Coming to the cathedral, where it stands on the corner of Fiftieth Street and Fifth Avenue, we stopped to observe its proportions, at once noble and graceful, its white marble façade and tall spires being one of the ornaments of the Empire City. Entering the edifice, we knelt a while in prayer before we began to examine all its beauties in detail. The rich glow of the beautiful stained windows was a revelation to the child, and the stories which they tell of saints and martyrs appealed to her strongly. She watched their varied tints falling upon the marble altars with a visible delight.
"I must write a letter about this to Father Owen," she said as we came out again upon the dignified bustle of Fifth Avenue, so unlike the activity of Broadway, but still noticeable after the quiet of the great temple. "It is all so grand in there!" she said—"grand as our own mountains and beautiful as the Dargle. It reminded me of heaven. Perhaps heaven is something like that."
I smiled and did not contradict her; for the calm and repose of a great cathedral is very far removed indeed from earth.
"Of course there are several other churches I want you to see," I observed; "but perhaps that one will do now. As we had breakfast late, and are not in a particular hurry for our luncheon, I think we will take a trip in an elevated car first."
Winifred, of course, consented eagerly; and, having procured the child a cup of hot bouillon at a druggist's as a preventive against hunger, we climbed up the great iron stairs of the elevated station at Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, and were soon seated in the car.
It seemed very wonderful to Winifred that we should be flying through the air at such a rate of speed; but she was delighted with the swift motion and had no thought of fear. She kept looking in with eager curiosity at the houses or the shops as we passed by their second- or third-story windows, and down at the pigmy-like people on the sidewalk, making continual exclamations of wonder or interest.
We got out at the Battery; and before taking the East Side car up town I let Winifred take a run in Battery Park, so that she might have a glimpse of the bay and the huge ferry-boats landing their loads of passengers, and the funnels of the steamers or the masts of tall vessels in the offing.
"Across all that water," she cried, stretching out her arms with a pretty and graceful gesture, "is my home—my dear hills, the Dargle, and the people that I love!"
She sniffed the salt air as though it were wine; and ran about in the alleys, gazing longingly at the green grass, while I sat upon a bench and waited. At last I reminded her that time was flying, and that she would be a very hungry little girl by the time we made our trip up the East Side of the city and got down again to luncheon.
We were soon seated in a Third Avenue elevated car and passed up Chatham Square and the Bowery—that great thoroughfare, where such curious people congregate; where the very shops have a different air, and the oyster-saloons and other places of refreshment seem to revel in strange sign-boards and queerly-worded advertisements. The Jews arethere in large numbers, as also Syrians, Chinese, and other Orientals, so that it has a strange and foreign air.
It all amused and interested Winifred, and she called my attention every now and again to some grotesque figure on the sign-boards or to some poster on the wall. I pointed out to the child Stuyvesant Park and Union Square Park as a rest to the eyes tired with so much sight-seeing. Then we jogged up the uninteresting and uninviting Third Avenue till finally we were in the vicinity of Harlem Bridge and away up in the open country, past Harlem and Mott Haven, and well up toward High Bridge itself.
At last I called a halt, and we alighted and began the descent again. I resolved to take the little girl to luncheon at the Waldorf as a special treat, so that she might see modern luxury, so far as hotels are concerned, at its height. We sat in the Empire dining-room, with the imperial eagle of the great Napoleon on our chair-backs and a large bunch of fragrant pink roses on the table before us. Our soup was brought in small silver bowls, which reminded Winifred of Niall's treasures. She much enjoyed the very choice and daintily served luncheon which I ordered for her, particularly the sweet course and the dessert. An orchestra was playing all the time of luncheon, changing briskly from grave to gay; and its strains helped to make the whole scene dreamlike and unreal to the child of Nature, accustomed only to the glory of the hills.
Other wonders awaited her: thecafé, with its ever-blossoming trees, and the goldfish swimming in its ponds; the onyx stairway, and the Louis Quinze salon, with its inlaid cabinets, its brocaded furniture, and above all its gilt piano. This last object seemed to cap the climax of splendor in Winifred's eyes. I think, indeed, that very modern hotel seemedto her a page from the Arabian Nights—some Aladdin's palace which the genii had built up. She was very pleased, too, with the private dining-room upstairs, where the turning on of the electric light showed such a display of china of all sorts.
When we were tired of exploring, and had, in fact, seen all that was really worth the trouble or that was open to the public, I sat down at a table in the Turkish parlor to write a note, bidding Winifred rest a while. She coiled herself up in one of the great armchairs, keeping so still that I almost thought she had gone to sleep.
The rugs in that room are very soft and the draperies ample, and sound is very much deadened, so that I did not perceive any one coming in. Looking up suddenly from my writing, I was surprised to see Roderick O'Byrne. I grew pale and red by turns; my heart sank within me and I could not meet his glance. I thought of Niall, his anger, his threats, my own promises. Yet what was I to do in such a situation? Unconscious, of course, of the tumult he had raised in my mind, Roderick came directly toward me, making a few indifferent remarks on the weather, the last political event, the hotel. Finally he asked, abruptly:
"By the way, do I remember aright, that you said you were in Wicklow during your recent trip to Ireland?"
"Yes—no!" I cried, confused. "Oh, yes, of course I was there!"
He looked at me in some surprise; then he asked again:
"Of course you saw the Sugar Loaf Mountains, as the Sassenach call them, but which we Celts loved to name the Gilt Spurs?"
"Of course," I assented, more uneasily than ever; for I heard a movement in the chair.
"The Dargle goes without saying," he continued.
Another rustle in the chair.
"But I am not going to put you through a catechism on Irish local scenery," Roderick said, with a laugh; "I am almost sure you told me that you knew Father Owen Farley."
"Oh, my dear, dear Father Owen!" cried Winifred from the depth of her chair. The mention of that beloved name had aroused her from the spell of shyness, or some other cause, which had hitherto kept her silent.
Roderick turned quickly, and at the same moment Winifred stood up and faced him. There they were together, father and daughter, as any one could see at a glance.
"Do you know Father Owen, sir?" the child asked; and at her voice Roderick started. He did not answer her question, but, gazing at her intently, asked instead:
"Who are you, child?"
Something in the question abashed or offended Winifred; for she drew her little figure to its highest and replied not a word.
Roderick smiled involuntarily at the movement; and I, stepping forward, interposed myself between the father and daughter and drew the child away.
