“Did I dream it?” he asked out loud.
But there was the picture looking at him from the mantel shelf.
He went over and sat down at his writing table near the window. Through the open casement floated the sounds of a summer morning; the chorus of birds; the tinkle of a cowbell in some distant meadow, and the hum of the busy insects. Almost for the first time since his boyhood he noticed with pleasure the green freshness of the outer world. Through the trees he caught a glimpse of gently undulating country, a pleasing vista of wooded hills and dales.
“Am I not beautiful?” it seemed to say, “and how have you neglected me!”
Seizing a pencil he began to write a list. The first item was:
“New model houses for tenants in place of old stone huts.
“New school house——” he paused and frowned. “Why not?” he said presently, and wrote.
“Repairs to church.
“New parish house for Father O’Toole.”
When the list was completed it covered two pages, and the last item was “The O’Connors.”