e can't go," she repeated, her body crumpled up limply in the chair.

"And why not, Angela? I know I can't take ye back as I brought ye here,
dear, if that's what ye mane. The luck's been against me. It's been
cruel hard against me. An' that thought is tearin' at me heart this
minnit."

"It isn't THAT, Frank," she said, faintly.

"Then what is it?"

"Oh," she cried, "I hoped it would be so different--so very different."

"What did ye think would be so different, dear? Our going back? Is that
what's throublin' ye?"

"No, Frank. Not that. I don't care how we go back so long as you are
with me." He pressed her hand. In a moment she went on: "But we can't
go. We can't go. Oh, my dear, my dear, can't you guess? Can't you
think?" She looked imploringly into his eyes.

A new wonder came into his. Could it be true? Could it? He took both
her hands and held them tightly and stood up, towering over her, and
trembling violently. "Is it--is it--?" he cried and stopped as if
afraid to complete the question.

She smiled a wan smile up at him and nodded her head as she answered:

"The union of our lives is to be complete. Our love is to be rewarded."

"A child is coming to us?" he whispered.

"It is," and her voice was hushed, too.

"Praise be to God! Praise be to His Holy Name," and O'Connell clasped
his hands in prayer.

In a little while she went on: "It was the telling you I wanted to be
so different. I wanted you, when you heard it, to be free of
care--happy. And I've waited from day to day hoping for the best--that
some good fortune would come to you."

He forced one of his old time, hearty laughs, but there was a hollow
ring in it:

"What is that yer sayin' at all? Wait for good fortune? Is there any
good fortune like what ye've just told me? Sure I'm ten times the
happier man since I came into this room." He put his arm around her and
sitting beside her drew her closely to him. "Listen, dear," he said,
"listen. We'll go back to the old country. Our child shall be born
where we first met. There'll be no danger. No one shall harm us with
that little life trembling in the balance--the little precious life. If
it's a girl-child she'll be the mother of her people; and if it be a
man-child he shall grow up to carry on his father's work. So
there--there--me darlin', we'll go back--we'll go back."

She shook her head feebly. "I can't," she said.

"Why not, dear?"

"I didn't want to tell you. But now you make me.