“And old Farley McKeown—the Lord be between us and harm!—got married! What will we see next? I wonder what an old dry stick like him wants to get married for; and Mac Oiney Dinchy says that he gave his wife sixty thousand pounds as a wedding present. Well, well!
“I do be lonely here often, and I am wishful that you would take up the pen and write me a long letter when you get this one, and if ever you come to Scotland again come to Glasgow and spend a couple of days with me.
“Hoping that yourself and your mother is in good health,
“Sheila Carrol.”
“Who would that letter be from?” asked Mary Ryan from her seat in the chimney corner. A pile of dead ashes lay on the hearth; the previous summer had been wet and the turf was not lifted from the bog.
“It’s from Sheila Carrol, mother.”
“From that woman, child! And what would she be writing to you for, Norah?”
“She’s dying to hear from the Frosses people,” answered the girl. “And it is very lonely away in the big city.”
“Lonely!” exclaimed the mother. “If she is lonely it’s her own fault. It’s the hand of God that’s heavy on her because of her sin.”
“That’s no reason why the tongue of her country people should be bitter against her.”