Sons Of Fortune

Sold on alibris.com
( 4.4/5.0 ★ | 280 downloads )
-- Click the link to download --

https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&offerid=1494105.26
539780312313197&type=15&murl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2
Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780312313197
Sons Of Fortune

ISBN: 9780312313197
Category: Media > Books
File Fomat: PDF, EPUB, DOC...
File Details: 10.0 MB
Language: English
Website: alibris.com
Short description: Good Size: 9x6x1;

DOWNLOAD: https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&
offerid=1494105.26539780312313197&type=15&murl=http%3A%2F%2F
www.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780312313197
 Sons Of Fortune

• Click the link: https://click.linksynergy.com/link?id=*C/UgjGtUZ8&offerid=1494105.2653978031231319

7&type=15&murl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.alibris.com%2Fsearch%2Fbooks%2Fisbn%2F9780312313197 to do
latest version of Sons Of Fortune in multiple formats such as PDF, EPUB, and more.

• Don’t miss the chance to explore our extensive collection of high-quality resources, books, and guides on
our website. Visit us regularly to stay updated with new titles and gain access to even more valuable
materials.
.
 CHAPTER XVII.
ARRIVAL IN NEW YORK.

Our voyage to America was a very pleasant one. The weather was
excellent. The warm glow of midsummer was over everything, and
the cool ocean breezes were most grateful as we sat at evening on
the deck and watched the stars burn above our heads in the sky,
which always seems so vast when one is on the face of the water.
After the first two or three days, neither of us was seasick, and
Winifred took to the sea at once. She loved the salt air, the cool
spray blowing in her face as she stood upon the deck, her hair flying
about her and her face aglow. Often she spoke of the dear land she
had left and of her dear ones, while her eyes filled with tears and
her voice trembled with emotion.
One afternoon, as we watched the sun glinting on the waves,
Winifred said:
"Just now that same sun is lighting all the hills! That was what made
people call them, in the Irish tongue, the hills of 'the gilt spurs.'"
"That is a pretty name," I observed; "and well describes how they
look at this hour of a fine evening."
"I wish I could see them now," said Winifred; and then she fell
silent, as if in thought.
She was very shy of the strangers on board the steamer, and rarely
exchanged a word with any of them except at table; though many of
them noticed her and spoke with admiration of her charming face
and her graceful ways.
It was a lovely, calm morning when we steamed into New York Bay.
We both were up early and on deck; and I pointed out to Winifred
Staten Island, lying green and garden-like on the water's breast; and
Governor's Island, with its forts; and Bedloe's Island, with its huge
Liberty statue, the goddess standing with colossal torch at the
entrance to the New World. At last there was New York itself, the
Empire City, the great metropolis; and over it rested a haze, whence
emerged the steeple of Old Trinity, the Custom House, and the tops
of various high buildings, which filled Winifred with wonder; she had
never seen anything like these "sky-scrapers," as they are called.
She talked of them even after we had landed, and as we drove up
Broadway to the hotel were I had my quarters. This great
thoroughfare seemed to bewilder her altogether.
"The people!" she cried—"all the people! Why, they are thicker
together than trees in a wood," and she simply stopped her ears
against the noise. "It seems as if there was a thunderstorm going on
all the time!" she exclaimed.
She was much amused also at the swift, gliding motion of the cable-
cars, unlike anything she had yet seen.
"Isn't it all wonderful!" she would cry. "Oh, if Niall could see this!"
"He has seen just as wonderful sights and far more so," I reminded
her. "You know how much he has travelled."
"Well, if Barney and Moira and the other people from home could
see this place, they'd think they were dreaming. I'm not quite sure
that I won't wake up—only," she added, with one of her droll looks,
"I couldn't be asleep in such a noise."
We had reached the corner of Twenty-third Street, and I saw
Madison Square and the Fifth Avenue Hotel arising on my vision.
There was even an unusual traffic just then. Cars, express wagons,
private carriages, vehicles of all sorts, were crowding and jostling
one another to the imminent risk of those within them, as well as
