the gates far in front, and came dashing towards them.

"It is my husband," Mrs. Morris whispered, breathlessly. Next moment she was locked in his arms. Nancy gazed furtively about, peering at the faces, and hoping that one might be her son. After a long scrutiny, she turned a despairing, helpless face to her late travelling companion. Mrs. Morris understood, and came to her rescue quickly.

"You are a stranger in this big city, so you had better come home with us for to-night," she suggested.

"I wrote him to be waitin' fer me, but he must have forgotten," Nancy returned, brokenly.

"Yes, you must come, Mrs.—" Mr. Morris began, then hesitated.

"Mrs. McVeigh, from the Monk Road," his wife told him, with a happy smile.

"The Monk Road, where is that, pray?" Mr. Morris asked, in puzzled tones.

"D'ye not know that?" Nancy exclaimed, incredulously.

The man shook his head.

She considered awhile, then made a gesture of utter helplessness. She knew no adequate description of the geographical position of her home. It was just the Monk Road, running from an indefinite somewhere to an equally mysterious ending, and anyone who did not know that was lacking in their education. They threaded their way through the press of people to the narrow street, and entered a cab. Then, while the husband and wife talked in subdued tones, Nancy listened to the babel of clanging gongs and footsteps of many people on the pavements over which they were passing. She suddenly bethought herself of questioning Mr. Morris as to his knowledge of her son Cornelius. His answer was as perplexing as everything else she had encountered in that strange new world. He had never heard of him. Fortunately she had a business card of her son's firm, and after much cogitation Mr. Morris decided that he could find the establishment in the morning.

Nancy secured a much-needed night's rest at the home of the Morris family, and was up and had the kettle boiling on the range before the appearance of the household.

"I'd no enjoy the day at all if I wasn't doin' somethin' o' the sort! An' ye're tired," she responded to Mr. Morris' surprised ejaculation. She had to curb her anxiety to be off until after the noon hour, and then, with a promise to return, if her plans miscarried, she was piloted aboard the Overhead by Mr. Morris.

"I'll drop you off in front of the block in which your son's offices are situated," he informed her by the way. The run through the city was perhaps a distance of four miles, and while Nancy gazed in open-mouthed wonder, the little man pointed out to her the places of note along the route.

"It's all just wonderful," was the text of her replies.

They drew up at a little station, and from it descended to the pavement, and at a great door in a block that made her neck ache to see its top, he left her, with a list of directions that only served to shatter the remnant of location which her mind contained. She looked uncertainly about her until her eyes rested on the sign, "Beware of Pickpockets!" then she clutched her old leathern wallet, and with frightened glances hurried inside. But here a second labyrinth opened to her. A glass door led into a very spacious apartment, where a number of men were counting money in little iron cages. She boldly marched in and asked the nearest one, "Please, sir, is this Cornelius McVeigh's office?" The man addressed stopped his counting and scowled at her, but something in her wrinkled, serious face caused him to relent of his churlishness.

"A moment, ma'am," he replied.

Next instant he was by her side, and very gallantly led her to the outer hall and over to the elevator man. That Mecca of information scratched his head before venturing to assist them, then he hazarded, briskly, "Fifth floor, No. 682."

"If that's wrong, come back," the young man said, kindly, as he left her.

The elevator drew her up almost before she could catch her breath, and landed her on the fifth floor. The man pointed along a hallway, and she followed this until a name in big gilt letters arrested her attention and caused her heart to flutter spasmodically. "Cornelius McVeigh—Investments," it read. And this was really her son's Eldorado! A mist crept over her eyes as she turned the brass knob and entered. A score of young men and women were before her, busily engaged at desks, writing and sorting over papers. Beyond them, other doors led to inner offices, and from some invisible quarter a peculiar clicking cast a disturbing influence. Whilst she was taking it in, in great sweeping glances, a small boy stepped saucily up and demanded her wishes.

"I'm Mistress McVeigh, o' the Monk Road, an' I've come to see Cornelius," she told him.

The boy looked at her, whistled over his shoulder and grimaced.

"What yer givin' us, missus?" he asked.