"Come!" I said: "we are in a hurry." And, with a bow and a few muttered words of farewell, I hastened out of the room; and, rushing from the hotel as if a plague had suddenly broken out there, I almost ran with the wondering Winifred to Broadway, where we took a cable car as the safest and speediest means of leaving that vicinity behind us. I had left the note which I was writing on the table; but, fortunately, I had sealed and stamped it, intending to put it in the mail-box in the hall. I was sure it would be posted, and gave myself no further concern about it.
I knew Roderick would come to me sooner or later for an explanation of that strange scene—the presence there of the child and my own singular conduct. His impetuous nature would give him no rest till he had cleared up that mystery. But at least the child should be safe back in the convent before I saw him; and I could then refuse to answer any questions, or take any course I thought proper, without fear of interference on the part of Winifred.
"We shall go on up to the Park," I said to the child; for I had some fear that Roderick might come straight to my hotel.
Winifred made no answer, and we took the car to Fifty-ninth Street, where we got out and were soon strolling through the broad alleys, thronged with carriages; or the quieter footpaths of that splendid Central Park, justly the pride of New Yorkers.
"Why are you afraid of that gentleman?" Winifred asked me in her abrupt fashion as I led her by a secluded path to show her a statue of Auld Lang Syne which had always appealed to me.
"I am not afraid of him, dear."
"But why are you trembling, and why did you run away?" she asked again.
"Because it was time for us to go. I still have much to show you."
"I like that gentleman," she said.
"Do you?" I cried impulsively. "I am so glad! Go on liking him just as much as ever you can."
She did not seem so much surprised at this statement and at my apparent inconsistency as a grown person would have been; but she went on:
"Only I thought it was rather rude of him to question me like that."
"He did not mean it for rudeness."
"No, I suppose not," the child said slowly. "I'm sorry you took me away so quickly. I would like to have talked to him. He reminded me of Niall."
"Of Niall!" I repeated in amazement.
"Yes," she answered. "Of course he hasn't gray hair and he doesn't wear the same kind of clothes that Niall does, but it's his face."
I remembered how the same thought had on one occasion occurred to me.
"Then I think he knew my dear Father Owen," the child continued. "I wonder how he knew him? Father Owen never came to America."
"Perhaps he heard of him," I suggested; for I was not anxious that her curiosity in the subject should be too keenly aroused. I tried to divert her mind by showing her various monuments and busts of celebrated people as we went, and at last we stood before the stone group of Auld Lang Syne. It is so natural, so easy, so lifelike that one would think it represented three old men, boon companions, whom we had known. The very buttons on their surtouts, the smile upon their faces, are to the life. Winifred stood by, smiling responsively, while I recited to her the familiar lines of that homely ballad which has found an echo in every land.
We could not see everything in the Park that day, especially as we began to feel tired. So, leaving the rest for a future occasion, we returned home again and had a rest before dinner. The gaily-lighted dining-room, the well-dressed guests, were a new source of pleasure to Winifred; but every once in a while her thoughts reverted to the dark gentleman. I was haunted by a fear that he would come that very evening for an explanation, and I did not linger either in the hotelparlors or the corridor. But the evening wore away and there was no sign of him. I took Winifred out to show her a little of New York by gaslight, and to lay in a stock of chocolates and other sweets for her to take back with her on the morrow.
Next day, faithful to promise, I brought her back to school, where I left her somewhat depressed and despondent, as the returning pupil is apt to be for a day or two. Then I set myself to await Roderick's visit with what heart I might.
When Winifred had returned to the convent, I waited patiently for Roderick's coming, which I knew could not be long delayed. Indeed, before the week was out his card was brought to me where I sat at my sitting-room fire. I glanced up at him as he entered the room. His face was grave, even stern in its expression, reminding me forcibly of Niall. After the ordinary salutations had been exchanged, he stood before me silent a moment; then he said, with an abruptness quite foreign to his manner:
"I think you will agree with me that this is no time for commonplaces. I have come to know the meaning of this mystery."
"Mystery!" I repeated vaguely; for, with all my planning and thinking what I should say when he came, I was still hopelessly at a loss, and resolved to be guided by the event.
"Yes, mystery," he declared emphatically. "I saw in your company the very child of whom I told you I had had a glimpse and whom I was so eager to see again."
"But how could I know that the child with me was the one who had attracted your attention?"
"Well, in the first place," he answered, looking at me keenly, "I gave you a tolerably accurate description of the girl in question. The type is not a very common one, and might, I think be easily recognized."
He paused; and I remaining silent, he went on again:
"I hope you will not consider it rude if I say that I think you did know it was the child I was in search of."
"And why?" I asked, still with a mere helpless idea of gaining time.
"Because of your manner and your course of action the other day in the parlor of the Waldorf. I saw at once that, for some reason or another, you were disturbed at my presence there. When the girl spoke and thus attracted my attention, you were distressed; and while I was in the act of addressing her you seized her by the hand and fled from the hotel." (An irrepressible smile came over his face at the recollection.) "You left in such haste that you forgot the letter you had been writing. However, I posted that for you. And you went along Thirty-third Street, I should be afraid to say at what rate of speed. Did you suppose I was going to pursue you and forcibly wrest away the child?"
I could not help laughing in sympathy at the drollery which shone out through the anxiety of his face, like sunshine from a cloud.
"Well, not exactly," I observed; "but, truth to tell, I had no desire to hold any conversation with you just then. And, besides, I was in a hurry."
"Oh, youwerein a hurry—there was no possible doubt about that!" he assented, still laughing.
"Will you not sit down?" I inquired. "You look so very unsociable standing, and the night is cold enough to make this fire agreeable."
He took the chair I indicated, but he did not turn from the subject.
"May I ask," he resumed, "if the child whom I saw on that occasion is here with you?"
"She is not," I responded briefly, elated that I could do so truthfully.
"Where is she?"
"That I can not tell."
"Can not tell!" he repeated musingly. "Surely that is a very strange answer. Perhaps, at least, you will tell mewhoshe is?"
"I am not at liberty to tell that either," I replied firmly.
"Mystery on mystery!" he cried, with an impatient gesture. "What in the name of common-sense—if you will forgive my bluntness—is the purpose of this mystification?"
"The mystification arises," I declared, "from the fact that I am solemnly pledged to keep both her identity and her whereabouts a secret."
"From whom?"
The question was a shrewd one. I hesitated how to answer it; but at last I said:
"From all inquirers."