those who attempted to cross on foot. The carriage in which we sat
had to stop for an instant, and in that instant I saw standing at the
corner of the street Roderick O'Byrne. His face was clouded by care
or anxiety of some sort, which wholly changed its ordinary bright
character. He was looking thoughtfully before him, while he waited a
favorable opportunity to make the crossing.
Suddenly his eyes fell full upon Winifred, who was looking out of the
window with eager interest. He started as if he had been stung. Yet
he could not possibly have recognized the child, who was, happily,
unconscious of his regard. It must have been some resemblance he
discovered in her. Fortunately, he was so absorbed in his study of
her face that he did not perceive me. I shrank back as far as
possible in my corner of the vehicle and waited breathlessly, till next
moment the carriage swept onward, and those two, so closely bound
by the tenderest ties of kindred, were parted in the great vortex.
I felt a sense of relief that Roderick had not glanced in my direction.
Had he done so, he would inevitably have recognized me, and I
should have been confronted at our next meeting with all manner of
awkward inquiries. For I could not tell him that his daughter was in
my keeping and then refuse to let him see or communicate with her.
The hotel seemed a most magnificent place to Winifred; for though
we had been in very comfortable quarters in Dublin, the luxury of a
New York hotel seems quite a different affair. The service in the
dining-room, the table appointments, the variety of the bill of fare,
the orchestra which played sweet strains during all the meal, were
dreamlike, almost, to this child of the hills. The elevator seemed to
her as something very amusing. She would like to have gone up and
down in it several times. She had a charming little room adjoining
mine, all done in gray and pink, and an outlook upon the gay street.
She could scarcely tear herself away from the window in the few
days that elapsed before I had decided upon a school for her and
made some simple preparations. Indeed, I found it rather difficult to
decide upon a school for the child, not because there were no good
ones, but for the opposite reason that there were so many. But to
one thing I made up my mind: she must be out of town. The
presence of her father in New York made that a necessity. Yet, on
the other hand, I could not send her too far away, as I wanted to
see her often, mark her progress and the effect of austere school-life
on one who had been accustomed to a free, wild existence on the
beautiful Wicklow hills. It was this circumstance which finally
determined my choice. I must be in easy distance of the child, so
great was my responsibility.
I took her to her new home one evening just as the shadows were
deepening and New York lay like a great map traced out in lights.
They gleamed and glowed through the gathering darkness, and
through the smoke clouds which arose from the countless factories.
I felt a curious sense of desolation, and I was certain that Winifred
would suffer from this when she found herself enclosed in an
unfamiliar building, to become a mere atom, as it were, in a
multitude.
The child was grave and quiet, but did not seem to shrink at all from
school-life. In fact, she had rather entered into the prospect of going
there with the enthusiasm of her age, and had begun to plan out the
details of her new existence. She told me after that she had
experienced an awful sense of loneliness when going to bed in a
strange dormitory, with its rows of curtained beds, amongst so many
whom she had never seen before. During the night prayers and the
final hymn she had cried all the time.
These sensations are common enough to all who go into new scenes
for the first time; but for some weeks after Winifred's arrival at the
convent she reminded me of nothing so much as a bird in a cage. I
am sure the ordinary little restraints of school-life must have been
intolerable to one brought up, as she had been, unrestrained upon
the hills. In the austere convent parlor, with her black dress, and her
curls fastened back from her face with a ribbon, she was like a spirit
of her former self. She told me, in her quaint speech, that she only
lived from one visit of mine to another. Usually she was pale, sad
and listless. The spirit of mischief seemed to have gone out of her,
and the Religious who presided in the parlor told me that she was
docile to her teachers and very diligent in her studies.
"If I study very hard perhaps I will get home sooner," Winifred