"I'll have ye understand I'll take no impudence," she retorted, wrathfully, shaking her parasol handle at him.

"If yer wants the boss, he's out," he informed her, with more civility.

"Is there anything I can do?" a young lady asked, coming over to her from her desk.

"It's just Mister McVeigh that I want to see. I'm his mother," Nancy replied, simply.

"You are his mother!" the girl exclaimed, doubtfully.

"That I am," Nancy declared, emphatically.

"Mr. McVeigh is out of the city, but Mr. Keene is here. Will he do?" she again questioned.

At this juncture someone stepped briskly from an inner room, and then a man dashed impetuously across the general office, scattering books and clerks in his eagerness, and crying, "Why, it's Mrs. McVeigh!" as he caught her gaunt body in his arms.

"Johnny, me lad, is it yerself?" she gasped, after he had desisted from his attempts to smother her.

Young John Keene held Nancy's hand within his own whilst he showed her everything of interest in the office, for the mother loved it all because it was her son's. The clerks were courteous and attentive, and the girls fell in love with the quaint old lady on the spot.

"It's fer all the world like a school," she murmured in young John's ear.

"And I'm the big boy," he answered, laughing.

A telegram searched the far corners of Mexico that afternoon, and at an unheard-of place, with an unpronounceable name, it found Cornelius McVeigh, the centre of a group of gentlemen. The party had just emerged from the yawning mouth of a mine, and were resting in the sunshine and expelling the foul air from their lungs, whilst the young promoter of the western metropolis was explaining, from a sheet of paper covered with figures, the cost of base metal to the producer. The mine foreman suddenly interrupted his remarks with a yellow envelope, which he thrust respectfully forward. "A telegram, sir," he said, and withdrew. The array of men sighed gratefully at the respite, and Cornelius McVeigh hastily scanned the message.

"Your mother in Chicago, much disappointed at your absence. When may we expect you?" so it read.

The young man folded it carefully, put it into his pocket and continued his discourse, but his words were losing their pointedness, and he was occasionally absent-minded.

"It's dinner-time. I move an adjournment to the hotel," one of the grey-haired capitalists suggested, and, with scant dignity for men of such giant interests, they hurried to take advantage of the break in the negotiations. Cornelius McVeigh did not go in to lunch, but strolled the length of the verandah for a full hour, absorbed in thought, then with characteristic energy he hastened to the little telegraph room and wrote a reply to his home office:

"Will close a great deal if I stay. Cannot leave for a week at least. Persuade mother to wait."

He then walked to the smoking apartments, where his late associates were trying to forget business.

"I am ready, gentlemen," he observed, in his crisp, convincing manner of speech.

Young John Keene handed the message to the Widow McVeigh. He knew it would hurt, and his arm stole about her shoulders as it did when he was the scamp of the Monk Road gossip.

"I'm tired o' this great noisy city," she faltered, after she had studied the message a long time. "I'm no feelin' meself at all, at all, an' my head hurts. I must be goin' home."

"You shall stay with me, Nancy. Corney will be back in ten days at the least. My wife wishes it, as well as myself, and we want you to see our little Nancy. That's our baby," he said, in lower tones.

Nancy gazed at the hurrying people on the hot pavements below, at the buildings that shot upwards past her line of vision, at the countless windows and tangled wires; then she turned to young John and he knew that she had seen none of them.

"I'll try, Johnny," she answered.

The days that followed were battles with weariness to Nancy McVeigh. She did not complain, but her silence only aggravated the loneliness which had crept into her soul. Young John Keene talked to her, amused her, cajoled her, pleaded with her, and yet her mood was impenetrable. Even tiny Nancy Keene's dimpled fingers could not take away the strange unrest in her eyes. Then, when the ten days had elapsed, a second message came: "Kiss mother and tell her to wait. Can't return for another week. Am writing." Nancy read it and cried; not weakly, like a woman, but with harsh, dry sobs.

"I'll be goin' home in the mornin'," she said, firmly.

The train took her away in the damp, sunless early hours, when the city was just awakening.

"She's crazed with homesickness," young John's wife confided to her husband, in a hushed, sad voice.

