t
make out the advancing figures, but from one in the midst broke a
yell, a too-familiar yell, for who in the world but Mick could make
such a sound? Then her prodigal son dashed from the midst of the
throng and flew to her with his arms spread wide.

Mrs. Sheehy seemed taken with a genuine faintness. She dropped the
'piggin,'--the little one-handled tub in which she was carrying the
rentpayer's mess of greens,--and fell back against the wall. The
spectators, and it seemed the whole village had turned out, came
stealing in Mick's wake. They were safe from Mrs. Sheehy's dreaded
tongue, for the lady had no eyes for them. As soon as she realised
that it was Mick, really her son, come back to her, she burst into a
torrent of abuse, the like of which has never been equalled in our
country. The listeners could give no idea of it: it was too continuous
and too eloquent. It included not only Mick, 'the villain, the thief
of the world, the base unnatural deceiver,' but ourselves, and all to
whom Mick had paid those farewell visits. Mick heard her with a grin,
and when she had exhausted herself she suddenly clutched him by his
mop-head, dragged him indoors, and banged the door to.

She had apprehended the true state of the case. The potations at some
houses, the gifts at others, had been the causes of the failure of
Mick as an emigrant. When his round of visits was concluded he had
slept comfortably in a hay-stack till long after the hour when his
fellow emigrants were starting from Kingsbridge. The next morning he
had gaily set out for 'a bit of a spree' in Dublin, and having sold
his passage ticket and his little kit, had managed, with the proceeds
and our gifts, to make the spree last a fortnight. For a little while
we deemed it expedient to avoid passing by Mrs. Sheehy's door, though
Mick assured us that it was 'the joy of the crathur had taken her wits
from her, so that she didn't rightly know what she was saying.'

There was one more attempt made to emigrate Mick, but it was futile,
Mick declaring that 'he'd deserve any misfortune, so he would, if he
was ever to turn his back on the old woman again.' Mrs. Sheehy has
forgiven us our innocent share in keeping Mick at home with her. The
mother and son still live together, with varying times, just as the
working mood is on or off Mick. I believe his favourite relaxation of
an evening, when he stays at home, is to discover in the wood embers
the treasures which would have fal