explained to me as we sat hand in hand in the corner of the parlor.
"My heart aches to see Ireland again, and the Dargle and the hills
and Granny and Niall and Father Owen, and every one."
"It will not be very long till you see them all again," I observed
soothingly. "Time passes very quickly."
She heaved a deep sigh, as if to signify that time did not pass so
very quickly for her.
When I rose to go that day I told her that I was going to get
permission, if possible, for her to come down and spend a day with
me.
"To spend a day with you in the big city down there!" she cried. "Oh,
it will be lovely! We can see so many things and we can talk about
home."
That seemed to be indeed her greatest pleasure. The permission
was granted, with even better terms than I had expected; for she
was to come down on the following Tuesday morning and remain
with me till the day after.
"It is a privilege we do not often grant," the nun said, smiling. "But
in this child's case we think it is really essential. The change from a
widely different life was so very sudden."
"So you are to come on Tuesday, and this is Sunday," I told Winifred.
Her eyes fairly sparkled with delight, as she danced along by my side
with something of her old gaiety. "There is only one day between.
To-morrow I shall study very hard, and say all my lessons and
practise for my singing lesson on Thursday, and do everything well."
I smiled.
"Father Owen would say you should do that every day," I reminded
her. "You remember how he pointed out that the robin did his work
in storm or sunshine."
"Oh, but 'tis much easier to work in sunshine!" Winifred cried out.
"I suppose it is," laughed I; "but that is no reason why you shouldn't
try to do what is harder."
"I do try," Winifred said earnestly. "I get up the moment the bell
rings in the morning—though I don't find that as hard as some of
the girls do, for I was often out on the hills at sunrise. Then I'm one
of the first in the chapel; and in class I study my lessons and I
hardly ever talk. At recreation I don't feel much like playing yet, but
perhaps I shall after a while—when I know some of the girls better."
"Yes, I am sure you will. How do you like your companions?" I
asked.
"I think a good many of them are nice. But it takes me a long time
to know strangers, I suppose because I scarcely ever saw any."
"And your teachers?" I inquired.
"Oh, they are all very kind, especially to me, because I come from so
far away and have no mother! I like my music teacher best, though.
I wish you knew her."
"I must make her acquaintance some time," I remarked; "I want to
know all your friends."
"The French teacher is the crossest. She isn't a nun, though, and
doesn't wear a nun's dress. She scolds me if I don't know the verbs
or if I make mistakes in spelling. I told her the other day that I didn't
want a stranger to speak so to me. The girls all laughed, but she
didn't understand what I was saying."
"Just as well in that case." And I laughed, picturing to myself the
little girl addressing the Frenchwoman with her princess air.
We were standing all this time in the hall, which was not altogether
according to rule, as I well knew; for farewells are usually made in
the parlor. But I had not the heart to send Winifred away, and the
presiding Religious did not appear to notice. I fancy the nuns often
strained the rule a little in her regard, taking the circumstances into
consideration.
"Good-by till Tuesday!" Winifred called after me, as I stepped out
into the porch; "and thank you for all the nice things you have
brought me!"
For indeed I never went empty-handed to see the child,
remembering my own school-days. I had visited Maillard's that
afternoon before taking the cars, and had chosen from the dainty
confections which so temptingly fill the glass cases and adorn the
plate-glass windows. I was told that she always distributed my gifts
amongst her companions with a royal generosity, often keeping but
little for herself. While I was still in the porch I heard her telling a
companion:
"I am going to town on Tuesday. Isn't that splendid!"
"Oh, you lucky girl!" said the other. "I wish I had come from Ireland
or some other place: then I might get out oftener."
I went homeward, musing on that happy time of life when a day out
of school, a promised holiday, gives a keener delight than anything
in after life.
"Why does youth ever pass away, with its glow and glory?" I
thought. "And how dull its going leaves this prosaic earth!"
 CHAPTER XVIII.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