The way home was long, and Nancy chafed at the slowness of the express. So long as it was light she watched from the car window, and not till the pleasant quiet of the vicinity of Monk Road was reached did the gloom-cloud rise from her face. Her heart seemed to beat free once more, and her eyes were full of tears, but they were tears of happiness. She left the train at Monk, and the first person to greet her was Father Doyle, who by chance was at the station. He read a tale of disappointment in his old friend's appearance, and he remarked, sympathetically, "You are looking thin and tired, Mistress McVeigh."

"It's a weary day, sure enough," she admitted. The two walked side by side, the stout priest carrying her heaviest travelling bags, until they came to the road which the summer hotel management had built in a direct line from the station to their gate, and here Nancy stopped abruptly.

"Well, if the old tavern isn't right over there, just as I left it," she ejaculated, and a smile broke over her countenance the like of which it had not known for days past.



CHAPTER IX.

THE KERRY DANCERS.

Nancy McVeigh treasured her disappointment over the visit to Chicago for many months, but only Katie Duncan and those who saw her daily knew of it. She was not the strong, self-reliant Nancy whom people had so long associated with the ramshackle inn of Monk Road. But her smile grew sweeter and her sympathies ran riot on every side where little troubles beset her less fortunate neighbors. Her mind turned oftener to the church which stood on the side-road, beyond the home of Father Doyle, and her influence for a better life was remarkable with the younger generation. The stormy period of her own existence was past, and like a silvery rivulet twinkling in the sun at the mountain crest, speeding downward until it roars and foams in an angry cataract, then emerging into the cool, placid stream, lazily flowing past the village cottages and on through the silent woodland, she had reached a stage where only goodness and friendship mattered.

Her great neighbor, the summer hotel proprietor, was perhaps the solitary person who did not understand her. In vain he waited patiently, as the seasons opened and closed, for her to accede to his importunities to sell her property. There the old inn stood, a blot within the terraced grounds and clean-cut park, unsightly to his eyes, and the humorous butt of his patrons. But Nancy had made her plans when the new order of things was first suggested, and she turned her rugged face to the sandy Monk Road and held her peace.

Cornelius, her son, had written her often and voluminously since her trip southwards. He had also made a definite promise that he would come home the very next summer. 'Twas this that brightened her eyes and put a lightness into her step. It also provided a subject of constant conversation between herself and Katie Duncan. Together they would count out the months and weeks and days to the time when he should arrive.

"The lad's worried, so he is, an' he wants to see his ould mother, in spoite o' his foine clothes an' his dealin's," she repeated, during those happy confidences.

Although Nancy had abandoned the public service, yet hers was no humdrum existence. She still had duties to perform which occupied her thoughts from daylight to dusk. She frequently visited the Dodonas, who lived in the big Piper house. And the Piper children played about her front door, much as her own son and Johnny Keene had done so many years before. Other children, too, found the vicinity of the widow McVeigh's a very tempting resort, and their parents were well satisfied, for they had learned to love and respect the white-haired woman who chose to be their guardian.

"I'll niver get enough o' the dears," she would say to the mothers, and they quite believed her.

In the winter of the following year Will Devitt came home from the North-West. He had been absent three years, and during that time had secured a grant of land. He boasted of his possessions to his foster-mother, and she was almost as proud of them as he was himself.

"It's a grand country, sure, this Canada of ours, an' were I younger I'd go back wi' ye, Will. D'ye think we could find business fer a tavern?" she asked him one day.

"You would just make your fortune," Will responded, enthusiastically.

Nancy smiled and shook her head.

"I'm only talkin' like a silly ould woman, laddie. In the first place, I'm no fit to run a tavern, an' in the second, it's no fittin' occupation fer the loikes o' me."

Will had been home a short while when Nancy's suspicions were aroused, and being unable to lay them bare to Katie Duncan, she told them to Mrs. Doctor Dodona.

"There's somethin' mysterious in the behavior o' the young folk," she confided. "I'm uncommon versed in the language of sighs an' tender looks, an' it's comin' to somethin' before long."

"You don't mean that Will Devitt is in love?" the doctor's wife asked, in mild surprise.

"I'm afeard it's just that," Nancy admitted, regretfully.

