sent me there for a map," said Barty,
with elaborate unconcern.

("Look at that now!" again commented Mrs. Mangan to herself. "How well
they never told me he'd gone to see her! Aren't men a fright the way
they'll hide things!")

"She's a sweet girl, my Pidgie," she resumed, to her son, "And Pappy's
always said the same thing."

Barty looked at her like a horse prepared to shy. Had his father said
anything to her? The longing to speak of Christian had mastered him,
but if his mother knew--

"I think I'd better go for Tishy now," he said abruptly, "It might be
a job to get down the town later on."

He left the room, and Mrs. Mangan, in her husband's big chair, by his
big fire, fell into tired yet peaceful ease of body and mind. How
wonderful was Francis! Who but he would have dared to aspire for his
children as he had? He had secured for Tishy the very pick of the
country; and now, her own darling Barty! Was it possible? Yes! It was,
if Francis said so! But _what_ was "the argument he had up his
sleeve?" Never mind! Francis would tell her when he came home. There
was no hurry. But again, how wonderful was Francis!

She fell asleep. Barty woke her, coming into the room, dripping and
shining in oilskins and sou'wester, like a lifeboat man.

"I couldn't get further than West Street, Mammie," he said, still
breathless. "I had on my waders, but the water was up over them. They
had boats going about, I believe, but I couldn't get hold of one.
Tishy'll have to stay the night at the Whelplys'. I met a man that
told me there was a big flood in the river, and haystacks, and cattle,
and all sorts, coming down in it. It was up over the line, and the
train hardly got out. It was near putting out the engine fires."

"Oh, my God!" said Mrs. Mangan, with her big eyes that were so like
Barty's fixed on his, "the Riverstown road! Oh! Francis!--" she
groped at the front of her blouse for her Rosary, her lips moving in
hasty supplication, her eyes wild, roving from her son's face to the
blackness of the window. Suddenly she thrust back the Rosary.

"Why do you tell me these things?" she cried, furiously, "you great
_omadhaun_! Is it to frighten me into my grave you want? Is it
nothing to you that your father's out alone? Oh God! Oh God! Why
couldn't he think of me as well as of that damned woman away at
Riverstown!" She began to cry, wildly, her forehead pressed against
one of the streaming panes of the window. "Oh Francis, Franci