It was a curious coincidence that on the very Sunday evening after I

had visited Winifred and arranged for her to spend Tuesday with me
at the hotel, I should have gone to supper with a friend of mine who
was also a great friend of Roderick O'Byrne. She was an exceptional
woman, of rare gifts, of warm heart and of long purse. She had the
social talent in its greatest perfection, and gathered at her house a
most brilliant and entertaining circle. She lived in a part of the city
which is rapidly becoming old-fashioned—in the once desirable
Murray Hill region—and her house was what is known to New
Yorkers as an English basement-house: that is to say, the dining-
room is on a level with the street, while the drawing-room, or suite
of drawing-rooms, is reached by mounting the first stairs. A very
handsome suite of rooms had my friend, appointed with the utmost
elegance, and containing innumerable souvenirs of travel, artistic
trifles of all sorts, with exquisite pictures and priceless statuary,
arranged to give the best possible effect.
I had a standing invitation for the Sunday evening suppers, which
were an institution of the house, and where one was always sure of
meeting very agreeable people. The conversation was usually of
everything interesting under the sun. As the guests began to
assemble that evening, I saw amongst them, with very mingled
feelings, the familiar figure of Roderick O'Byrne. It was my first
meeting with him since my return from Ireland, and his presence
made me conscious of a curious sensation. I had heard so much of
his past history, the most hidden pages of his life, that it seemed
strange to meet him there in an ordinary drawing-room. When I
thought of Niall, of the old castle with its romance and mystery, it
was hardly credible that this tall and slender gentleman in the well-
fitting evening clothes should be the central figure in such a drama.
And all the time I was withholding from him such a secret as the
presence in America of his only child.
While Roderick stood exchanging a few words with his hostess, I
thought all at once of that little scene which Winifred had recalled—
when he parted in anger from the lady in the yellow dress, who
must have been, of course, his wife. As soon as he saw me he came
forward to shake hands, and dropped into a chair at my side. I found
a change in him: he seemed more silent and preoccupied than I had
ever seen him. However, he was never given to talking
commonplaces, and I waited till his mood should change. He sat
near me at supper, and on the other side of him was a young and
very gushing lady. Roderick seemed amused at her efforts to interest
him.
"I have just heard," she exclaimed, "that you are Irish, Mr. O'Byrne;
and I am so glad! Our hostess has told me that you are not only
from Ireland, but intensely Irish. Now, I think that everything that is
intensely Irish is intensely nice."
"Thanks so much!" replied Roderick, carelessly. "I am glad you
approve of my nationality; for I have to plead guilty to a very
unfashionable love for my country."
"Oh, you needn't plead guilty at all!" cried the charmer. "It is so
refreshing nowadays. And you Irish are so delightfully enthusiastic
and impressionable, and all that."
Roderick raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.
"By the way," he observed, turning abruptly to me, "I wonder if you
will agree with the sentiment expressed by my neighbor—you who
are so lately back from Ireland?"
"'That everything that is intensely Irish is intensely nice'?" I asked. "I
am prepared to endorse that sentiment; for I am more Irish than the
Irish themselves. I know I have borrowed somebody else's saying;
but, really, I have fallen in love with the dear old land. Its hills and
glens have got into my heart."
There was a softened look on the man's face and a moisture in his
eyes; for he was deeply affected. Presently he said in a low tone:
"Do you know I am very homesick of late? I am pining for a sight of
the beautiful hills of the Gilt Spurs and the glorious Dargle. Oh, what
would I not give for one good look at the Dargle, glen and river
both!"
"Why don't you take a trip to Ireland?" I asked.
"Oh, for many reasons!" he said hurriedly.
He did not go into detail and I could not ask.
"But you will go back some day?" I urged.
"Go back?" he repeated. "I used to think I should: indeed, at one
time I longed for the day and hour of my return; and now—"
I wanted to ask the question which rose to my lips, out I dared not;
and just then the conversation became general. Our hostess liked to
strike sparks from all her guests, and especially from the brilliant