"And with whom, pray?"

Nancy bent forward and whispered in her ear.

"Your Katie!" Sophia Dodona exclaimed.

Nancy nodded, and they both laughed.

Nancy knew instinctively that her two foster-children had something they wished to say to her, and she purposely kept them at arm's length, whilst she enjoyed their discomfiture.

"It's rare fun," she told Sophia.

Will Devitt was becoming desperate, for he must soon get himself back to his prairie farm. So, after a lengthy twilight consultation with his heart's desire, he came tramping awkwardly into the presence of the widow McVeigh.

"Ye're lookin' serious the night," she greeted, as she paused with her knitting.

"I'm feeling that way, too," he conceded, sighing.

"Maybe ye're thinkin' o' the closeness o' yer leavin'?" she questioned.

"It's partly that," he admitted, sheepishly.

"Only partly, ye say. Fer shame, to let anythin' else be a part o' such thoughts," she observed, somewhat severely.

"Now, granny, it is no use you being cross with me. I'm full of love for you and the old place, and you know it," he expostulated. "There's something else, all the same," he continued, with a forlorn pleading in his voice.

"Then ye had better out wi' it, lad," she replied, giving him her whole attention.

"It's about our Kate," he commenced.

"I thought as much. Ye go away an' get a plot o' land somewhere, an' a bit o' a cabin, an' then ye come back pretendin' it was yer love fer yer poor granny. But ye had other plans, which ye wouldn't tell till ye were driven to it," Nancy interrupted, with a strange lack of sympathy.

Her words aroused Will's latent passion, and drove him to a confession, regardless of consequences.

"Katie an' I have been lovin' each other fer years, in fact, ever since we were children. We made it up then that we should marry some day. When I went West it was to earn enough money to buy a home fer us. I've got a farm now, an' I can keep her. We've talked it over every night fer a month, an' she's willin' to go if ye will give yer consent," he burst out, earnestly.

Mistress McVeigh listened in silence, rocking her chair to and fro. As the night became darker only her outline was visible to the youth, who poured into her ears his love story with an unfettered tongue. He talked rapidly of his plans, his chances and his faith in his ability to maintain Katie Duncan as comfortably as she had been at the tavern. When he had finished, Nancy called sharply to Katie, whom she rightly guessed was not far away, to fetch a lamp. Katie obeyed with commendable alacrity, and deposited it on the table. She had never seemed so grown-up and pretty to her foster-parent as she did at that moment.

"Katie," began Nancy, with ominous slowness, "Will has been tellin' me that ye have been courtin' under me very nose. Do ye love him truly, lass?"

"Yes, granny," the girl answered, almost defiantly.

"God bless ye, children. The sooner ye're married, then, the better," Nancy exclaimed, and she drew them both to her and kissed them again and again.

It was a real old-fashioned country dance that followed the wedding of Katie Duncan and Will Devitt. The ceremony was performed by Father Doyle in the early morning, and all afternoon the preparations for the evening were being rushed to completion with tireless energy.

"Katie's the last o' my children, an' I'll give her a fittin' send-off," Nancy explained to Sophia Dodona, and her words were not idly spoken.

The doctor's wife was in the kitchen, superintending the baking. As a result, such an array of good things to eat had never before graced the modest board. The task of decorating was in the care of Will Devitt and his bride, and a gay dress they were putting on the interior of their old home. Flags were draped over the walls, evergreens fastened to cover the door and window-tops, and flowers from the Piper conservatory were placed wherever space would permit. Nancy had no especial work, so she assumed the role of general advisor and final court of appeal. Such a concourse of guests had been invited that it was doubtful if the accommodation was sufficient. But, as Will Devitt suggested, they danced closer together nowadays, so that the room required would not be so much.

By eight o'clock the merry sleigh-bells were jingling over the Monk Road. Boys and girls, some older than the term would imply, were tumbling out of the robes in the glare of the big tin lamp, hung to the gable end, which Nancy had borrowed from the church gate. The fiddlers arrived early, and after a warm at the hall stove, began tuning up on the improvised platform at the end of the parlor. The floor manager, a tall young Irishman named O'Connell, raised his voice above the babel of talking and laughing, and proclaimed the opening number.

