“I hope my mother is well and that her cold is getting better. I spend all my spare time reading books. It is a great, great world once you are away from Donegal, and here, where I am, as many books as one would want to carry can be had for a mere song——”
“Getting things for a song!” said the man. “That is like the ballad singers——”
“It would be nice to hear from you, but as I am going away to America on the day after to-morrow, I have no fixed address, and it would be next to useless for you to write to me. I’ll send a letter soon again, and more money when I can earn it.
“Your loving son
“Fergus.”
III
“THIS is the paper which he talks about,” said Norah, handing a money order to her mother.
“A thing like that worth twelve pounds!” exclaimed the old woman, a look of perplexity intensifying the wrinkles of her face. “I would hardly give a white sixpence, no, nor a brown penny for the little thing. Glory be to God! but maybe it is worth twelve golden sovereigns, for there are many strange things that come out of foreign parts.”
“Alive and well he is,” said Norah, reading the letter over again. “Thank God for that, for I was afraid that he might be dead, seeing that it took him so long to write home. Wouldn’t I like to see him again!”
“It will be worth twelve pounds without a doubt,” said the husband, referring to the money order, as he threw the rushlight which was burning his fingers into the fire. “I once heard tell that a man can get hundreds and hundreds of guineas for a piece of paper no bigger than that!”