Roderick O'Byrne. After we had all returned to the drawing-room he
gradually drifted back again to his chair beside me. We had always
been friendly, but I knew that my society had a special attraction for
him just then, as a link between him and Ireland. He very soon, in
fact, reverted to the subject of our previous talk, inquiring as to this
or that place near his old home; though I observed that he never
once mentioned any person or persons in the neighborhood. It was
evident for some reason that he did not wish to bring Niall into the
discourse, and I was just as anxious at the time to avoid that part of
the subject.
Suddenly Roderick said:
"I was struck very much the other day by a face which I saw just for
a moment."
My heart stood still. I knew what was coming, and I almost dreaded
it. But, happily, he did not associate the incident with me.
"It was that of a child," he said, somewhat gravely. "It was a
beautiful face, I suppose; but it was not that which specially
attracted my attention. I only caught a glimpse—the merest glimpse
—of it, but it brought back the past to me as in a flash."
"Strange!" I commented mechanically; for I scarce knew what to
say.
"Yes, it was very strange," went on Roderick. "I was standing at the
corner of Twenty-third Street, waiting to cross, and it must be owned
that I was thinking of anything else than Ireland and my past life
there. You know what a crowd there is at that particular place.
Suddenly a carriage stood still an instant, delayed by the traffic; and
out of it looked that exquisite child-face, full of wonder, of curiosity,
and, I thought, of sadness."
I concealed my emotion by an effort; and had he not been so
occupied with his subject he might have perceived at once that the
story had an unusual interest for me.
"Would you believe," he said, "that New York faded from before me,
and instead I saw the Dargle, the glen and the river, with all their
lovely surroundings—yes, I saw them as distinctly as I see you now?
The Dargle and—other places about there," he concluded, after a
brief pause.
I wondered if he were thinking of the castle.
"By the way," he asked of a sudden, "were you in that part of
Ireland at all—I mean Wicklow?"
"Oh, yes!" I said, trying to speak indifferently. "I saw most of the
show places there."
"Did you meet any people thereabouts?" he inquired, speaking very
slowly and playing with a paper-knife which he had taken up from a
neighboring davenport.
It was my turn to hesitate a moment before I replied:
"I met the parish priest, Father Owen, as he is popularly called."
"Father Owen Farley!" exclaimed Roderick, apparently carried away
by a sudden burst of enthusiasm; "the dearest, the best, the kindest
of men!"
"You know him, then?" I asked.
The glow faded from his face almost at once.
"I was brought up in that part of the country," he said in a reserved
way, as if anxious to drop the subject; "so that of course I knew him
when I was a boy."
"Well, he certainly is all you say of him," I declared cordially; "he
charmed me from the very first."
"Yes, he has an unusually attractive way with him," Roderick said
—"or used to have long ago."
And then he dismissed the subject and began to talk of some matter
of current interest. However, he very soon reverted to that one topic
which seemed to be occupying his thoughts. Waking out of a
reverie, he suddenly exclaimed:
"I wish I were a miniature painter, and I should try to put on ivory,
just from memory, that exquisite child-face."
"Perhaps you will see her again," I ventured.
"I never expect to," he said decisively. "New York is not Ireland.
People are swallowed up here as in a quicksand."
"Life has many surprises," I observed tentatively.
He looked at me keenly for an instant; then he resumed his
indifferent air and continued to play with the paper-knife.
"You will think me altogether a dreamer," remarked Roderick, "to be
so impressed by a passing face."
I do not know what impelled me to say then:
"Perhaps there was some special reason. Possibly she may have
reminded you of some one whom you once knew."
He started; the paper-knife fell from his hands, and he was long in
picking it up. But the flash of his dark eyes in that brief moment
recalled Niall. The incident was not without its value. I saw my way
clear before me. I should gradually try to revive his interest in the
past: to forge a chain which should lead him inevitably back to the
castle of his ancestors, to Winifred and to his eccentric but devoted
kinsman. And at the same time I might chance to discover his
motive for so long neglecting his only child.
When Roderick raised his head again, and replaced the paper-knife,
