“No, mother darlin’, it’s from Andy this time.”
“Why doesn’t Johnny write, an’ why doesn’t he come an’ see his poor ould mother afore she dies?” the old woman wailed. “Och, but me heart is sore wid the longin’ for me darlin’ boy, an’ me ould arrums is achin’ to hould him agin! Niver a word from him this three years, come Chrisymas! It’s not like Johnny! It’s not like Johnny at all, at all!”
“But, mother achree, Johnny doesn’t forget you,” Mary answered soothingly. “An’ he never forgets to send you two pounds every three months by Liza, or Andy, or Katie.”
“I know it, Mary. Johnny was always a ginerous boy: but it’s not his money I want, but himself back agin! Shure I’d rather beg wid Johnny than own the wurruld an’ all wid-dout him!” Mrs. Ryan answered. “Read Andy’s letter for me, Mary acushla.”
While Mary Ryan read aloud the letter which she had just brought from the village post-office, her mother gazed yearningly over the restless expanse of dark blue ocean, which stretched away to the crimsoning west. With dreamy eyes, which saw but heeded not, she watched the hovering, screaming sea-gulls, the white-sailed fishing-smacks and the long, black streak of smoke that, far away on the horizon, marked the course of an outward-bound steamer.
For many years Mrs. Ryan had been in the habit of sitting on the rude bench by the door of the cabin, that was perched high up on the rugged hill-side, and watching the steamers as they came and went.
Four times during those weary years the mother’s heart within her had grown numb with pain as she saw the black streak fade in the distance and knew that one of her darlings was being borne away from her.
Andy was the first to leave the overcrowded cabin and seek work in the grand land of plenty across the water. In a year, Andy sent the passage money for Liza, and, in another year, Liza sent the passage money for Katie. Then Johnny, the idol of her declining years, kissed his mother good-bye and, with cheery, hopeful voice, promised to return to her in two, or at most, three years. With that dumb resignation, sometimes born of a sense of hopeless inability to cope with circumstances, Mrs. Ryan had watched him wend his way, with many a backward glance and wave of the hand, down the narrow zig-zag path to the village and the train for Queenstown, where the merciless steamer waited to bear him away forever from her loving arms. She remembered still how the sunbeams had glinted upon his auburn hair that morning, and how handsome he had looked in his new tweed suit and green tie. She thought of the tears that had welled up in his blue eyes when she gave him her parting blessing, and she recalled the silent anguish with which she had sat by the cabin door and watched the black steamer, silhouetted against the golden sunset and slowly disappearing in the distance. It had been hard to see the others go, but Johnny—what would life be without Johnny?
That was five years ago. For two years Johnny had written regularly, telling of steady work and good wages, and promising to come home for a vacation as soon as possible. Then there came a short, badly-written note enclosed with a letter from Andy, and after that—silence.
Andy and Liza and Katie wrote regularly and sent money for the support of their mother and Mary. It was Mary’s mission to remain in the Old Country and take care of the feeble, aged mother.