Harrigan.
NOT many steps from St. Michael’s is the Academy of the Sacred Heart, where the girls of the parish are taught by the gentle-mannered sisters; and not far from that again, was the home of Maggie Dwyer. Time was, and not so many years before, when Owen Dwyer mixed the mortar for McMullen the builder and lived in one of the little houses in McGarragles’ Alley. But Owen made good wages and was a saving man and a sober one. All his neighbours knew that he had an account in the savings bank; but when he sent his daughter to the Normal School and thereby showed that he had sufficient to educate and support her it excited much comment; and when he bought the Second Street house, and Fitzmaurice, the real estate man, caused it to be known that four thousand dollars was the price paid, a cry of wonder went up, and the old country tale of the finding of “a crock of gold,” began to be whispered from one to the other.
And, although he shortly afterward gave up his job with McMullen, Owen was still the same quiet, good-natured man, passing the collection plate in the church on Sunday morning and acting as president of the T. A. B. society, as he had been accustomed to do for years.
His daughter was his darling. Splendid, capable Maggie! whose fine eyes and handsome form were the talk of all who knew her. Owen had some influence in a political way, and after her graduation, Maggie was made a teacher at the Harrison School; her strong young voice was soon heard in the church choir; she sketched, embroidered, composed, and adorned their pretty home with pictures, dainty bric-a-brac and other things that a refined taste delights in, until Owen walked about the rooms in awe, and admired with all his soul.
One evening about a week after the funeral at Murphy’s, Maggie, in a close-fitting gown that displayed the splendid lines of her figure, sat at her piano softly playing over some music which she was to use at a concert of the teachers’ society; Owen read the evening paper and smoked his brier pipe by the shaded lamp.
“I’m afeered, Maggie,” said he, in a troubled tone, laying down the paper, “that these goings on av the Motor Traction Company’ll bring sorra’ till many a body yet.”
“What is it, Daddy?” asked Maggie, pausing in her playing.
“They do be after the franchise av the new company,” answered Owen. “An’ the politicians are sidin’ wid ’em in their rascality. I have put more money in this than I shud,” added he, soberly, “an’ iv the franchise is revoked be the next set av councilmen, it’s in a bad way we’ll be, Maggie.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, in the motherly fashion that Owen loved.
“Don’t worry, Daddy, you’ll see that all will come right in the end. And what matter, even if the stocks you own are made worthless; we still have our home.”