"Are there likely to be many?" he asked, quizzically.
"That I can not say."
Roderick lay back in his chair and pondered, keeping his eyes fixed upon my face.
"Under ordinary circumstances," he said, after a pause, "I should, of course, respect your desire for secrecy and say no more about the matter. But there are reasons which make the identity of this child of vital interest to me."
I could not answer: there was now nothing I could say without revealing the secret I was pledged to keep.
"You will pardon me for saying further that I strongly suspectIam the person toward whom you are pledged to maintain this secrecy."
"You!" I repeated. "Why, surely you are in a singular mood to-night, full of fancies and suspicions!"
"For which I have good and sufficient reasons. Are yours equally so for maintaining this secrecy?"
"I believe that they are," I replied gravely.
He rose and paced the floor a while. Then he sat down again, and drew his chair nearer mine, as if impelled by some sudden resolve.
"Since you will not give me your confidence—" he began.
"Since I can not," I corrected quietly.
"Well, since you can not or will not, I shall give you mine instead, and open for your inspection a page of my life which I fancied was closed forever."
He paused, and an expression so sad and troubled crossed his face that, in my deep pity, I almost regretted my promise to Niall.
"I was brought up," he went on, "in the neighborhood of the Dargle. That beautiful glen and stream were alike familiar to me. I inhabited an old family mansion, which, to say the least, stood sadly in need of repair. I was under the guardianship of a kinsman who, though eccentric, was of sterling worth."
There was a touch of emotion in his voice, as he thus referred to Niall, which pleased me.
"When I was about twenty-three we had a serious difference of opinion, which arose in part from my marriage. For at that time I married a very beautiful girl, who lived only a few years, and left one child—a girl."
He hurried over this part of the story, which seemed deeply painful to him.
"It is always unpleasant to go into family affairs, but my relations with my wife's family were such that I removed the child from their influence and took her back to the old dwelling. There I placed her in charge of an old woman whohad been my nurse. I refused to accept any of my wife's money, even for the maintenance of the child; and, my own circumstances being not of the best, I came to America. I had but one object in view—to make money, that I might return, claim my child and restore the old dwelling of my fathers to something of its former state."
Again there was a long, troubled pause; and I did not interrupt him by so much as a word, nor did I give any sign that some of his story was already familiar to me. When he resumed it was in a different tone. His face was drawn and haggard, his voice tremulous:
"For some time I sent the half-yearly remittance faithfully to my little Winifred, and I was happy in so doing. Then I received a letter—from whom precisely I know not, though I believe it purported to be from a priest. It was written in the third person and it simply informed me that my child was dead."
"Dead!" I exclaimed—"dead! How cruel!—how—"
I was about to say untrue, but I checked myself in time. Roderick glanced quickly toward me but said nothing.
"It was indeed a cruel blow," he resumed at last; "and after that I gave up all desire to see Ireland again. I drifted on here, doing whatever good I could and working still, but with little personal hope or interest to cheer me in my labors."
His weary, despondent tone went to my heart, which was beating just then with exultation; for I was truly rejoiced to know that Winifred's father was worthy of her, that poor Niall's dreams might one day come true—at least in so far as seeing the reunion of father and child, with Roderick's return to the home of his youth. I resolved to write to Niall without delay, tell him of what I had discovered and obtain his permission to reveal all to Roderick. In the meantime,however, I must, of course, be true to my promise and give Roderick no hint of the knowledge I possessed.
"And you never found out from whom that letter came?" I inquired.
"Never: there was no means of finding out. Father Owen was at that time absent in Rome. I presumed it was from the priest who had replaced him. I wrote to him; the letter followed him to a distant parish in a remote part of Ireland, whither he had already returned. He had never written to me, he replied, and had no knowledge of the matter at all. I wrote to Granny Meehan, the woman who had charge of Winifred. She never answered. I suppose on the death of the child she had wandered away. I then sent a letter to Niall, the eccentric kinsman to whom I before referred. He, I suppose, was either dead or away on some of his wanderings."
"Your story is indeed a sad one," I put in, grieved that I could do nothing to dispel his sorrow. I could not let him know that Granny Meehan was still faithful to her post, that Niall was still dreaming and planning for his welfare and for the restoration of the old place; and that, best of all, Winifred was still living and such a child as might delight a father's heart—in fact, that she was the child who had so deeply interested him already. Whether he suspected that such was the case or merely saw in her some chance resemblance I could not yet tell.
"You may well say it is a sad story," Roderick answered. "To me it seems all the more so that since the receipt of that letter which dashed all my hopes Fortune has smiled upon me. Everything I touch seems to turn to money. The novel, rejected before, has since been accepted, and has run through several editions; articles from my pen are in demandby leading magazines; all my speculations have turned out well, and my insurance business has prospered. It is the old, old story of Fortune coming too late."
I sat still, joyful, yet amazed; thinking within myself:
"How wonderful are the ways of Providence! Niall's dream of restoring the old place shall certainly be realized now. Father and child, reunited, shall dwell amongst those lovely scenes; while the faithful hearts of Niall and Granny Meehan shall be filled with joy. How seldom does life work out events so happily!"
"Would you like to see the old place again?" I asked.
"What use now?" he cried. "Some day I may take the journey to see if Niall be still amongst the living; but I shrink from that as yet."
We sat silent after that for some moments, I afraid to break the spell lest I should in any way betray the knowledge which so filled my heart. But presently Roderick roused himself with the remark:
"That child whom I first saw in the carriage on Broadway, and whom I next saw in your company, has awakened a strange train of thought in my mind. I have even dared to hope that I have been the victim of a trick and that my child still lives. Her voice, when she spoke in the Waldorf parlor the other day, seemed as an echo of my vanished youth. It was the voice of my wife; and when the child rose from the chair and confronted me, for an instant I believed that the grave had given up its dead. It was my wife herself as I saw her first, many years before our marriage."
"Resemblances are very delusive," I said lamely.
"But wasthisresemblance delusive?" he asked, leaning forward and looking me in the face.
"How can I answer? I never saw your wife," I replied.
It was an evasion, and perhaps he saw it; but he only sighed deeply.
"I had expected better things of you," he went on; "for we are old enough friends that I might have looked to you for help in clearing up a mystery. As it is, you will not or can not; and I must drag on in the same weary, hapless fashion or follow out the clue for myself. Indeed, I trust you will think it no discourtesy when I tell you that Imustandwillfind out who this child is."
