I suppose I had spoken rather harshly to them before, although I had not intended to do so, but however that may be, at the first words of kindness from the lips of their countrywoman both girls broke down and cried as if their hearts would break. The poor woman drew them towards her, and, stroking the fair hair of the elder girl, tried to comfort her while the tears streamed down her own cheeks. “Hush, acushla; hush, darlints, shure the gentlemin’s not goin’ to be hard wid two poor childher going to a strange country.”
Of course it would never do to admit that the company could carry emigrants free through sympathy, and I must have appeared rather hard-hearted when I told Mrs. O’Donnell that I would have to take them back with me to Cork. I sent the children away, and then arranged with Mrs. O’Donnell to see after them during the voyage, to which she agreed if her husband would let her. I could get nothing from the girl except that she had lost her ticket; and when we sighted New York, I took them through the steerage and asked the passengers if any one would assume charge of the children and pay their passage. No one would do so.
“Then,” I said, “these children will go back with me to Cork; and if I find they never bought tickets, they will have to go to jail.”
There were groans and hisses at that, and I gave the children in charge of the cabin stewardess, with orders to see that they did not leave the ship. I was at last convinced that they had no friends among the steerage passengers. I intended to take them ashore myself before we sailed; and I knew of good friends in New York who would see to the little waifs, although I did not propose that any of the emigrants should know that an old bachelor purser was fool enough to pay for the passage of a couple of unknown Irish children.
We landed our cabin passengers, and the tender came alongside to take the steerage passengers to Castle Garden. I got the stewardess to bring out the children, and the two stood and watched every one get aboard the tender.
Just as the tender moved away, there was a wild shriek among the crowded passengers, and Mrs. O’Donnell flung her arms above her head and cried in the most heart-rending tone I ever heard—“Oh, my babies, my babies.”
“Kape quiet, ye divil,” hissed O’Donnell, grasping her by the arm. The terrible ten days’ strain had been broken at last, and the poor woman sank in a heap at his feet.
“Bring back that boat,” I shouted, and the tender came back.
“Come aboard here, O’Donnell.”
“I’ll not!” he yelled, shaking his fist at me.