"Happy and hearty!" says he.

"Thanks be to heaven again!" says I. "But what's the matter wid you, at all, man alive?"

"The matter wid me?" said he. "What would be the matter wid me?" said he.

"Sorra a one of me knows!" replied I. "But you look as if you were at a wake widout whiskey!"

"You didn't hear much about what happened at Ballyshevan in Amerikay?"

says he.

"Faith, you are right! Not much more than I did about Foxey O'Gorman, wid his squint and red hair!" says I, laughing to think what a fool the skipper had made of me.

"There's nothing to laugh at _here_!" says he. "There's only two things that have been plintiful this sason!"

"Potaties and oats?" says I.

"No such luck!" says he.

"What thin?" I asked.

"_Famine and faver_!" he says pat.

You might have knocked me down wid a Jack-straw, whin I heard those words. I raled back, and if it hadn't been for a binch that was close against the wall, which I clutched a hould of, and managed to bring myself up with, I'd have fallen full length on the floor.

"Have a good sup of this!" says he, handing me his tumbler of punch; "and don't take on so," says he. "You are better off than most of the neighbours! Sure death hasn't knocked at your door; and all you love are living--though they have had a hard time of it--to welcome you back."

"You are right," says I, as I started up, "and the sooner I get that welcome the better. What am I wasting my time here for, at all at all, whin I ought to be there--it's only twenty miles. It's airly yet, I can be home by nightfall. I have promised to return, but I've got three days' lave, so I'm off at onct."

I won't kape you on the road, sure it's longer than ever it seemed; but it came to an end at last. I forgot all my fatigue whin I opened the door, and stepped inside the threshhold; it was between day light and dark--there was no candle burning--but I could see the forms of the four people most dear to me on earth. An involuntary "The Vargin be praised!" broke from my lips.

"My son!--my son!" almost screamed my mother, and if I had been four boys instead of one there wouldn't have been room enough on me for the kisses they all wanted to give me at the same time.

Whin the first great joy of our meeting was over, I began to ask pardon for quitting ould Ireland widout their lave.

"Don't spake about it, darlint," said my mother; thin, pointing upward, she added, mighty solemn, "Glory be to Him, it was His will, and it was the best day's work ever you did. Tell him what has happened."

"I will," said my father. "You see, Phil, my son, soon after you sailed for Amerikay, the old master died, and the estate came into the hands of his nephew, a wild harum-scarum sort of a chap, that kapes the hoith of company with the quality and rich people in London and Paris, and the lord knows where else besides; but never sets his foot, nor spinds a skurrick here, where the money that pays for his houses, and carriages, and race-horses, and the wine his foine friends drinks--when his tenants is starving--comes from. Seeing how things were likely to go, the ould agent threw up his place rather than rack the tenants any further; this just suited my gintleman, who sent over a new one, a hard man, wid a heart of stone, and he drove the poor craytures as a wolf would drive a flock of shape; they did their best, till their crops failed, to kape their bits of farms; but then--G.o.d help them! they were dead bate--sure the famine came, and the famine brought on the faver; they couldn't pay; they were evicted by dozens; and the evictions brought oil something worse than the famine or faver--something they hungered and thirsted for more than mate and dhrink."

"What was that, father dear?"

"_Revinge_!" says he.

"Revinge! father--revinge!" I muttered.

"Yis," says he; "but hush! spake low, darlin'! _The boys wint out_!

Well, after that, it's little the moon or stars were wanted to light up the night while there was a full barn on the estate.

"The country is overrun by the police and the sojers; but it is small good they have done, or are likely to do. Starving men don't care much for stale or lead; but--"

Here he paused, and raised his hand.

"Hush! there's futsteps on the road, and me talking loud enough to be heard a mile off."

As he spoke, he rose, went stealthily to the door, opened it, and looked out.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, it's naither the peelers nor the sogers, it's frinds that's coming."

As he wint back to his sate, a fine, handsome young fellow brought in a lovely girl, exclaiming, as he entered, "G.o.d save all here."

"Amen for that same kindly wish," was our answer.

They were ould frinds and playmates, the son and daughter of two of the snuggest farmers on the estate; and I well knew before I sailed for Amerikay they were engaged to be married.

"I wasn't wrong," said the young man, as he looked hard at me, "it is Phil himself. How's every bit of you? sure it's right glad I am to see you here this blessed night."

"And me, too, Phil," said pretty Mary Sheean, as she took the hand young O'Rourke left free, and shook it warmly.

We sat for, maybe, an hour or more, talking over ould times; and it was with a sad heart I listened to the bad news--for bad enough it was!

O'Rourke tould me the rason of his visit was to let me know he and Mary had made up their minds to sail for Amerikay, where they had some frinds doing well, and it was agreed they would go as steerage pa.s.sengers with me, three days after date, in the clipper ship, _George Washington_.

As they rose to depart, and were bidding us a kind good-night, a low whistle outside caused us all to start. O'Rourke drew himself up, and compressed his lips tightly, as he listened for a repet.i.tion of the signal.

Mary turned deathly pale, and clutched her sweetheart's arm convulsively.

The whistle was repeated.

Miles stooped down, kissed the trembling girl's forehead, and, addressing me, hastily said, "Phil, tired as you must be, I know I can trust to you to see Mary safe home."

"Why not do so yourself?" asked I.

"Because I am called, and must obey."

"Are the boys out to-night?" inquired my father.

"They are, and will be till--"

"When?--where?" demanded my mother.

"No matter," said O'Rourke, "you will know soon enough. Perhaps too soon."

The whistle was heard for the third time. O'Rourke rushed from the cottage, exclaiming, "Heaven guard you all!"

After the lapse of a few minutes, I started with Mary for her father's house. As I left her, looking very sad, at the door, I told her to be sure to see that O'Rourke was not too late to sail wid me.

"Little fear of that," said she; "since his father has been ordered to quit the farm, to make way for a friend of the new agent's, he'll be glad to lave the place forever."

I turned to go home, with a sad heart.