His resemblance to Niall was once more almost startling; though, needless to observe, there was no wildness nor violence of any sort in his manner.
"I wish I were able to give you the information you desire," I said formally. "But at present it is impossible."
He rose to take his leave.
"In that case I must not intrude upon you any longer," he answered coldly. "I am afraid I have been thoughtless in occupying so much of your time with my personal affairs."
I felt at that moment that a valued friendship of many years was endangered, but I could not be false to my trust. Niall must hear all, and then it would be for him to act. I held out my hand. Roderick took it but there was no warmth in the handshake; and as he disappeared down the corridor, I stood looking after him sadly, fully realizing that for the time being I had lost much in his estimation. Yet I hoped to be able to repair all and explain all in good time.
I did not lose a moment in getting out my writing-desk and writing to Niall a full account of all that I had heard. My pen moved rapidly and joyfully over the page. I had so much to tell! Roderick still true to his child, his kinsman, and his old home; Roderick having acquired wealth whichhe would be only too happy to spend in fulfilling the old man's dream. I also wrote to Father Farley and begged him to let Granny Meehan know the good news as speedily as possible. How I wished that I could fly over the ocean and be myself the bearer of those good tidings! I fancied the patient old face of Granny brightening, and the loving, tender voice giving forth thanks to her Creator.
The scene rose so vividly before me that I sat back in my chair, with pen uplifted, to ponder it over. There was the hearth in the great kitchen, near which Granny Meehan sat. A fire was burning there—a clear peat fire; beside it the tranquil figure of the blind woman, with the cat, Brown Peter, purring against her dress; and Barney and Moira in the background, hanging about to hear the great news which good Father Owen had to tell. And I conjured up the fine face of the priest beaming with the glad tidings; and I seemed to hear once more his genial voice reading aloud the welcome letter from America.
I returned to my task and wrote on, while the clock on my mantel tolled out eleven, and the din of the street below began to give place to the silence of night. I had a curious impression that Winifred stood beside me as I wrote, her image seemed so very vivid. I resolved to go to see her on the morrow, which was Thursday—visiting-day at the convent. But I knew it would be another trial to refrain from telling her of her father and of the mystery concerning him which had just been cleared up. My original intention of striving to kindle her affection and admiration for the father she scarcely remembered was strengthened by the knowledge I had gained. Knowing her father to be entirely worthy of her love and to be devotedly attached to her, I could with a clear conscience describe him as he really was, and clothethe phantom she remembered with the lovable attributes of the real man.
My letters finished, I rang for a bell-boy, and had them posted at once; for it seemed to me that they would never get over to Ireland, and that I would never have an answer back again. Then I stood for a moment at the window and looked out at the still brightly lighted streets, where the passers-by were fewer; though many still hurried to and fro from the theatres, concerts, or lectures—all intent on business or pleasure. Carriages swept by, cars with belated passengers in them still ran, and the hum of the great city was audible from afar even at that late hour.
I went up to see Winifred next day, and, in the light of my new discoveries, to talk with her over past, present, and future. She came into the dimly-lighted convent parlor with something of her former brightness. Her little figure was particularly graceful and symmetrical in the somber black of the costume. An attempt had been made to brush her curls as smooth as the regulations required, but they still broke out mutinously; her eyes shone; while her complexion, though paler than before, was clear and healthful. All present in the parlor—for it was visiting-day—turned to look at her, and I heard more than one whispered inquiry concerning her in the groups that sat around.
I inquired first about her school-life—her lessons and all those little details of convent life familiar to girls who have ever been at boarding-school.
"I am singing in the choir now," she told me; "and I like that very much. Did you ever sing in a choir when you were little?"
"No," I answered; "for the best of all reasons, that I had no voice."
"Well, we practise a great deal," she went on; "and that is always nice. I think my voice sounded best on the hills. Do you remember when I used to sit on the tree over the Dargle? Well I could raise my voice very high then."
"I remember well," I replied; "and those old ballads yousang suited your voice. But I am glad you are getting interested in the choir and in your singing lessons."
"Yes, and some of my other lessons I like very much. And, then, we are to have a play, in which I am to take the part of an Indian."
"You ought to do that well," I remarked, "because you have lived so much in the open air."
I thought as I spoke that she had indeed the free, wild grace of movement peculiar to the children of Nature.
"That's what Sister said when she gave me the part," Winifred assented. "It is great fun being an Indian. I have to wear feathers on my head and some paint on my face, and a beaded skirt and a blanket embroidered with quills and things. Wouldn't Barney and Moira stare if they saw me!"
And she laughed at the picture she conjured up of their amazement.
"Granny Meehan would stare too, were it possible for her to see you," I observed; "though that she could not do even if you stood before her."
"Poor old Granny!" Winifred said softly. "I wish I could see her. But there's no use wishing."
And she dismissed the subject with that curiously unchildlike composure and self-control which I had often perceived in her.
"Winifred," I finally asked, "do you remember your father at all?"
She looked startled, but answered:
"I suppose it was he who shut the door hard when the lady in yellow made him angry."
"Yes," I said: "I suppose it was."
"He was very dark," Winifred went on, thoughtfully. "I think it was the same one who took me away. He wasdressed all in black and he looked very sad. He took me by the hand and we went out of the house and through some streets, and then he put me before him on a horse and rode off. He was very kind and not at all angry that day."
"They say he is living, Winifred my child," I ventured. "Would you like to see him again?"
"Oh, yes!" she cried; "though perhaps he would be like a stranger; it is so very long ago."
"Niall believes you will see him yet," I continued; "so you ought to get accustomed to the idea. I used to know him, and he was noble and good and kind-hearted."
"You never told me before that you knew him," Winifred remarked, looking at me curiously.
"And yet I did, and he was all that I have said," I declared.
"But he does not care for me," said Winifred suddenly, "or he would not have gone away and left me."
I was startled and at the same time touched by the deep sadness of her tone.
"Perhaps he thought you were dead," I suggested.
"Thought I was dead!" repeated Winifred, in surprise.
Then she burst into a peal of laughter.
"Winifred," I cried, bending toward her, "think that—think anything rather than that your father has forgotten you or does not care for you."
The tears came into her eyes, but she suddenly turned away from the subject, as she usually did when deeply moved—a habit which she had in common with her father.
"You never saw my classroom, did you?" she inquired.
I answered that I had not.
"Then I will ask if I may take you up to see it," she said, darting away for the desired permission.
