“Niver, ma’am,” was the girl’s energetic answer; and I do not believe she ever did, for the genial light of home-love shone in her poor, Irish home, for which her little affectionate heart had pined, under the wealthier but cold roof of her uncle.
“Thin I came to Ameriky.”
“But, Bridget, how came you to think of America?”
“Och, the girls all around talked about Ameriky, and my aunt’s cousin’s husband’s sister writ home a letter about her making such a power of money. Well, I talked to mother about it, but she cried, and so did grandmother, and they asked me where I’d get the four pound to pay my passage with. That kept me quiet a bit, for I’d niver seen so big a heap of money. But one day, when I was shaking up grandmother’s bed, I felt a great big lump in it, that was sewed up in the straw, and I dragged it out, and it was an old stocking with money tied in it. I ran screamin’ with joy to mother. But och, how she cried and grandmother scolded. Then I cried, too, and grandmother came and hugged me, and told me to give over cryin’, that there was the money if I wanted it. She said she’d hid it away in the bed, years agone, to keep off the dark day. Then I cried, ‘Grandmother, let me go ’till Ameriky, and I will send ye so much gold that’ll keep the dark day away forever.’
“Then mother said, ‘Let the girl go, for sure she’s had light given her, and she knows better than us.’”
“Did you not feel a little sorry, Bridget, when they gave up at last?” I asked.
“No, ma’am, not a bit,” she continued; “and I hurried around and got ready. The girl that had writ the letters home about Ameriky, sent out a ticket to her sister to come on the vessel that was just going; but she—Rosy McLanahan it was—was very sick, and couldn’t go; and so mother bought her ticket for me. But, och, when mother bid me good bye, and kissed me, and left me on the vessel, then I cried. I didn’t cry a bit when I bid grandmother and the childer good bye at the house, but it was when I saw mother going down the side of the vessel, and get into the tumbling little boat, that I cried. I felt so lonely like, just as I did when father was buried; and I watched the little boat, and her red cloak, until she got ashore. Then there she stood, and shook her handkerchief until it growed too dark to see her. Och, Miss Enna, but then I cried—all to myself though—for I was ashamed the people should see me, and I went off to my little bed and cried all night; for I thought I was furder away from them than father was, for he was in heaven, and I was out on wide wather. Then I thought of what father used to tell me about God bein’ with us always, and I tried to stop my cryin’ by prayin’.”
“How old were you then, Bridget?”
“Not quite fifteen, ma’am.”
“Were you not glad when you saw America, my poor child?”