"Well, Mr Cotter," was the reply, "the few girls I know there are always glad to see me, I’ve no doubt; but its little thought o’ me throubles thin, when I’m not present. But we’re delayin’ you You must excuse us. Come Nora, I have somethin’ to speak to you about."
The other, frowning, bit his lip. "Good by, Nora, for the present," he said, gallantly kissing his ungloved hand to the young girl; "I shall see you again;" and, without further speech, her turned on his heel, whistling as he walked off.
"Nora," said John O’Regan, "what was that young shoneen sayin’ to you?"
"Nothin’ avic, but biddin’ me ’good morrow,’ whin you just came up. An’ I must say, his absence is betther company than his presence."
Well, niver mind him, darlin’; but lets take a turn to the end of the cliff, as I have somethin’ to tell you."
And side by side the young pair walked up the street. When they arrived at the end which terminated in a turn of the cliff,—"Nora, my heart’s treasure," said the young sailor, "I’m goin’ to lave you."
"Goin’ to lave us, John!" she exclaimed, catching him by the arm, and gazing at him with astonished eyes,—"goin’ to lave us!"
"Yes, my darlin’," he iterated, "I am goin’ to lave you. I engaged this blessed day with one Captain Barry to go sailorin’ with him to New York."
"O John! John! an’ what will take you across the wide say? And what will your poor mother do?"
"And what will my poor Nora do?" he asked, deeply affected. "Its the will of God, asthore, an’ I must go. My poor father is unable to pay his rint; and the agent—the father of that young angashore, Cotter,—threatens to turn him out, and the landlord won’t listen to raison. An’ wat use would I be to my poor father in his trouble? Wouldn’t it be better for me—for us all—that I should go where I can earn heaps of money, that I may be able to repay the kindness of my mother an’ father when I was a helpless crayther, an’ not, be a burthen on thim. It won’t be long before I’m home again,—in six weeks maybe. Besides, don’t I want to lay aside a penny for a future day?" And, as he said this, he archly stole his arm around the fair girl’s waist, and suddenly kissed her soft, blooming cheek.
This time, as no rude observer was standing near, the young girl offered no resistance to the prerogative of love, and feelingly said, "Well, John, the will of God must be done; and I can only hope that the ragin’ says will be calm and gentle to you; and I shall always be prayin’ the merciful God to have you in His keepin’, and to soften the hearts of the black sthrangers to you. Whin you are far away, mavourneen you will think of me whin you see this cross, which you must wear for my sake;" taking off at the same time a necklace of coral, to which a silver crucifix was pendant. "It was the gift of my poor father, God be merciful to his soul, come next Christmas two years, just two months before his death." Tears were fast streaming down her lovely cheeks, whilst the lad, scarce able to conceal his own emotion, pressed her tenderly to his bosom.
"Don’t, darlin’, don’t!" he cried, "or my heart will burst. God knows I need strength to give me courage to take lave of you all, and this smiling land where I have spent so many happy hours with those I love. Nora, I will wear this for your sake; and, every time I look at it, it will not only remind me of all our blessed Lord did for us, but of the love my Nora feels for me. What I can give you in return to keep for me is but a small thing,—this neck-kerchief made for me by my mother. It is all I have. God knows I would give you my heart; but," added he slyly, "it isn’t in my keepin’, as a little girl, called Nora Daly, has taken it from me, and kep’ it this many a long day. but, come, my darlin’, dry your eyes, an’ lets be goin’. My mother must be comforted, as I dare say my father’s hand set to do it, though he wint home before me to try."
The pair retraced their steps, and stopping at the door of the cabin of Widow Daly—Nora’s mother—they went in. The good woman was making a cup of tea, to which she cordially invited John O’Regan; but, declining, he explained to her why he had delayed Nora. "May the grate God, in his mercy, watch over you, child, and bring you home safe! and my prayers and blessings follow you wherever you go." Promising the widow to be sure to come and spend an evening with her before he took his final leave, and embracing Nora once more, he hastened home.
Outside the entrance to the village was situated the cottage of Michael O’Regan. It was one of the most respectable in Guileen, and had attached to it about twenty acres of average land. O’Regan had a large share in a fishing vessel; but of late his business had been attended with ill-fortune, and he fell in arrears with for rent. Mr. Cotter, the agent for the landlord, Mr. Molloy, of Cove (at present called Queenstown), had pressed O’Regan for the balance due, and threatened him with eviction. In vain, the unfortunate man had protested; the agent was inexorable. The day before, O’Regan, with his son John and a couple of men, went to Queenstown to dispose of a cargo of fish. With his own share of the proceeds, he went to the landlord to pay a half-year’s rent, and begged for a little more time to pay up the balance, which the landlord refused to grant, declining to interfere with his agent’s arrangements, as, he said, "if I do it for one, I must do it for all, and then I might as well be my own agent." Michael O’Regan left him with a heavy heart; and an hour later when he fell in with an old acquaintance, Captain Barry, of the "Black Bugle," his consent was obtained without much difficulty to the departure of his son—much to John’s satisfaction—as a sailor before the mast in that gallant vessel.
When John, after leaving Nora, reached home, he found his mother in an agony of tears. She drew her boy to her bosom. "Wirasthrue! wirasthrue!" she cried, "and has it come to this, that the boy of my heart is goin’ to lave his poor old mother, to be tossed about on the stormy says, and perhaps to find a wathery grave. O Johnny, darlin’ stop at home; bether for us to beg by the roadside together than that by the light of my eyes should be thrown among cold-hearted strangers."
"Whisht, Mary!" said her husband, who had just been relating to her all that had happened, "don’t unman the boy. He needs comfort, as we all do, God help us!"
Reconciled to what she became at last convinced was a necessity, his mother set about preparing such things for his comfort as their limited means would allow, trusting that God would preserve her boy from the dangers of the deep and the wiles of the world.
The day for John’s departure at length arrived. the leave-taking with his family was tender and affectionate. His father with great difficulty repressed his grief; but his distracted mother could scarce be prevailed upon to release the boy from her arms. His parting with Nora was heart-rending. "Nora," he said, as he kissed her passionately, "when I return at Christmas, I shall bring you a present worth keepin’, that will show you how much value your love." At the beach, renewed blessings and prayers for his safety were freely poured out. Springing into the boat that waited for him, he shouted a last farewell, and was soon on board a hooker bound for Queenstown. His parents and Nora watched the vessel till it rounded Roche’s Point, and then turned sadly towards home; each feeling as if a heartstring had been rent in sunder.
(To be Continued.)