We went up the great, broad stairs and along the shining corridor to a room with a half glass door and a pair of broad, low windows. Within it were rows of desks familiar to all convent girls, and a desk for the teacher standing upon a raised platform. There was a small statue of the Sacred Heart and one of the Blessed Virgin resting upon brackets, with flowers before them; and a fine engraving or two of sacred subjects hung with the maps upon the walls. An immense blackboard occupied one side of the apartment. The room was empty as regarded occupants; and Winifred, dancing across the floor to one of the desks which stood near the window, cried:
"This is mine!"
I went and sat down on the chair, fastened securely to the floor, which looked out upon the wintry landscape. At that moment a bird came chirping and twittering about the window-sill, and cocking his bright little eye as he looked in at us through the pane.
"He comes very often," said Winifred, regarding the little brown object with a kindly glance. "Sometimes I feed him with crumbs. He always reminds me of Father Owen's robin far away over the sea, and I wonder if he will ever fly so far."
I laughed at the idea.
"Perhaps he may go and take a message to that other bird," I suggested.
"Not until the spring, anyway," Winifred answered gravely. "But when I see him out there on cold, stormy days I think how Father Owen said that the robin did his work in storm or calm and tried to sing and be merry."
"And I suppose you try to imitate him?" I put in.
"Yes," she said, "I think I do; but I'm not always merryin the storm, and my teacher tells me I'm too wayward and unstable: that I'm never two days the same."
I said nothing, and she went on:
"All my life people have told me that I'm wayward. I used to be called Wayward Winifred. Perhaps it's from living so much on the hills; for you know they change often. Sometimes they're beautiful, with the sun shining like gold on their heads; and again they're dark and threatening."
"Like Niall," I added.
"Don't say anything against Niall—O poor, poor Niall!" she interrupted, almost vehemently.
"Well, that is not exactly against him. But he is rather variable," I declared. "But now you are in a place where everything is the same day after day."
"I found that hard at first," Winifred said—"very hard; but now I don't mind so much. And I suppose if I stay long enough, I shall come to be always the same too."
Inwardly I doubted if such a result were possible, but I did not tell her that. I asked her to show me what was in her desk, and she began to take out, one by one, pencils, pens, colored crayons, exercise books, a slate, a pile of lesson books. She had also her beads and her prayer-book in there. The latter contained some very pretty lace pictures, given her by her teachers as rewards of merit, on her birthday or some other festal occasion. One of the pictures, however, she took from between the leaves of the book and handed it to me.
"Do you remember the day Father Owen gave me that?" she asked.
"Was that the one he told you to get out of his breviary?" I inquired.
"Yes," answered Winifred; "and it was on the day that you told me you were going to bring me to America."
"Yes, it was that memorable day."
"I hated you then—oh, so much!" cried Winifred; "and I thought I should always go on hating you, till we went into the church and Father Owen began to play the organ."
"Music has charms," I quoted, "to soothe—well, I won't say the savage breast, but the angry feelings of a certain little girl. I am very glad, though, that it had that result; for I should not have liked you to go on hating me. That would never have done; and I'm afraid in that case we should have had to give up our trip to America."
She had a mischievous look about the eyes, which made me say:
"Perhaps you think that wouldn't have been so great a misfortune, after all, my Wayward Winifred!"
She laughed merrily, and replied:
"Don't think me ungrateful. I'm glad in some ways I came. 'Tis a wonderful country this America; and I have seen such beautiful, strange things."
"Not the golden streets," I observed; "nor the trees with gold leaves nor the birds with jewelled wings."
"No," she agreed; "I haven't seen anything like that, and I know those stories weren't true."
She sighed, as if for the dream that had vanished, and added:
"But I have seen so many beautiful things, and I am learning a great deal that I could never have learned with Granny and Niall."
Her shrewd child's wit had reached this conclusion unaided.
"And you have been so kind; I am grateful, and I do love you."
She said this with such pretty fervor and yet with thatsweet condescension that always made me feel as if a little princess were addressing me.
"You are getting to like the convent too?" I said.
"Oh, yes!" she cried; "it is so quiet and peaceful, like a church; and every one speaks nicely, and we hear so many things about God and our Blessed Mother and the saints. I am interested in a lot of things I never knew before; and my teachers are different from any people I ever knew before."
I was well satisfied; and when we returned to the convent parlor I had a talk with the Religious who presided there, while Winifred went off to get her wraps—she having obtained permission to accompany me as far as the gate. The Religious gave a very good account of Winifred. She declared that her training had made her different from other girls, and somewhat wayward and hard to control by ordinary means.
"At first," she said, "the rule and the monotony of convent life seemed most irksome to her, as well as the indoor existence, accustomed as she had been in Ireland to spend nearly all her time in the open air."
I nodded assent.
"Being quite undisciplined, too," she went on, "she was inclined to a certain waywardness of character, which it was hard to fight against."
"I can understand," I agreed.
"She was a very independent young lady when she first came, I assure you," the Religious said, smiling; "but, on the other hand, she is such a sweet, bright temperament, so wholesome, so generous, so innately refined—a thorough little lady. And she is so genuinely pious: nothing sentimental or overstrained in her devotion. She has the faith and fervorof her country. Altogether, her nature is one susceptible of the highest training. Her very faults are lovable."
"I am so glad to hear you say all this!" I declared cordially; "for it fits in so well with the impression I had formed of her; and, though I met her as a stranger last summer, I have now the best of reasons for feeling a particular interest in her."
"Her intelligence is quite remarkable," went on the Religious. "Her mind is in some directions far in advance of her years, and she has really a fair share of education."
"You see she had for her teacher," I observed, "an eccentric but really learned kinsman."
"That accounts for it! And she has a good voice. Our music teachers are quite enthusiastic about it."
"She has a voice of uncommon sweetness and power," I assented. "I heard her singing on the Irish hills. Altogether, I hope the best from her stay with you."
We were here interrupted by Winifred herself, who appeared in her hat and coat. She made a graceful curtsy to the teacher, and together we went out arm in arm, walking over the crisp snow which had fallen over night and which sparkled in the sunlight; and looking away into the distance, where the afternoon was beginning to darken and the gray sky to take on a warmer glow. When we reached the gate we stood still a few minutes, Winifred looking wistfully out, as though she would fain have gone with me.
"It will be study hour when I get back," she told me; "and we have a lot of hard things for to-morrow. Did you find globes hard when you were at school?"
