, as his eyes passed from
one point to another, his mother's tavern came within the circle of his
vision. He looked no farther. There it stood, the oddest, drollest
structure that ever marred so perfect a landscape. Its weather-beaten
shingles curled to the sky. Its cracked chimneys and protruding gable
leaned towards the roadway, and every board was rusted to a natural
paintless hue. The pump stood apart, the trough green with moss and
the handle pointing outwards threateningly, like a grim sentry guarding
against the curious passers-by. A grove of trees generously shaded the
rear porch, and beyond them, behind the high fence, he knew, was the
garden. The log barn, with its plastered chinks, had not altered a
particle, and the cow might have been the same one he had milked, so
like her she appeared as she munched at the trailing wisps of hay
hanging from the loft. The outspoken cackle of hens also added to the
rustic environments. It filled his heart with gladness to see the old
place, but it was not complete. The quaintest figure of all was
missing--his mother, tall and white-headed, standing on the verandah
watching down the road for his return. Something was hanging to the
soiled brass knob of the front door, and as he approached he saw that
it was a streamer of black crepe. His heart, which for twenty long
years had thrilled only to the hard-won successes of a self-made man,
beat with a sudden passionate fear, and a tear stole out upon his
cheek. A new-born awkwardness grappled with him as he stumbled along
the roadway. Somehow he saw a pair of dirty, sun-scorched feet encased
in his shining leather shoes. The languid eyes of the hotel guests
followed him, and some wondered as to the nature of his errand.
Arriving at the door, he knocked lightly. An old woman, with
dishevelled grey hair and shoulders enveloped in a bright homespun
shawl, answered his summons and shrilly demanded what he wanted.

"Is it Mrs. Conors?" he asked, scrutinizing her face earnestly. She
turned with a look of open-mouthed wonder upon him, and hesitated
before speaking, so he continued:

"Have you forgotten Corney?" He trembled with a vague fear, and the
old woman's failing memory smote him painfully.

"Be ye Corney McVeigh? A-comin' home to see yer poor dead mammy, an'
ye the ounly boy she had? But surely Corney wouldn't have sich foine
clothes. I can scarcely believe ye," she muttered, doubtingly.

"Dead! Mother d