Part 9 (1/2)

”You're kilt surely this time, my poor boy,” said his mother.

”No, indeed, better luck than ever this time!” and he gave the lady three drops of the liquid that still remained at the bottom of the gla.s.s, notwithstanding his mad race over the potato-field.

The lady began to speak, and her first words were words of thanks to Jamie.

The three inmates of the cabin had so much to say to one another, that long after c.o.c.k-crow, when the fairy music had quite ceased, they were talking round the fire.

”Jamie,” said the lady, ”be pleased to get me paper and pen and ink, that I may write to my father, and tell him what has become of me.”

She wrote, but weeks pa.s.sed, and she received no answer. Again and again she wrote, and still no answer.

At length she said, ”You must come with me to Dublin, Jamie, to find my father.”

”I ha' no money to hire a car for you,” he replied, ”an' how can you travel to Dublin on your foot?”

But she implored him so much that he consented to set out with her, and walk all the way from Fannet to Dublin. It was not as easy as the fairy journey; but at last they rang the bell at the door of the house in Stephen's Green.

”Tell my father that his daughter is here,” said she to the servant who opened the door.

”The gentleman that lives here has no daughter, my girl. He had one, but she died better nor a year ago.”

”Do you not know me, Sullivan?”

”No, poor girl, I do not.”

”Let me see the gentleman. I only ask to see him.”

”Well, that's not much to ax; we'll see what can be done.”

In a few moments the lady's father came to the door.

”Dear father,” said she, ”don't you know me?”

”How dare you call me your father?” cried the old gentleman, angrily.

”You are an impostor. I have no daughter.”

”Look in my face, father, and surely you'll remember me.”

”My daughter is dead and buried. She died a long, long time ago.” The old gentleman's voice changed from anger to sorrow. ”You can go,” he concluded.

”Stop, dear father, till you look at this ring on my finger. Look at your name and mine engraved on it.”

”It certainly is my daughter's ring; but I do not know how you came by it. I fear in no honest way.”

”Call my mother, _she_ will be sure to know me,” said the poor girl, who, by this time, was crying bitterly.

”My poor wife is beginning to forget her sorrow. She seldom speaks of her daughter now. Why should I renew her grief by reminding her of her loss?”

But the young lady persevered, till at last the mother was sent for.

”Mother,” she began, when the old lady came to the door, ”don't _you_ know your daughter?”