Every three months, Andy or one of the girls sent an order for two pounds and wrote that Johnny sent it with his love. That was all. They never answered the questions concerning Johnny, his doings and his whereabouts which Mary repeatedly wrote at her mother’s behest.
“Is that all, Mary? Is there nothing at all, at all about Johnny?” Mrs. Ryan queried in disappointed tones, when her daughter had finished reading Andy’s letter.
“There’s not a word in it about Johnny, mother darlin’,” Mary answered reluctantly.
“Andy said Nancy Quin is comin’ home on the boat that gets in Saturday, didn’t he?”
“Yes, mother,” Mary replied, “Nancy is comin’ to spend a month with her people.”
“An’ Nancy Quin lives out in the same family as Liza?”
“Yes, mother; she’s parlor-maid where Liza’s cook.”
“Then, plaze God, Mary, when Nancy comes to see me I’ll larn the truth about the onnatural silence of Johnny! Och, but he was the darlin’ boy—always so gay and pleasant!”
There was a brief silence, after which the old woman drew a worn and yellow sheet of paper from beneath the plaid woolen kerchief that was folded across her bosom.
“Read it for me, Mary agra,” she said sadly, “read it for me agin—the last letter from Johnny. God bless him, wherever he is, this day an’ night!”