“So?” The old eyes looked ahead once more. “They take under three hours now to cross; ’twas many more last time I came away—the bitter day!” he added, half under his breath. “And that’s three-and-forty years ago, my son!”
“What! and you’ve never been back, sir?”
“Never. I’ve been in America. A good country; but it never lets you go, and it never gets to be home. All that three-and-forty years I’ve been thinking of the day I’d be going back again.”
“And it’s come,” said Jim, his smile suddenly lighting his grey eyes. The old man smiled back
“If you weren’t so young I’d say you knew what it was to be homesick,” said he.
“I come from Australia,” said Jim, briefly.
“Well, well, well!” the priest said. “There’s another great country—only so far away. There’s many a good Irishman there, they tell me.”
“Any number of them,” said Jim. “We’ve got one of the best on our place—Murty O’Toole. He taught me to ride.”
“Did he so? There were O’Tooles in Wicklow when I was a boy; but sure and they’re all over the world. You’ll be glad to go back, when the time comes?”
“Glad!” said Jim, explosively. He laughed. “It’s very jolly, of course, to visit other places. But home’s home, isn’t it, sir?”