with the coming of
the September dusk. The quick-pacing people had given way to the
_clop-clop-clop_ of hansom-cabs, and the tram-cars with their tired
horses came less frequently now. One felt that a giant had been at work
all day, and was now stretching himself, not lazily, but a little
relaxingly. Soon the great lamps would flare, and the crowds would be
going to the playhouses: to Tony Pastor's to see the new play, "Dreams,"
or to Harrigan & Hart's to see "Investigation," or to Mr. Bartley
Campbell's latest, "Separation," at the Grand Opera-house. He would miss
all this in Antrim, but Antrim called him.... Antrim, our mother....

And three months ago he had never thought this possible. He had drilled
himself into a mature philosophy, saying: "It doesn't matter that I
never see Ireland again. I am happy here with Granya and young Alan and
Robin Beg, little Robin. All the folks are kindly and the country is a
great country, and when my time comes to die there are sweet little
places on Long Island where they can lay me within sound of the sea, and
the gentle snow will come and cover me in winter and in summer somewhere
about me the dogwood will blow, and the very green grass come. And
perhaps some young children will come and play around my grave, and I
shall hear their little gurgling laughter, sweet as the voices of
pigeons.... And one day Granya will come.... Nothing is more certain
than that, that Granya will come...."

But all the philosophy in the world could not shut from his ears the
little piping of Antrim. He would say: "'Tis little thought I gave to
Antrim and I a young man! And what is a town or so to me, who have seen
all great cities?" And again he said: "Didn't you give up Antrim gladly
when you got Granya? Wasn't she worth a hundred Antrims?" And his heart
and mind answered: "Yes, a thousand Antrims!" But, a very queer thing,
the little haunting melody of the glens would not be stilled.

And it came to him thus: I am no longer a young man. For all I look
forty-five, as they tell me, yet I am fifty-eight. The life of the body
is over now. That had passed, as a mood passes. And the mind is fixed.
In what remains of life to me, I must think, divine, weigh. One
prepares.... And thoughts must not be disturbed. To grow old in a city
that is ever young, that is in its twenties itself as it were--it makes
an old man cold and afraid. Old buildings he has known to go down, old
streets are obliterated. It is a