“‘I saw the Shannon’s purple flood Flow by the Irish town.’” Then he stopped and shook his grizzled head. “Shure, now, I’m forgettin’ it intirely; ye know, though, somethin’ about: “‘Whin down the glin rode Sarsfield’s min, And they wore the jackets green.’ “Sing it onct, fer th’ ould man.” “But, father,” the girl laughed, though she began screwing up the piano stool, “it’s too late, the neighbors will object.” “Niver mind th’ neighbors,” commanded the alderman in the tone he used at a primary, “sing it.” “But it’s forbidden in the lease after ten o’clock,” the girl protested, leafing over her music. “What if the landlord--” “It’s time to say good marnin’ to th’ divil, Nora, whin ye meet ’im.” Nora fixed herself on the stool, fingered the keys, finding a soft minor chord. The old man closed his eyes, slid farther down in his plush chair, and just as he was prepared to listen, she suddenly stopped in the provoking way amateur musicians cultivate, to say: “But, father, that’s such an old song, wouldn’t you rather I’d sing the Intermezzo from _Cavalerie_?” Malachi opened his eyes with a start and sat bolt upright. “Naw,” he said, “none o’ thim fur’n op’res--phat’s the use of yer goin’ to th’ convint all those years?” But his voice quickly softened. “Do ye go on now, Nora, darlin’, there’s a good gur-rl.” And so she sang, and the alderman sank in his chair, with his big arms in their shirt-sleeves thrown over his head, closed his eyes again, stretched out his stockinged feet. The smoke from his cigar ascended to the chandelier, and now and then when he remembered the words of a line, he hummed them behind closed lips, in unison with his daughter. When the song was done Nora whirled around, clasped her hands in a school-girl’s ecstasy and said: “Oh, father, that song makes me homesick--homesick for a place I never saw. You won’t run again, will you, father, will you? And we’ll go to Ireland in the spring, won’t we? Tell me, in the spring?” A pain struck through Malachi Nolan’s heart, a pain that was made only more poignant when, with her American fear of the sentimental, Nora joked: “I must see our ancestral cabin.” Malachi could not open his eyes. For once he was afraid. He did not move for a long time. But at last he sighed and set his jaw, and said: “Well, Nora--if ye saay so--in the spring.” * * * * *