“Now, mind my words, Peter Malone; as sure as you stand there, all the newspapers will be full of ‘Another Outrage--More Irish Barbarism and Stupidity.’ That will be the heading in big letters; and then underneath it will go on: ‘The beautiful Lodge that Sir Gervais Vyner had recently built in the Gap of Derryvaragh was last night razed to the ground by a party of people who seem determined that Ireland should never rise out of the misery into which the ignorance of her natives have placed her.’ That’s what they’ll say, and then the _Times_ will take it up, and we’ll have the old story about benefactor on one side, and brutality on the other; and how, for five hundred years’ and more, England was trying to civilise us, and that we’re as great savages now--ay, or worse--than at first.” Malone clasped his worn hands together, and muttered a deep curse in Irish below his breath. “And all our own fault,” continued O’Rorke, oratorically. “‘Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow.’ I said that on Essex Bridge to the Lord-Lieutenant himself; and look at me now--is it here, or is it this way, a patriot ought to be?” “Isn’t it the same with us all?” said Malone, sternly. “Didn’t they take my grandchild away from me--the light of my eyes--and then desart her?” “No such thing--she’s better off than ever she was. She’s living with a man that never was in Ireland, and, mind what I say, Peter Malone, them’s the only kind of English you ever get any good out of.” “What do you mane?” “I mane that when one or two of us go over there, we’re sure to be thought cute and intelligint; and the Saxon says, ‘Isn’t it wonderful what a clever people they are?’ But if he comes here himself, and sees nothing but misery and starvation, he cries ont, ‘They’re hopeless craytures--they live with the pig.’” “And why wouldn’t we, if we had one?” “Well, well, well,” muttered the other, who never minded nor heeded the interruption, “maybe the time is coming, maybe the great day is near. Don’t you know the song of the ‘Shamroge in my Hat?’” “I ne’er heerd it.” “The little I care for Emancipation, The little I want such laws as that; What I ask is, Ould Ireland to be a nation, And myself with a shamroge in my hat.” “I wonder will the letter come to-day,” said the old man, with a weary sigh; “my heart is heavy waiting for it.” “If she sent you a ten-pound note, Peter Malone, whenever she wrote, there would be some sense and reason in your wishing for a letter; but, so well as I remember the one scrap of a letter she sent you, there was neither money nor money’s worth in it.” “It was betther than goold to my heart,” said Malone, with a deep feeling in his voice and look. “Well, there, it’s coming now; there’s Patsey holding up a letter in his hand. Do you see him at the ford, there?” “I don’t see him, my eyes are so weak; but are ye sure of it, Tim O’Rorke? Don’t decave me, for the love of the blessed Virgin.”