"Partners fer the Lancers!" he shouted.

A hush ensued, and Sophia Dodona and her staff came from the kitchen to see the start off.

"No, doctor, I'm too ould," Nancy was saying to Dr. Dodona, who wished to set the pace for the younger guests. But her words did not ring true, and amidst the hearty plaudits of the rest she took the doctor's arm. The others fell in line as if by magic, and then the fiddles began with vim. Oh, how they danced! Everyone, old and young—quadrilles, reels, polkas, Irish Washerwoman, Old Dan Tucker, and all. Even Mrs. Conors, after much persuasion, did a jig as it was performed "whin I was a gal in ould Ireland," and Patrick Flynn, the aspiring County Member, was her partner. How the old tavern creaked and groaned with the unusual tax upon its timbers, and how bright the windows looked from every side of the rambling edifice! When midnight was past the tables were set in the bar-room of ancient times, and the cleverest productions of Sophia Dodona disappeared like snow before an April sun. As Dr. Dodona remarked afterwards to his wife, "'Twould be a round century of health to the bride and groom should the wishes of the feasters be realized."

When it was all over, and the last "Good-night" had passed the threshold, Nancy went to her room. She sat a long while, resting in her big rocking-chair and reflecting on the changes in the future which the day had meant for her. Her eyes gradually centred on her photographs of Cornelius, and her face immediately brightened.

"Heigho," she sighed, "it's no my religion to worry."



CHAPTER X.

THE HOME-COMING OF CORNELIUS McVEIGH.

Cornelius McVeigh sat in his private office, thinking. A telegram lay open before him on the desk, and its contents had all to do with the brown study into which he had fallen. Presently his senior clerk appeared in answer to a summons he had given a moment before.

"John, I'm going home for a holiday," he said.

Young John Keene's face brightened perceptibly at the announcement.

"It's the right thing to do, Corney, and the trip will do you a world of good," he replied, with a familiarity which business rules could not overcome.

"I must go at once. You see, I've a telegram. Perhaps you would care to read it," Cornelius McVeigh continued, moodily.

Young John took up the missive and read it aloud: "Come home at once. Mother seriously ill.—Dodona." He looked up to find his employer's eyes searching his face anxiously.

"You will go at once, Corney?" he said, quietly, but with a note of challenge.

"The train leaves at noon. Help me to pack up, John," the other answered.

The Tourist Express stopped at The Narrows for half an hour just at lunch time. The Narrows was a pretty place. The peninsula jutting from either way, separated only by a shallow strait, was spanned by the railroad bridge. The station formed a centre at one end to a thickly settled district of summer cottages, and quite close by stood two rather pretentious hotels. East and west the glistening surface of the lakes, dotted with islands, spread out like two great sheets of chased silver. Out beyond, the white trail of the sandy Monk Road zigzagged until it was lost in the trees. 'Twas a half-hour well spent to lounge about the platform and take in the grandeur of the landscape.

The usual crowd of gaily dressed humanity was waiting for the train, surging about it as the passengers alighted.

