Mike did, but work was not to be had. Meanwhile the money which the Widow Malony had put away was getting less and less. Mike came in one day, tired, and feeling very unhappy, for he had walked far looking for work without finding it. He had even tried training one of the other goats to draw a cart, but they did not seem able to learn, being too old, I suppose. Blackie had been sold to bring in a little money.
“Well, maybe better luck will come to-morrow, lad. Don’t give up. Whist!” she cried. “There’s the letter man’s whistle. Sure he can’t be comin’ here!”
“But he is, Mother!” cried Mike. “Maybe it’s some of the men I gave me name to, sendin’ for me to give me work.”
With trembling hands Mrs. Malony opened the letter. When she had read it she cried:
“Th’ saints be praised, Mikey me lad. Our troubles are over now! Our troubles are over now!”
“How?” asked Mike.
“Sure I’ve been left a farm, Mike! A farm with green grass and a house, and cows and a place to raise hay and a horse to haul it to market. Read!”
Mike read the letter. It was true. A cousin of his mother, who had known her in Ireland, had died and left her his farm, as she was his nearest relative. The letter was from the lawyers saying she could claim the farm and live on it as soon as she pleased.
The troubles of the Widow Malony and her son were indeed over as far as money was concerned. They sold what few things they had, even the goats, for it would be hard to carry them along, and then, bidding good-by to the other squatters, they moved to the farm that had been left them. It was many miles from the big city, out in the country.