“’Tis good to be young,” he said; “I mind I was young wance mesilf. Where are ye goun’, laad?”
“I hava the friend,” Nicolao replied; “his name is Porfirio—Portuguese, weeth the nice shop, nice fam’ly, nice daughter, yo’ know.”
“I do,” said Kerrigan, significantly; “ye’d niver go ilse. I’ll attind ye for yer own safety. ’Tis on me mind.”
At the crossing they boarded a trolley, for the sun was hot and Nicolao in haste; and going well forward, they seated themselves in the car. As Kerrigan glanced down to return the change of his fare to his pocket, he saw two hands meekly folded in the lap of the woman who sat at his left. The hands held a breviary and a handkerchief. He glanced up at the face of the holder—the fresh Irish face of a young woman.
He sighed and looked away; he knew not why, but for an instant it gave him a desolate feeling of homesickness. Then Nicolao began to talk, and Kerrigan forgot the girl.
But presently she left the car, and as she rose to her feet, he saw a handkerchief flutter to the floor. He leaned forward quickly, and, picking it up, hurried after his neighbor; but others had risen between them, and she had reached the street and was stepping up to the curb when he touched her arm.
“Ye dropped it, acushla,” he said, and turning quickly, she glanced at his outstretched hand.
“Then ’twas a miracle,” she said, “and belongs to the church, not to me.” She held up her own hand, in which safely reposed the breviary and the handkerchief. Kerrigan stared.
“Wid me two eyes I saw it drop as ye got up,” he declared.
“I had but one,” replied the girl. “Are your two eyes strong enough to see that I’ve got it still? And you’ve lost your car.”