"Would I be the black-hearted
thief to him that was kind to me? Sorra bit nor sup but dry bread
and water passed me lips till he had his own again, and the heart's
blessings of owld Biddy Macartney along with it."

I made my peace with old Biddy as well as I could, and turned the
conversation back to her son.

"So you live in the docks with your coffee-barrow, mother, that you
may be sure not to miss Micky when he comes ashore?"

"I do, darlin'! Fourteen years all but three days! He'll be gone
fifteen if we all live till Wednesday week."

"_Fifteen?_ But, mother, if he were like me when he went, he can't
be very like me now. He must be a middle-aged man. Do you think
you'd know him?"

This question was more unfortunate than the other, and produced
such howling and weeping, and beating of Biddy's knees as she
rocked herself among the beans, that I should have thought every
soul in the docks would have crowded round us. But no one took any
notice, and by degrees I calmed her, chiefly by the
assertion--"He'll know you, mother, anyhow."

"He will so, GOD bless him!" said she. "And haven't I gone
over it all in me own mind, often and often, when I'd see the
vessels feelin' their way home through the darkness, and the coffee
staymin' enough to cheer your heart wid the smell of it, and the
least taste in life of something betther in the stone bottle under
me petticoats. And then the big ship would be coming in with her
lights at the head of her, and myself would be sitting alone with
me patience, GOD helping me, and one and another strange
face going by. And then he comes along, cold maybe, and smells the
coffee. 'Bedad, but that's a fine smell with it,' says he, for
Micky was mighty particular in his aitin' and drinkin'. 'I'll take
a dhrop of that,' says he, not noticing me particular, and if ever
I'd the saycret of a good cup he gets it, me consayling me face.
'What will it be?' says he, setting down the mug. 'What would it
be, Micky, from your mother?' says I, and I lifts me head. Arrah,
but then there's the heart's delight between us. 'Mother!' says he.
'Micky!' says I. And he lifts his foot and kicks over the barra,
and dances me round in his arms. 'Ochone!' says the spictators;
'there's the fine coffee that's running into the dock.'