vidently been delayed in transit, for the letter was dated three months
before it was received.

"My dearest old mother," Kathleen began to read.

"It's from Denis!" cried Mrs. Quirk. "Denis, that I believed was dead!
Call Mr. Quirk, my dear! Oh, this is too much joy! God is good, far too
good, to an undeserving old woman like me."

Kathleen went out into the gardens and found Mr. Quirk, spade in hand,
busily instructing a raw recruit how to work.

"There's no art in it," he remarked contemptuously. "'Tis merely a
matter of muscle. You won't do for me!"

"Mrs. Quirk wants you in the dining-room," said Kathleen.

"Wants me? And what for?" he asked.

"She has a letter from your son."

Mr. Quirk laughed contemptuously. But he paused in his work to reply.

"My only son is dead these ten years. Is she mad?"

"No, she is not," replied the girl indignantly. "I opened the letter
myself, and it is from your son."

"I will come and see it. It is probably some idle vagabond that is
playing a trick on her," growled Samuel Quirk. "Here," he cried to the
labourer, "take the spade, and let me see what you can do."

Kathleen was always annoyed by the old man's assumed contempt for his
wife. Samuel Quirk recognised the fact, and was secretly amused at it.
He feigned a greater intolerance and disrespect before the girl, just to
increase her indignation. Now, as she moved away, the picture of
resentment, he called out:

"Tell her I am coming to expose the scamp. She is too soft. Every idle
fellow makes use of her."

Kathleen found the old lady holding the opened letter upside down,
vainly attempting to decipher the writing, while the tears of joy
dropped from her eyes upon the pages.

"Mr. Quirk does not believe it is from your son," said Kathleen.

"Who but Denis would call me mother?" she asked. "But himself was just
saying that to annoy you; don't be taking too much notice of him. Read
it, dearie. Let me hear my boy speaking to me again."

"I have prospered and made a fortune in America. I am coming home to
look after you and the father. Prepare to pack up and come with me to a
better home than the old one in Collingwood. I have been wanting all
these years to have the old mother, who sacrificed herself for me,
beside me."

"And why not sacrifice myself for him? Wasn't he my only child? And a
dear boy--and good. Didn't my heart all but break with joy when I first
saw him serving the good priest's Mass! It was Fath