Andy was the first to leave the overcrowded cabin and seek work in the grand land of plenty across the water. In a year, Andy sent the passage money for Liza, and, in another year, Liza sent the passage money for Katie. Then Johnny, the idol of her declining years, kissed his mother good-bye and, with cheery, hopeful voice, promised to return to her in two, or at most, three years. With that dumb resignation, sometimes born of a sense of hopeless inability to cope with circumstances, Mrs. Ryan had watched him wend his way, with many a backward glance and wave of the hand, down the narrow zig-zag path to the village and the train for Queenstown, where the merciless steamer waited to bear him away forever from her loving arms. She remembered still how the sunbeams had glinted upon his auburn hair that morning, and how handsome he had looked in his new tweed suit and green tie. She thought of the tears that had welled up in his blue eyes when she gave him her parting blessing, and she recalled the silent anguish with which she had sat by the cabin door and watched the black steamer, silhouetted against the golden sunset and slowly disappearing in the distance. It had been hard to see the others go, but Johnny—what would life be without Johnny? That was five years ago. For two years Johnny had written regularly, telling of steady work and good wages, and promising to come home for a vacation as soon as possible. Then there came a short, badly-written note enclosed with a letter from Andy, and after that—silence. Andy and Liza and Katie wrote regularly and sent money for the support of their mother and Mary. It was Mary’s mission to remain in the Old Country and take care of the feeble, aged mother. Every three months, Andy or one of the girls sent an order for two pounds and wrote that Johnny sent it with his love. That was all. They never answered the questions concerning Johnny, his doings and his whereabouts which Mary repeatedly wrote at her mother’s behest. “Is that all, Mary? Is there nothing at all, at all about Johnny?” Mrs. Ryan queried in disappointed tones, when her daughter had finished reading Andy’s letter. “There’s not a word in it about Johnny, mother darlin’,” Mary answered reluctantly. “Andy said Nancy Quin is comin’ home on the boat that gets in Saturday, didn’t he?” “Yes, mother,” Mary replied, “Nancy is comin’ to spend a month with her people.” “An’ Nancy Quin lives out in the same family as Liza?” “Yes, mother; she’s parlor-maid where Liza’s cook.” “Then, plaze God, Mary, when Nancy comes to see me I’ll larn the truth about the onnatural silence of Johnny! Och, but he was the darlin’ boy—always so gay and pleasant!” There was a brief silence, after which the old woman drew a worn and yellow sheet of paper from beneath the plaid woolen kerchief that was folded across her bosom.