Cornelius McVeigh stepped from the parlor car and looked at his watch irritably. Thirty minutes seemed an age to his impatient mind, and the richly upholstered car was too confining for him to think properly. To the outward eye he was the Cornelius McVeigh of the city, tall, of military bearing and faultlessly attired, who gave his fellow-beings the privilege of calling at his office between the hours of ten and four each business day, that they might lay before his highly trained faculties their little monetary affairs, and also the fee which his wide reputation for successful manipulating could demand. He moved only until he was free of the people, then paused whilst his gaze shifted from his late companions to the station and on to the dim, sunny, leafy country beyond. Disappointment lurked in the corners of his eyes and gradually spread over his entire countenance. Suddenly he realized that it was exceedingly warm on the unsheltered platform. He wished to think quietly, so he shifted his raincoat to his other arm and sought a shaded place against the railing. His mind was struggling in a vortex of ancient history, and this was the picture which arose from the strife. A very commonplace, bare-legged lad, with curly, uncombed hair and face so freckled that a few yards' distance merged them into one complete shade of reddish brown. He surveyed the neighboring bridge, and it came into his mental vision unconsciously. The long, lean girders he had once trod with the careless ease of a Blondin. Farther out, the rotting tops of the piles of the old foot-bridge had been his seat from which he caught the crafty pickerel. Beyond, the opening in the shore reeds marked the passage to the secret feeding-ground of the black bass. He remembered it perfectly. A fleeting sarcastic smile dwelt on his deeply-lined features as he watched a number of boats, filled with noisy, gesticulating campers, who fished in the open water where no fish lived. A small lad, certainly a native of the place, dressed in knee trousers and a shirt which let in the air in places, was holding high carnival with the nerves of the onlookers. He was performing daring feats on the trestle-work of the bridge. Suddenly, accidentally, or maybe purposely, the expected catastrophe occurred, and he plunged head foremost into the running water twenty feet below. A chorus of feminine shrieks greeted the termination of his exploits, but his grinning face as he reappeared, treading water and rubbing his eyes, turned their consternation into laughter. Then, with a final howl of boyish delight, he struck out for the nearest pier.

Cornelius McVeigh awoke from his reverie as the express began to move. He swung aboard and proceeded to gather his baggage together. He had scarcely finished when the train slowed up at the end of his journey. He stepped out with a feeling of expectation. Home at last! The thought was predominant, and he let it sway him with a selfish disregard to other influences. Everything had changed during his twenty years of absence; and the strangeness broke in upon him as if in condemnation. Here again was the chattering, light-hearted throng, and their presence only added additional pangs. Not a familiar face to greet him. Even the fields and woodlands had a different aspect. All the success of the past decade, which had given wealth and a recognized place in the world of business, could not wipe out the impression of a youth of dreamy idleness and simplicity. Where he had hunted rabbits and slept under a tent of tattered carpet during the warm summer nights stood a gaudily-painted hotel, flanked with wide verandahs and terraced lawns. And all about were people, in hammocks, on chairs or rustic seats, or wandering about enjoying the cool freshness of the lake breezes. He hurried along the wide newly-cut road which led from the station. At the high wire gate, erected so recently that the sods from the post-holes were yet green, he stopped. The successive changes of the place were so startling to him that he wished to contemplate them more slowly. It was an ideal spot and filled the soul with pleasurable anticipation. The children played on the grass, and the hotel employees sang as they dawdled by in pursuit of their duties. Everything bespoke luxury and ease. In the entrance doorway of the hotel stood a stout man, probably the proprietor. He was looking from under his hand in a speculative way at the stranger by his gate. Cornelius saw these things mechanically. Then, as his eyes passed from one point to another, his mother's tavern came within the circle of his vision. He looked no farther. There it stood, the oddest, drollest structure that ever marred so perfect a landscape. Its weather-beaten shingles curled to the sky. Its cracked chimneys and protruding gable leaned towards the roadway, and every board was rusted to a natural paintless hue. The pump stood apart, the trough green with moss and the handle pointing outwards threateningly, like a grim sentry guarding against the curious passers-by. A grove of trees generously shaded the rear porch, and beyond them, behind the high fence, he knew, was the garden. The log barn, with its plastered chinks, had not altered a particle, and the cow might have been the same one he had milked, so like her she appeared as she munched at the trailing wisps of hay hanging from the loft. The outspoken cackle of hens also added to the rustic environments. It filled his heart with gladness to see the old place, but it was not complete. The quaintest figure of all was missing—his mother, tall and white-headed, standing on the verandah watching down the road for his return. Something was hanging to the soiled brass knob of the front door, and as he approached he saw that it was a streamer of black crepe. His heart, which for twenty long years had thrilled only to the hard-won successes of a self-made man, beat with a sudden passionate fear, and a tear stole out upon his cheek. A new-born awkwardness grappled with him as he stumbled along the roadway. Somehow he saw a pair of dirty, sun-scorched feet encased in his shining leather shoes. The languid eyes of the hotel guests followed him, and some wondered as to the nature of his errand. Arriving at the door, he knocked lightly. An old woman, with dishevelled grey hair and shoulders enveloped in a bright homespun shawl, answered his summons and shrilly demanded what he wanted.

