He was instructed to apply to the treasurer of the fund and arrangements would be made for his passage back to Ireland.
He brought the news to Angela with a strange feeling of fear and disappointment. He had built so much on making a wonderful career in the great New World and returning home some day to Ireland with the means of relieving some of her misery and with his wife guarded, as she should be, from the possibility of want. And here was he going back to Ireland as poor as he left it—though richer immeasurably in the love of Angela. She was sitting perfectly still, her eyes on the floor, when he entered the room. He came in so softly that she did not hear him. He lifted her head and looked into her eyes. He noticed with certainty what had been so far only a vague, ill-defined dread. Her face was very, very pale and transparent. Her eyes were sunken and had a strange brilliancy. She was much slighter end far more ethereal than on that day when they stood the deck of the ship and turned their faces so hopefully to the New World.
He felt a knife-like stab startle through his blood to his heart. His breath caught.
Angela looked up at him, radiantly.
He kissed her and with mock cheerfulness he said, laughingly:
"Such news, me darlin'! Such wondherful news!"
"Good news, dear?"
"The best in the wurrld," and he choked a sob.
"I knew it would come! I knew it would. Tell me, dear."
"We're to go back—back to—back to Ireland. See—here are the orders," and he showed her the official letter.