“Indade and indade I was, for I’d been so sick all the way, and when the vessel came up the river to Philadelphia, I cried with joy. But when the vessel anchored, and people came from shore, and I heerd them a greetin’ one another, my heart fell like a great lump of lead, for I’d nobody in this wild, new country to greet me. Then I cried again, but it was with the heart-ache. I sat there all alone, when one of the women, who had been very kind to me on the passage, came up to me, and she brought with her a man, who, she said, used to know my mother when she was a slip of a girl in Coleraine, and if I would go home with him, he would try to find me a place. I bundled up my clothes, which were only a few pieces, and went with him. This was on a Saturday night like, Miss Enna, and on Monday they took me to a place.”
“Was it a nice place, Bridget?”
“Yes, ma’am; but ’twas a plain, hard-working family; they kept only me, and they had a lot of childer and a whole parcel of apprentice boys; but Mrs. Hill—that was her name—was kind to me, and worked with me when she could, and took good care of my money, which she put all away, and I didn’t spend a bit. She giv’ me some of her old dresses and an old hood, so I saved up all my money for four months. Then I writ my first letter to mother, and sent her the sixteen dollars.”
“Oh, Bridget!” I exclaimed, “why did you not write before?”
The girl laughed quietly, and replied,
“I wanted to send a big bit of money when I writ home; and I know’d the neighbors would stare, and grandmother would open her eyes, and mother would be so proud of her Bridget sendin’ home three pound and over. Then came a letter from them at home, and it made me cry so. They were all well, and had got my money; but mother tried to scold a bit bekase I hadn’t writ before, but she was so plased to hear I was doin’ well, that she didn’t scold much. Then I worked on, but I felt lonely like, and kept thinkin’ how nice ’twould be to have Gracey with me. So I saved up twenty dollars, and sent it to Ireland; and soon Gracey came to me. Mother couldn’t come, I know’d, for grandmother was so old as to stay in bed all the time. I’d been a year in Ameriky when Gracey came over; then after awhile I sent for Elsie, for the times were still harder in Ireland, and mother had bad work to get on with her poor old sick granny to nurse. Elsie seemed so little when she came, that I didn’t know what to do with her; but Mrs. Hill, the kind soul, said she might come and live with me; that she could play with the childer, and rock the cradle, and go errands, and she would give her her clothes the first year; then, if she was smart, she would give her a half dollar a week—for Mr. Hill was richer now. I took great pleasure in Elsie, she was good and minded me; but Gracey was headstrong like, and would have her own way. She gave me a dale of trouble, and many’s the night I’ve laid awake and thought about her. She liked to taze me, and make me believe she was worse than she was.
“At last Mr. Hill and his wife made up their minds to buy a large farm clear up in the country, a great many miles off from Philadelphia, and Elsie and me went with them. This did Gracey good, and she was a better girl ever afterward, for when she was left alone in Philadelphia, she saw how cross she’d been to me, and this made her sorry; and she went to church rigilar, and attended to her duties, and used to go and talk to my good old priest, Father Shane, for he writ about it to me, unbeknownst to her—och, but I was glad thin.
“After I’d been in the country—on the farm, I mane—a letter came from mother, telling us of poor grandmother’s death, and the letter had all tears over it, which made Elsie and me cry, for we know’d they were poor mother’s tears. In this same letter she said she wished we could send her a ticket to come to Ameriky with; that if she could only see her Bridget once more before she died, she would be happy. This was spring-time, so I takes up Elsie’s money and mine, and goes off to Philadelphia to buy a ticket for mother and show Gracey mother’s letter. Gracey had no money to give me, for she was always extravagant; and no wonder, for she was pretty, like mother, and liked a bit of finery better than plain folks like myself. She cried about it, but I comforted her, and told her niver mind, I’d enough; but I couldn’t buy myself a dress—that I didn’t let her know though for fear she’d fret.
“So I bought the ticket, and got Father Shane to write a letter for me. I was going to stay in Philadelphia a week—so Mrs. Hill said I might; but the day after I bought the ticket, a wagon came all the way from the farm to tell me Elsie was dying—that she had sickened the day I left, and had the measles. Then again, Miss Enna, I was in trouble, for Elsie was so good, and she looked like father. Och, I cried all the way out to Mrs. Hill’s. Sure enough, when I got there my poor baby was near gone. I nursed her night and day, poor child, but ’twas no use, God took my wean away from me.
“The night she died she opened her eyes and know’d me for the first time. I thought she was getting well, though the doctor said she couldn’t.