I
A year had passed; the potato season was over, but old Morrison, who was making considerable improvements in his steading, had kept the squad to work for him two months longer than usual, and all the party of the previous year, with the exception of Dermod Flynn, Ellen, and Annie, was there. Nobody in the squad knew where Dermod had gone, but rumour had it that he worked during the previous winter as a farm hand on a farm near Paisley. It was also said that he had done very well and had sent ten pounds home to his people in Glenmornan.
Norah Ryan had spent the winter and spring at home; her mother was still alive, but seldom ventured outside the door of the cabin. “The coldness of the dead is creeping over me,” she told Norah when the girl was leaving for Scotland. “My feet are like lumps of ice, and when the cold reaches my heart it will be the end, thanks be to God!”
Norah felt deeply for her mother; the old woman had none now but her daughter in all the world. Fergus had not been heard of for the last three years; some said that the boy was dead, others that he was alive and making a big fortune. Norah always prayed for him nightly when she went down on her knees, asking the Virgin to send him safe home, and “if he is dead to intercede with her Son for the repose of his soul.”
At the end of each fortnight the girl, who earned twelve shillings weekly, sent sixteen home to her mother. In four months Norah sent six pounds eight shillings to Frosses, and a pound of this went towards the expense of the priest’s mansion. The same amount had been paid the year before and Norah was well-pleased, because now her father would rest easily in his grave. “He’ll rest in peace now that all his lawful debts are paid,” the old parish priest said.
Micky’s Jim had fallen in love with Oiney Dinchy’s daughter and it was said that he was going to get married to her when he went back to Ireland. Owen Kelly was as niggardly as ever. Once during the year he had bought a pennyworth of milk and at night he left it in a beer-bottle beside his bed. In the morning the milk was gone and Owen wept! So Micky’s Jim said; and Jim also circulated a story about a rat that drank the milk from the bottle.
“But that couldn’t be, as the man said.”
“But it could be. I saw it while all the rest of ye were snorin’.”
“There’s no standin’ your lies, Micky’s Jim.”
“True as death ’twas a rat that drunk the milk,” Jim explained. “I saw it meself. Stuck its tail down the neck of the bottle and licked its tail when it took it out. Took two hours to drink the whole lot. I once had a great fight and all about a bottle of milk——”