"Well, I came last from New York, when, after a power of trouble, I found out your whereabouts. My heart so cried out for my daughter and my darling boys. You see, for the five years past I 've been, so to speak, in retirement on the Hudson."
"Where?" asked Molly, bewildered.
"Why, in a quiet town called Sing Sing; but; faith! it's little singing I did there."
"Do you mean that you have been in the penitentiary?" said Molly, startled.
"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, yes. But you see it's a hard word to pronounce, that same. I got into what gintlemen call 'difficulties,' pretty soon after my Biddy died, and my poor children was torn from my arms. Somehow, I had no heart to keep up a good character. I was what they call desperate; so I went into a gintleman's house one avening, without ringing the bell and sending up my card, as in my better days I should have done, you know. I went in head foremost, through a back window, and when I was coming out with a trifle of silver, the police nabbed me, and it was all up for a while with poor Pat Magee. Now what do I want with you? I want to know about my darling boys, of course. Are they living and respectable?"
"Yes," replied Molly; "they are well and doing well. I hear from them twice a year, and write to them oftener."
"Doing well, are they! but doing nothing for their poor ould father. Ah, this is a hard world."
Molly could not refrain from saying, "They used to think it so, but they don't now. They have good friends, comfortable homes, and are happy and industrious."
"Industrious! and isn't it myself that taught them to be that same? Niver did I spare the rod when they came home empty-handed from a day on the streets."
Molly made no reply, but tried to pass on. Again Patrick stopped her, and said, with a strange, cunning smile, "And so, miss, you don't believe I 'm your rale father."