“’Tis from my grandson, young Patrick,
then,” cried Grannie. “Indeed, he’s but the age of yourselves! How old are you at all?”
“We’re seven,” said the Twins.
“Patrick might be eight,” said his Grandmother, “but surely the clever children like yourselves and the two of you together should be able to make it out. There’s but one of Patrick, and there should be more learning between the two of you than in one alone, even though he is a bit older! Try now.”
Larry and Eileen tried. This was the
letter. It was written in a large staggery hand.
“Will you listen to that now!” cried Grannie Malone. “Is it taking me back to America, he’d be! ’Tis a terrible journey altogether, and a strange country at the end of it, for me to be laying my old bones in! But I’d be a proud woman to see my own son, in any country of the world, and he an alderman!”
There was a letter from Michael himself in the envelope also, but the Twins could not read that, however much they tried.