"God and his blessed mother and the angels guard ye, mavourneen," he said at last; "guard ye and keep every breath of evil away till I hold you again. The great sea seems wider than ever, darlin', and the comfort and the meetin' further and further away. You wur always dear to me, always the dearest; but I never thought it wud be so hard to part wid ye till now. Mauria, Mauria, acushla machree."
No answer—no wail of anguish from her woman's lips; but her woman's heart grew cold as death, her head leaned more heavily upon his shoulder, the clasp of her arms about his neck grew tighter, then slowly relapsed; and placing her gently upon the bed, with one long, lingering look he left the house.
When Mary Leyden lifted her aching head from the pillow, kind, womanly hands and compassionate voices were near to soothe and comfort her; but her husband was far on his lonely journey.
CHAPTER II.
Swiftly the emigrant ship cut the blue waves, boldly her sails wooed the winds, and hearts that had been despondent at parting grew hopeful and buoyant as they neared the promised land.
Port at last; and, with a party of his countrymen, William Leyden sought the far West, and before many months had elapsed, the letters he dispatched to the loved ones at home contained not only assurance of his good fortune, but substantial tokens of the fact; and Mary wrote cheerfully and hopefully, ever looking forward to the time when they would be reunited.
For two years our brave Irishman struggled and toiled. Sometimes his heart would almost fail him when he thought of the ocean that intervened between him and his dearest treasures; but these sad thoughts were not familiar visitants, for unusual good fortune had attended his efforts. By the end of the second year he had cleared and planted several acres of rich, fruitful land, and the first flush of autumn saw the completion of as neat and compact a little dwelling as ever western pioneer could claim. Then went "home" the last letter, glowing with hope and promise, and sending wherewith to defray the expenses of wife and children, who were at length to rejoin him in the land where he had toiled for them so hard and so patiently.
"My heart is so light," Mary wrote to him; "my heart is so light that I can hardly feel myself walkin'; it seems to be flyin' I am all the time. And when I think of how soon I'll be near you, of how short the time till ye'll be foldin' yer arms about me, many and many's the time I'm cryin' for joy. Was there ever a happier woman? And Katie and Mamie haven't forgotten a line o' your face or a tone of your voice; ye'll not know them, Willy, they've grown so tall. My tears are all happy ones now, alanna; my prayers are all thankful ones, asthore machree."
How often Leyden read and reread this letter, its torn and ragged appearance might indicate, and as the intervening days sped by, each seemed longer than the last. Mary and the children were to come direct from New York with a party who also expected to meet friends in the West, and he felt quite easy as to their safety and companionship. But ever and anon, as the time drew near, he half reproached himself that he had not gone to meet them, a pleasure he had only foregone on account of his scanty resources.
At last they were in St. Louis—they would be with him in three days. How wearily those days dragged on. But the beautiful October morning dawned at last; a soft mist hung over the tree-tops, and the balmy breath of the Indian summer threw a subtle perfume over the thick forest and its wide stretch of meadow-land beyond.