I wished
to talk of. But the memory of his mother was strong upon me, and I had
no intention of letting it slide.

"I'm so glad to have found you," I said. "I am sure you can't have
known what a trouble it has been to your mother never to have heard from
you all these years."

"Arrah! And why should she bother herself over me?" he answered
impatiently. "Sure I never was anything _but_ a trouble to her, worse
luck!" And before I could speak again, he went on. "But make your mind
aisy, I'll be writing to her. Many's the time that I've all but indited
the letter, but I'll do it now. Upon me conscience, ye may dipind upon
me."

Could I depend upon his shambling conscience? Every instinct of an
honest man about me answered, No. As he had done for fifteen years past,
so he would do for fifteen years to come. As long as he was comfortable
himself, his mother would never get a line out of him. Perhaps his voice
recalled hers, but I almost fancied I could hear her as I sat there.--"I
ax your pardon, darlin'. It was my own Micky that was on my mind."

"Look here, Mr. Macartney," said I; "I want you to do me a favour. I owe
your mother a good turn, and it'll ease my mind to repay it. Sit down
whilst we're enjoying your hospitality, and just write her a line, and
let me have the pleasure of finding a stamp and putting it in the post
with my own hands."

We argued the point for some time, but Micky found the writing materials
at last, and sat down to write. As he proceeded he seemed to become
more reconciled to the task; though he was obviously no great scribe,
and followed the sentiments he was expressing with curious contortions
of his countenance which it was most funny to behold. By and by I was
glad to see a tear or two drop on to the paper, though I was sorry that
he wiped them up with his third finger, and wrote over the place before
it had time to dry.

"Murther and ages! But it's mighty pleased that she'll be," said Mr.
Macartney when he had finished. He looked mighty pleased with himself,
and he held the letter out to me.

"Do you mean me to read it?" I asked.

"I did. And ye can let your friends hear too."

I read it aloud, wondering as I read. If pen and ink spoke the truth,
Biddy's own Micky's heart was broke entirely with the parting from his
mother. Sorra a bit of taste had there been in his food, or a drop of
natural rest had he enjoyed for the last fifteen years. "Five thousand
four hundred and seventy-