Mrs. Kinsella caught up her baby as she spoke, gave a hasty look round to make sure that Micky and Nanny were not crawling into the fire, enjoined Mary, her “second eldest” little girl, to “have an eye to them” during her absence, and, hustling her firstborn before her, hastily left the cabin.

“What is it at all?” asked Peggy Murphy, her next-door neighbour, thrusting her head over the half-door.  “What in the world has happened?  Is it goin’ up to Brophys’ ye are?  I hope herself’s not sick or anything.”

“Not at all; but Dan looked in on his way from town, an’ says he, ‘I’ve a letther in my pocket that the postmisthress is afther givin’ me, an’ it’s from America,’ he says, ’but I’m sure I couldn’t tell ye who wrote it,’ says he.  ‘I wisht,’ he says, ‘ye’d send up wan o’ yer little girls to read it to us,’ says he, ’for neither herself nor me is much hand at makin’ out writin’.’  An’ here I’m afther sarchin’ high an’ low for Maggie, an’ where was she?  Up in a tree, if ye plaze.  Me heart’s scalded with that child.  She’ll break her neck on me before she’s done.”

Maggie jerked her flaxen locks backwards with a slightly defiant air, and inquired of her parent if she was comin’ on out o’ that.  Mrs. Kinsella in return curtly desired her to be off with herself, an’ not be standin’ there givin’ her impidence, an’ Mrs. Brophy maybe killin’ herself wonderin’ what could be in the letther at all.

Thus adjured, Maggie led the way up a steep and stony path, followed by her mother, Mrs. Murphy, and sundry other of the neighbours, all agog with excitement and curiosity.

Half-way up the rocky hillside they came upon the Brophys’ abode, a one-storied cabin, with a cabbage garden, a potato plot, and a scanty patch of wheat climbing up the mountain at the rear.

Dan himself stood in the doorway, eagerly on the lookout for them; while a querulous voice from within warned them that “herself” had reached the limit of her patience.

Entering they descried her—­a tiny old woman, bent almost double with age and rheumatism, leaning forward in her elbow-chair with the letter on her knee.

Maggie was hustled to the front and the packet placed in her hand.  She turned it over and over, and finally broke the seal.

“It’s from America,” she said.

“Bedad, alanna, I knew that before,” returned old Dan, who was bending over her, his weather-beaten face betraying the utmost mystification.

“Sure all of us knew that,” murmured the bystanders.

“Well, give the child time to see what’s in it,” urged Mrs. Kinsella.  “Father Taylor himself couldn’t tell yez what’s in a letther before he had it opened.”

“Who’s it from, Maggie asthore?  Tell us that much,” cried Mrs. Brophy with shrill eagerness.

Maggie drew the letter from the envelope and slowly unfolded it.  An enclosure fell out.  Several hands were outstretched to catch it, and Mrs. Kinsella succeeded.