"Indeed I did," I said, remembering my own bewildered flounderings about in that particular branch of study.
"Well, we have them, and ancient history and algebra—oh, that awful algebra!—to-morrow. So I think I must be going."
"Good-by!" I said; "and, Winifred, don't forget to say a prayer sometimes for your father, that you may see him again in this world, and both be happy together."
"I won't forget!" Winifred promised. "I always pray for my mother, who is dead."
"That is right, dear; but you must remember the living as well. And now good-by again!"
"I am going to run all the way back," she announced.
"Very well; I will stand and watch you. Now for the run! Let us see how quick you can get up the avenue."
She was off like a deer darting to cover; and it reminded me of the time when I had seen her running amongst the hills, springing lightly from peak to peak and almost horrifying me by her reckless movements.
"I should like her to have had a few years at the convent," I thought; "the refined atmosphere there would be just what she needs to tone down her high spirits and give her the touches she requires. But I suppose when Niall hears all he will be too impatient for the reunion with those he loves to wait. Besides, it would be unjust to Roderick. I must explain everything to him as soon as I get Niall's permission."
I pondered thus all the way to town, and wondered how soon I could hear from Ireland, and how I should pass the intervening time till my letters arrived. But in New York time flies, and the days seem all too short for the multitude of affairs; so that week followed week and ran into months before I realized that my letters remained unanswered.
Unhappily, the time went by without bringing any news of Niall, and the suspense became almost intolerable. I met Roderick O'Byrne once or twice; but he merely gave me a distant bow: I had no conversation with him whatever. Every morning I eagerly questioned the hotel clerk. The answer was always the same: "No, there are no letters."
Then Christmas came. Winifred spent the holidays with me, though I was in constant fear that she should meet with Roderick. One evening at a concert I chanced to look toward a side of the hall where a few men were walking to and fro in the pauses of the music. One who stood near the wall attracted my attention. It was Roderick O'Byrne, and he had evidently caught sight of us, and stood now with his eyes intently fixed upon Winifred's face. The remaining numbers on the programme fell on deaf ears, so far as I was concerned. I did not know what any one played or sang; I could not tell a rondo from a caprice, or if the violinist was accompanied by a flute or a violoncello. I had but one desire—to get out of the hall and away. I kept my eyes upon the programme, avoiding another look.
Presently Winifred touched my arm and whispered:
"Oh, see! he is right over there—the gentleman we met at the hotel."
She watched him as if fascinated; and I saw that their eyes met, exchanging a long, long look. Before the concert was over I arose hurriedly, and, complaining of the heat, told Winifred we must go at once. To my relief, Roderick madeno movement to follow us. His fine courtesy prevented him from a course of action so obviously distressing to me. Next day, however, I got a note from him, in which he said:
"The chance meeting of yesterday evening has confirmed me more than ever in the belief that the child whom you choose to surround with so much mystery is in some way connected with my life. The sight of her renewed once more those memories of the past, and filled me with a hope—so strong, if delusive—that I was misinformed regarding the supposed death of my daughter. If this child be not my own Winifred, she must be in some way related to my late wife. I implore you, by our years of friendship, to end my suspense by telling me whatever you may know of the girl. You will be doing the greatest possible service to"Your devoted friend,"Roderick O'Byrne."
"The chance meeting of yesterday evening has confirmed me more than ever in the belief that the child whom you choose to surround with so much mystery is in some way connected with my life. The sight of her renewed once more those memories of the past, and filled me with a hope—so strong, if delusive—that I was misinformed regarding the supposed death of my daughter. If this child be not my own Winifred, she must be in some way related to my late wife. I implore you, by our years of friendship, to end my suspense by telling me whatever you may know of the girl. You will be doing the greatest possible service to
"Your devoted friend,"Roderick O'Byrne."
I answered him at once as follows:
"I beg of you in turn, by our friendship, to wait. Give me a month or two, and I promise to relieve your suspense, or at least to give you such excellent reasons for my silence that you will no longer doubt the sincerity of my desire to serve you."
"I beg of you in turn, by our friendship, to wait. Give me a month or two, and I promise to relieve your suspense, or at least to give you such excellent reasons for my silence that you will no longer doubt the sincerity of my desire to serve you."
The note posted, I persecuted the clerk more than ever by my inquiries for letters, and I grumbled and growled at Niall and at Father Owen.
"Why on earth couldn't they answer, if it were only a line? What could they be thinking of? Didn't they know I must be intolerably anxious?"
This was the sum of my growling, and I continued it during all the Christmas holidays, when Winifred was with me; though, of course, I could say nothing to her. One afternoon, when I had been particularly anxious, I went outwith the child, spent a half hour at the cathedral, which was a daily haunt of mine, and then tried to control my feverish agitation by getting into a restless crowd of shoppers who thronged the department stores.
Winifred was delighted. It was a new experience. She never could get over her wonder, though, at the number of people in New York city.
"Where do they all come from?" she cried; "and where do they live? Are there houses enough for them all?"
I assured her that most of them were housed, though there was a sad proportion of them homeless. I brought tears to her eyes with the account I gave her, as we passed on to the quieter Fifth Avenue, of the sufferings of the poor in all big cities.
She talked on this subject most of the way home; and when I would have bought her some choice candies she begged me to give the money instead to the poor. This we did. I handed her the amount, with a little added thereto, and advised her to divide it amongst more than one. We met a blind man, and she gave him an alms; next was a miserable child, and after that a very old woman.
"There we have the Holy Family complete," I remarked; and her face lighted up at the suggestion.
"There are so many poor people here!" she said. "There were plenty of poor people in Ireland too; but I don't think they were quite as poor as these, and the neighbors always helped them."
"The poverty of a great city is worse, I think," I assented, "than it ever is in country places."
"Except in the famine times," said Winifred. "Oh, if you heard Niall tell about the famine in Ireland, and how some bad men and women went round trying to get the peoplewho were starving to give up their religion, and they wouldn't!"
The child's eyes shone and her whole face was aglow as she cried:
"Rather than give up their religion they died by the road eating grass. That was just splendid of them."
"Always keep that fine enthusiasm and that tender heart, dear child," said a voice.
We both turned quickly. I had little need to do so, for I knew the voice. It was Roderick O'Byrne's. Winifred looked into his face for a moment, then she held out her hand.
"I don't often speak to strangers," she declared, with her princess-like air, "but I like you."
