On the day appointed for his again visiting the cottage, Father M’Callagh went into the post-office of the village. Holding out his hand to the postmaster, he began to inquire, in a friendly way, after his health and that of his family, and begged permission to be seated there a short time, as he was weary.
“As long as you please, Father—none more welcome!”
And then they began chatting together, the two old men, of the times when they were young—of men and things—of joys and sorrows long since past away. Laurence was in the room.
Presently, a horn was heard.
“Here comes the mail from Cork, father!” said Laurence, starting up, and taking in the bag at the doorway.
“Very well,” said his father, “untie the bag, and go on sorting. I will be ready presently.”
Father M’Callagh shifted his chair a little, so as to command a good view of the movements of Laurence, while seeming not to notice him. He entered into conversation again with the elder Doheney.
It was but a small packet of letters; and Laurence, who had long been used to help his father in such matters, very quickly divided them into their proper parcels. But there was one letter which, instead of putting on the table with the others, he snapped up with a rapid movement, and put into the side-pocket of his jacket.
But, quick as this was done, the watchful eye of Father M’Callagh saw it. He rose from his seat, went up to Laurence, laid his hand upon his shoulder, and, with a solemn voice and manner, said:—