"Is it Mrs. Conors?" he asked, scrutinizing her face earnestly. She turned with a look of open-mouthed wonder upon him, and hesitated before speaking, so he continued:

"Have you forgotten Corney?" He trembled with a vague fear, and the old woman's failing memory smote him painfully.

"Be ye Corney McVeigh? A-comin' home to see yer poor dead mammy, an' ye the ounly boy she had? But surely Corney wouldn't have sich foine clothes. I can scarcely believe ye," she muttered, doubtingly.

"Dead! Mother dead!" he ejaculated, passing his hand across his forehead. He swayed a moment as if struck, and then he answered, with forced calmness:

"Yes, Mrs. Conors, I am Corney, and I want to see my mother. I've been coming home these many years, but something always turned up to spoil my plans. I knew the money I sent her every month was sufficient to keep her in comfort, but I didn't think it would be like this—not like this!"

Corney McVeigh stepped across the ancient threshold and gazed long and searchingly at the face in the darkened parlor; a face seamed and thin with toil and worry, yet infinitely sweet and motherlike to the world-lost man who choked back the tears as he felt again that almost forgotten child-love.

Mrs. Conors broke the silence.

"I put her ould spinning-wheel there in the corner, where she could see it 'fore she went. Those socks on the table was her last work fer ye, Corney. She said to keep yer father's pictur' an' hers togither in the album. I was also tould to warn ye 'gainst sleepin' in the draught, 'cause ye were always weak about the lungs, an' yer father died o' thet complaint. She thought maybe ye wouldn't be wantin' the ould house, so if the hotel man offered ye a good figure ye could sell it. The cow and the chicks were to go to me, an'—well, bless me heart, if he hasn't fainted!"

Mrs. Conors ceased her explanations and called to the occupants of the rear room, whose conversation came in to her in low monotones. "Mrs. Dodona! Jennie! it's Corney, and the lad's fainted."

The blindness, for that was all that Corney experienced, passed off in a few minutes, and when his eyes could notice he saw that they had carried him to the little room which had once been his own bed-chamber. Two women were placing cool cloths on his head. When he revived, one stepped quietly out. The other remained. She was young and decidedly pretty, but her face showed plainly the effects of recent grief. Cornelius McVeigh noticed her appearance particularly because it was peculiarly familiar to him. The harsh shock of his bereavement had passed, leaving him weakened but calm.

"Corney, do you remember me?" the girl asked him, gently.

"Jennie," he answered, hesitatingly, as if it was an effort for him to collect his thoughts.

"We have lost our mother—ours," she said, tremulously, and lowered her head, weeping.

He hastily arose, and his arm clasped her shoulder with brotherly affection. It seemed to him the only way to comfort her. She did not resist him, and they sorrowed together.

Cornelius McVeigh did not hasten away from the scene of his great sorrow. To tell the truth, he had lost for the time being his craving for the bustling of the city and the subdued activity of his office. In the place of the latter came hours of quiet, apathetic reverie while he lingered beneath the roof-tree of home. He modified his dress and waylaid sundry travellers who passed the door in lumbering farm wagons. Ofttimes he clambered aboard and went a-visiting, and in exchange for his city stories received tales of the Monk Road and his mother that were as balm to his wounded heart.

Jennie was also loath to leave the peaceful spot. Her grandparent, who found a new joy in living because of his affection for her, came to the neighboring hotel and hired a suite of rooms for an indefinite period. He proved a worthy comrade in idleness for the jaded business man, and the three of them, Jennie, Cornelius McVeigh and Mr. Hyden, were always together.

Jennie had been an apt pupil, and the few years of education which her grandparent had provided for her had transformed her from an uncultivated country girl into an accomplished young woman. Nor was she lacking in comeliness. Ofttimes the eyes of Cornelius McVeigh followed her with a strange light glistening in their depths.

The boy and girl love of years gone by, so prematurely blighted and so long dormant, was struggling again to the surface, and who knows but another wedding, the last of so many which have been recorded in the previous chapters, may yet be an accomplished fact? But that involves another story, and it has not the presence of Nancy McVeigh.

THE END