Roderick O'Byrne's handsome face flushed, his lips parted eagerly as if to speak; but he restrained himself by a visible effort, and said after a pause:
"I hope some day you will like me better." Then he turned to me, still holding Winifred's hand in his own strong brown one. "Do not be afraid: I am not going to steal the little one away, and I am going to be patient and wait. But I was walking behind you and I heard the sweet voice—the voice so like one I loved very dearly in other days—and it was too hard to resist: I had to speak."
His voice took on that tone, half boyish, half pleading; and I felt compelled to say:
"If you are not patient, I will have to spirit my little one away from New York."
"Oh, don't do that!" he cried. "Let me see her sometimes—let me hear her voice, and I won't ask a question. See, I haven't even asked her name."
He had come round to my side, dropping his voice to an earnest whisper. But the child caught the last words.
"My name is Winifred," she said in answer to them.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Roderick, turning deadly pale; while I, seizing the child firmly by the hand, turned a corner abruptly and hastened into Broadway, where, as before on a similar occasion, I took a cable car.
"And yet I have tried to be true to my trust," I repeated over and over to myself. "At the risk of losing Roderick's friendship, I have refused to answer any questions."
"Oh, why did you go and leave the gentleman like that?" asked Winifred, imperiously, as soon as we entered our rooms at the hotel. "It's a shame—I tell you it's a shame!" And she stamped her little foot on the carpet.
"Winifred!" I said severely. "You must be careful!"
"I don't care!" she cried. "I won't be good any more. It was very impolite to run away from that gentleman; and I wanted to talk to him, because I think I knew him once, or perhaps only dreamed about him."
I saw now that thedénouementwas coming nearer and nearer. The matter was indeed being taken out of my hands. I determined, however, that I would be true to Niall; and that if some news did not soon come from Ireland, I should remove the child from New York and go with her, perhaps, to Canada. I rejoiced that the holidays were over and that to-morrow Winifred must return to school.
"It may not be for long," I warned her; "and then you may regret the advantages you have had here. You see, Niall may get too lonesome and send for you any time."
"I would love to see him and Granny and Father Owen and the others!" she exclaimed. "But if we went away to Ireland, I would like the dark gentleman to come too. Perhaps he would if you asked him."
"Everything will come right, I hope," I answered,evasively. "And I am very glad you like the dark gentleman, because you may see him very often when you are older."
"Do you think so?" she asked eagerly. "Oh, I shall like that! But are you perfectly sure of it?"
"I am almost sure of it," I replied; and then, telling her that the bell was about to ring for the departure of visitors, I hurried away, for fear she might begin to question me too closely.
After that I had many lonely days of anxious waiting as the winter sped drearily away. February and then March drew their slow lengths along, and my letters were still unanswered. April was ushered in, more changeable than ever; mornings of sunshine being followed by afternoons of rain, and days of almost midsummer heat giving place to the chilliest of evenings.
One day I was sitting in my room at the hotel, embroidering a little, and disconsolately watching the throng on Broadway, when there came a knock at my door. A bell-boy entered with two letters upon a salver. My heart gave a great throb as I seized them, recognizing on both the Irish postmark. Broadway, with its throng of people, faded from before me; and I held the two letters in my hand—reading the address, now on one, now on the other, and putting off the moment of opening them; for I felt a curious dread. Suppose Niall should hold me to my promise or sternly command me to bring Winifred forthwith back to Ireland without even revealing her identity to Roderick? At last I broke the seal of one of the letters with a hand that trembled. I had to control a nervous agitation, which almost prevented me from seeing the characters before me, as with a pale face, I began to read.
The letter I had opened was, I knew, from Niall. I remembered the strange, crabbed characters, almost resembling Arabic, in which he had written my letter of instruction.
"The hills of Wicklow," he began, "are streaming with sunlight. Their spurs are all golden, and the streams are rushing in great gladness, for they are full of joy. They have been freed from the bondage of winter.
"There is joy in the hills. It is sounding in my ears and in my heart. Words I dare not speak, daughter of the stranger! I can not put on paper the thoughts that are burning in my brain. You have found him, the beloved wanderer; and you have discovered that his heart has never wandered from us. I knew before now that he was not to blame; and of that I shall tell you some day, but not now.
"Had I wings, I would fly to Roderick and to my beautiful little lady. I love him, I love her. My heart has been seared by her absence. Until your letter came, the hills spoke a strange, new language, and I have heard no human speech. When your letter reached the village, I was up at my cabin in the hills, unconscious of good or evil, burning with fever. The good Samaritan found me out; who he is you can guess. It was long, long before my senses came back; and he would not read me your letter until I had grown strong. When I heard its contents, I feared even then that my brain wouldturn. For two days I roamed the mountains. I fled to my cavern of the Phoul-a-Phooka for greater solitude. I could not speak of my joy—I dared not think of it.
"And now, O daughter of the stranger, heaven-sent from that land afar! bring her back to my heart, lest it break with the joy of this knowledge, and with sorrow that the sea still divides me from her, and that other equally beloved. Oh, what matters education now! Let the beautiful grow as the flowers grow, as the trees shoot up, clothed in beauty.
"Come now in all haste; and tell Roderick that on my knees I implore him to come too, that I may reveal all. Bid him hasten to Niall, the forlorn."
He broke off abruptly, with some words in Irish, which, of course, I did not understand. My own head was swimming; a great joy surged up in my heart, and I could almost have echoed Niall's wild rhapsody. When should I see poor Roderick and tell him—what? I had not yet made up my mind as to how I should fulfil that delightful task. However, I would write to him that very day and bid him come to hear the glad news.
I took up the other letter, which was, I doubted not, from Father Owen. Of course he could add nothing to my great happiness; still, it would be of the deepest interest to hear every detail relating to this matter of paramount importance. The letter was just as characteristic as Niall's had been; and I seemed to see the priest's genial face lighted up with pleasure, as he wrote, and to hear his kindly voice.
"Laus Deo!" began the letter. "What words of joy or praise can I find to express my own sentiments and those of the faithful hearts whose long years of waiting have been at last rewarded! I took your letter to Mrs. Meehan, and I had to use diplomacy—though that was a lost art with me, sosimple are my people and my duties—for fear the shock might be too great. But I don't think joy ever kills. I wish you could have seen her face—so tranquil, so trusting, illumined with the light of happiness. You can imagine the outburst of her praise rising up to the Creator, clear and strong as a lark's at morning. Barney and Moira were only restrained by my presence from cutting capers, and at last I said to them: 'Go out there now, Barney, my man, and you too, Moira, my colleen, and dance a jig in the courtyard; for I am pretty sure your legs won't keep still much longer.'
