ead!" he ejaculated, passing his hand across his
forehead. He swayed a moment as if struck, and then he answered, with
forced calmness:

"Yes, Mrs. Conors, I am Corney, and I want to see my mother. I've been
coming home these many years, but something always turned up to spoil
my plans. I knew the money I sent her every month was sufficient to
keep her in comfort, but I didn't think it would be like this--not like
this!"

Corney McVeigh stepped across the ancient threshold and gazed long and
searchingly at the face in the darkened parlor; a face seamed and thin
with toil and worry, yet infinitely sweet and motherlike to the
world-lost man who choked back the tears as he felt again that almost
forgotten child-love.

Mrs. Conors broke the silence.

"I put her ould spinning-wheel there in the corner, where she could see
it 'fore she went. Those socks on the table was her last work fer ye,
Corney. She said to keep yer father's pictur' an' hers togither in the
album. I was also tould to warn ye 'gainst sleepin' in the draught,
'cause ye were always weak about the lungs, an' yer father died o' thet
complaint. She thought maybe ye wouldn't be wantin' the ould house, so
if the hotel man offered ye a good figure ye could sell it. The cow
and the chicks were to go to me, an'--well, bless me heart, if he
hasn't fainted!"

Mrs. Conors ceased her explanations and called to the occupants of the
rear room, whose conversation came in to her in low monotones. "Mrs.
Dodona! Jennie! it's Corney, and the lad's fainted."

The blindness, for that was all that Corney experienced, passed off in
a few minutes, and when his eyes could notice he saw that they had
carried him to the little room which had once been his own bed-chamber.
Two women were placing cool cloths on his head. When he revived, one
stepped quietly out. The other remained. She was young and decidedly
pretty, but her face showed plainly the effects of recent grief.
Cornelius McVeigh noticed her appearance particularly because it was
peculiarly familiar to him. The harsh shock of his bereavement had
passed, leaving him weakened but calm.

"Corney, do you remember me?" the girl asked him, gently.

"Jennie," he answered, hesitatingly, as if it was an effort for him to
collect his thoughts.

"We have lost our mother--ours," she said, tremulously, and lowered her
head, weeping.

He hastily arose, and his arm clasped her shoulder with brotherly
affection.