[Illustration: The Silence of Johnny BY Harriette M. Collins.] “Is the letter from Johnny, Mary _agra_?” The pathetic appeal in Mrs. Ryan’s quavering voice, and the heart-hunger expressed in her wrinkled, parchment-like face brought a lump to the throat of her daughter as she replied: “No, mother darlin’, it’s from Andy this time.” “Why doesn’t Johnny write, an’ why doesn’t he come an’ see his poor ould mother afore she dies?” the old woman wailed. “Och, but me heart is sore wid the longin’ for me darlin’ boy, an’ me ould arrums is achin’ to hould him agin! Niver a word from him this three years, come Chrisymas! It’s not like Johnny! It’s not like Johnny at all, at all!” “But, mother _achree_, Johnny doesn’t forget you,” Mary answered soothingly. “An’ he never forgets to send you two pounds every three months by Liza, or Andy, or Katie.” “I know it, Mary. Johnny was always a ginerous boy: but it’s not his money I want, but himself back agin! Shure I’d rather beg wid Johnny than own the wurruld an’ all wid-dout him!” Mrs. Ryan answered. “Read Andy’s letter for me, Mary _acushla_.” While Mary Ryan read aloud the letter which she had just brought from the village post-office, her mother gazed yearningly over the restless expanse of dark blue ocean, which stretched away to the crimsoning west. With dreamy eyes, which saw but heeded not, she watched the hovering, screaming sea-gulls, the white-sailed fishing-smacks and the long, black streak of smoke that, far away on the horizon, marked the course of an outward-bound steamer. For many years Mrs. Ryan had been in the habit of sitting on the rude bench by the door of the cabin, that was perched high up on the rugged hill-side, and watching the steamers as they came and went. Four times during those weary years the mother’s heart within her had grown numb with pain as she saw the black streak fade in the distance and knew that one of her darlings was being borne away from her.