"
"Maybe ye are right, Mrs. Joyce." Dermot said no more, but turned slowly
away.
With a firm step and an air of decision he walked homewards across the
fields.
"Mother, it's going to London I am," he said as he entered the house;
"will ye see me clothes is ready, and put me up a bit o' bread? That's
all I'll trouble ye for."
Honor O'Malley looked at the tall, manly figure of her only son, at the
frank, proud face, the bright blue eyes, and the firmly-set mouth; the
exclamation that was on her lips died away.
"God bless ye, me own bhoy!" she cried instead, in a half-smothered
voice, and bent, down over the hearth to hide the tears that rose to her
eyes and choked her utterance.
Dermot climbed the ladder that led to the tiny room in the roof where he
slept; from beneath the mattress he drew a box, which he unlocked
carefully. A small pile of sovereigns lay at the bottom; he counted them
carefully, although he knew exactly the sum the little box contained;
after fingering them almost lovingly for a few moments he transferred
them to a small canvas bag, which he put in his pocket. "Maybe 'twill
all be wanted," he exclaimed, with a happy gleam in his eye; "maybe, and
maybe not, but howsoever it goes, one look at her blessed face will be
worth it all!"
* * * * *
In a pretty, low-ceiled parlour, whose windows looked out upon a
pleasant garden, lay Eily.
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