"And now of poor Niall! When your letter came I went in search of him. No one had seen him for a good while, and it was supposed he had gone off on some of his wanderings. None of the people would venture near his cabin, so I took my stick in my hand, and went there with the letter. I found the poor fellow in a sad plight—alone, burning with fever, delirious, and going over all kinds of queer scenes in his raving: now crying for 'gold, gold, gold!' or giving heart-piercing cries for Winifred. Again, he would be back in the past, with Roderick, a boy, at his side.
"Well, there was no one to take care of the creature; and, as it fitted in with my day's work, I took care of him myself. His gratitude, when he came to consciousness, was touching; and yet I had only followed the plainest dictates of humanity. When I thought my patient was strong enough, I read the letter to him. Bless my soul! it was like a whirlwind. He nearly took the breath out of me, rushing from the cabin in a kind of madness, and leaving me sitting there staring at the door by which he had gone. I did not see him for more than a week, and I assure you I was anxious. I was afraid he had lost his mind through excess of joy.
"To make a long story short, when he did come backagain I got hold of him entirely. Joy seems to have changed his nature as sunshine will purify a noisome spot. He is as gentle and tractable as a lamb; and better than all, his old faith and piety have come back to him. He goes to Mass and the sacraments. The light of heaven seemed to flow in on him with your letter. His sorrow for the past was like that of a child. I told him not to be disturbed about it, but just go on asking for mercy, mercy—only that and nothing more. 'For,' said I to him, 'my poor fellow, there's the eye of God looking down; and as it sees the noxious weed and the fairest flower, so it beholds our sins and our waywardness as well as our virtues. If these weeds of sin are plucked, the flowers of our virtues are just as fair in His sight.'
"But, O dear lady, how the old man sits and longs for the hour of reunion! He is out on the hills when their spurs are burnished gold, at the sunset hour; and he is there at the dawn waiting for the first beam to light up the Glen of the Dargle; he is out in the moonlight watching it making strange shapes out of the trees; and all the time with that one thought in his mind. He looks for gold no more, because he says his love of it was sinful; and the only treasures he seeks for now are the faces of his loved ones. Do not keep him long waiting, I entreat.
"Tell my pet, Winifred, the robin is out there now, busy as ever; and just bursting his breast with the joy of coming spring. I am proud and glad to hear of her success at the convent and sorry she has to leave it so soon. Say a prayer sometimes for the old priest in far-off Ireland, who soon will be slipping away to his rest—but not, he hopes, till he lays eyes on you again, and thanks you for the happiness you have brought to him and to the little ones of his flock."
I sat there for some time going over these letters,alternately, and delighting in the pictures which their eloquent language evoked. To one thing I made up my mind; I should go back to Ireland and be present at the joyful meeting. Indeed, my eye brightened, my cheek glowed at the thought of seeing again those lovely scenes, and of the pleasant reunion of hearts at which I was to be present. But it was my turn to write a letter, or at least a very brief note, asking Roderick to come to me as soon as possible. That being Saturday, I thought I should have to wait till Monday for his visit.
Sunday passed in a feverish state of agitation. I was going out to supper in the evening, at the very same house where I had before met Roderick, but it was unlikely he would be there again. What was my surprise to see his tall figure standing near the fire talking to our hostess! He saluted me gravely. I thought he looked thin and worn; but at first he did not come near me: and I feared he had resolved to avoid me. As we were all making a move for supper, I managed to whisper:
"I wrote you a note yesterday. Please promise to comply with the request I make you in it."
He turned sharply:
"You wrote to me?" he queried.
"Yes," I answered.
"May I ask about what?"
Though the words were curt, Roderick's tone was genial and his face smiling.
"Merely asking you to come to see me to-morrow evening—but your partner is waiting, you must go."
He turned to the young girl beside him, with an apology for his momentary inattention. If his mind was inclined to wander from her to the subject of my approachingcommunication, he was too courteous and too accomplished a man of the world to let her perceive it. I was almost sorry I had spoken, lest it should spoil his supper. Several times I saw him looking at me; but I only smiled and went on talking to my partner, a brilliant lawyer with a great reputation for wit. Very soon after supper Roderick came over to me, with his usual almost boyish eagerness.
"What do you want to say to me?" he demanded, smiling yet imperious.
"How do you know I want to say anything?" I retorted, smiling back.
"Of course I know, and I am going to hear what it is, too!" he cried, seating himself beside me.
"Now, Roderick," I said, "if I were a charming young lady, such as that one you have just left, I could never resist that face and that voice. But as matters are, you'll just have to wait till I make up my mind to tell you; for spectacled eyes see without glamor, and gray hairs give us wisdom."
He laughed and his face took on a brighter look. I fancy that he knew by my tone I had good news to tell.
"I won't go to see you on Monday night," he declared, "unless you give me a hint."
"Well, I will give you a hint, and then you needn't come to see me."
"That is unkind."
"No; it would only be giving you trouble for nothing. The substance of what I have to say to you is this: that you must take a trip to Ireland very soon."
"Alone?"
"Yes, alone."
"And when I get there?"
"You'll be glad you went."
He pondered deeply, for some moments.
"Isn't this very like a fool's errand?" he inquired.
"Which is the fool, he who goes or she who sends?" I replied, mischievously.
"Can you ask?" he laughed. "A man is nearly always a fool when he does a woman's errand."
"But, seriously, you will go?"
He thought a little longer.
"I will," he answered, "if you will only promise me one thing."
"What is that?"
"That there will be an end of all this mystification."
"I promise you that, most solemnly," I answered. "Once on Irish soil, you shall know everything."
"Tell me now," he said, with sudden eagerness, "how is Winifred, asthore?"
There was a world of feeling in his voice, though he came out with the epithet laughingly.
"Well and happy," I assured him.
"Will you give her something from me?"
"I'm not so sure," I said, jestingly; "for you've quite won her heart already. She talks of nothing but the 'dark gentleman.'"
A glow of pleasure lit up his face.
"And now, what is it you want me to give her?"
He took a small box from his waistcoat pocket. It was the prettiest little ring, with a green stone in the center.
"The color of hope—the color of Ireland," Roderick observed.
"A good omen," I said, looking at the gem, where it lay sparkling in the wadding.