“Read it for me, Mary _agra_,” she said sadly, “read it for me agin—the last letter from Johnny. God bless him, wherever he is, this day an’ night!” Mary held the frayed and faded sheet before her eyes. The writing was almost illegible and the paper was worn into holes where it had been folded, but she knew the words by heart and, as if conning a familiar lesson, repeated them slowly: “Dear Mother. Don’t fret if I don’t write. I will sind money to you now an’ agin by Andy an’ the girls. Mebbe if it’s God’s will we’ll meet before long. God bless you, mother darlin’. Goodbye from Johnny.” “Three years an’ niver a word from him!” sighed the old woman, as she again laid the long-treasured note in its accustomed place over her heart. “Och, but me ould eyes is achin’ for a sight of him—me darlin’ boy!” The sunbeams were glittering upon the wide, heaving expanse of ocean which lay between Mrs. Ryan’s cabin and the great Western world whither her children had gone. Sitting upon the beach by the open door, the aged woman watched Nancy Quin laboriously climbing the steep, zig-zag path which led to the cottage. When the visitor reached the door and the usual salutations had been exchanged, Mrs. Ryan steadfastly fixed her eyes upon the girl’s face and asked: “In the name of God, Nancy Quin, why doesn’t Johnny write an’ why doesn’t he come home?” “Arragh, thin, Mrs. Ryan, darlin’, how should I know that? I haven’t laid me eyes on Johnny these three years.” Nancy answered evasively, but her embarrassment and the compassion in her voice were not lost upon her questioner. “Don’t lie to a poor, ould woman, Nancy _acushla_,” Mrs. Ryan entreated, “but tell me, God’s truth, where me boy is an’ why he doesn’t come to me?” For a moment Nancy Quin looked with infinite pity into the anxious, wrinkled, pleading face, then, dropping her eyes before the old woman’s wistful gaze, answered brokenly: “Don’t fret yourself about Johnny, Mrs. Ryan _agra_. You’ll soon see poor Johnny; you’ll be wid your boy before long,” and turning away with a stifled sob, she entered the cabin in search of Mary, while Mrs. Ryan sat very still upon the bench and gazed with tearless, unnaturally bright eyes out upon the bounding, white-crested waves of the Atlantic. “Oh, Mary _acushla_, she’s read it in my face!” Nancy cried in remorseful tones, “an’ I promised I’d keep it from her.” “Keep _what_ from her?” Mary asked, anxiously. “Is it anything about Johnny, Nancy _agra_?” “Yis, Mary,” Nancy answered sorrowfully, “Sure an’ it wrings me heart to tell you. Poor Johnny was killed—run over at a crossin’ three years ago.” “An’ why didn’t they let us know?” Mary sobbed, “Where was the use of deceivin’ us?”