with a hand which trembled somewhat, upon the davenport, he said,
in a tone of studied carelessness:
"Don't let us talk of this any more. It does seem very absurd. I am
half ashamed of having told you anything about it. And there is the
professor going to the piano."
During the music Roderick lay back in his chair, and as he listened to
the dreamy, soothing sound of the "Songs without Words," I knew
that his mind was running on the sweet child-face which had so
impressed him, and on the train of associations which that chance
meeting had conjured up. I had no further conversation with him on
that occasion, and very soon after I took my leave and went home
to ponder over the situation, which I found most interesting. It
seemed as if I were holding the thread of a tangled skein, which
must sooner or later straighten itself out. I lay awake half the night,
picturing to myself Roderick's delight when he should discover that
the sweet child-face was that of his own Winifred; and his sorrow,
and perhaps remorse, for the past, when he had neglected her. I
wondered where and when the disclosure should take place and how
it would be brought about. I also resolved to interest Winifred in her
father. I could see that she clung much more to the memory of her
mother, and seemed to remember Roderick only as the dark
gentleman who had got angry with the beautiful lady and slammed
the door.
I rose early next morning, for I wanted to go down town. I was
going as far as Barclay Street to buy a small statue of the Sacred
Heart, which I wished to give Winifred as a present. I was impatient
for her coming; for, besides the fact that I was really attached to the
child and took a sincere pleasure in her society, I felt a new interest
in her since my late conversation with her father.
I looked out the window. There was a drizzling fog. The shops
opposite looked dreary and uninviting, and the people who were
hastening down Broadway had all the same miserable appearance,
looking spectral in the fog. My heart sank. If it were the same kind
of weather on the morrow there would be no chance of having
Winifred with me. In the first place, she would not be allowed to
come; and in the second, there would be very little pleasure in
bringing her down from the convent just to spend a few hours shut
up in my apartments at the hotel.
I dressed and went out. The streets were glazed over with a thin
coat of frost, which made the walking treacherous and unsafe. The
snowfall of two or three days before had entirely disappeared. I
picked my way along, making one more in the procession of
spectres, till I reached the nearest elevated station, which was in the
square at Thirty-third Street, near the Herald building. I was soon
flying through the air, and in the twinkling of an eye was almost in
the heart of the business portion of the great "down-town."
Warehouses arose on all sides: from some came a fragrant odor
telling of coffee and spices; from others flashed visions of delicate
china, rich bronzes, and beautiful glassware. And finally I was set
down within a block or so of my destination.
I picked my way carefully along the narrow lane-like street, and
emerged just opposite old St. Peter's, the mother-church of New
York. Its somber walls looked gray and dismal in that dreary fog; but
within it was warm and cheerful, and imposing in a massive, old-
fashioned way. I prayed earnestly for the success of all our scheming
—that is, Niall's and mine; and, above all, for the happy reunion of
father and daughter.
After that I went out again to purchase my statue. I was now in the
region of the Catholic publishers, which is full of many memories of
other days and the various phases of Catholic life in New York. There
much has been done for the Catholic cause; much has been
discussed, much has been attempted, and many attempts have
failed. It is historic ground. I bought my statue and hurried home,
glad to be housed on that chilly and disagreeable day. I had a few
other preparations to make, on the chance that the weather would
clear up; but I resolved to leave them till the morning, when they
might be easily accomplished by the aid of the telephone.
 CHAPTER XIX.
WINIFRED GOES SIGHT-SEEING.

The next morning I woke earlier than usual; and, getting up at once,
looked out of the window. Every trace of the fog had vanished, and
there was the sun leaping and dancing as merrily as if it were
midsummer instead of December. I hurried off to Mass, and got back
again, to take a hasty breakfast and sit down in my room to wait for
Winifred. It was about ten o'clock when, with my eyes glued to the
window, I saw her little face looking out of the carriage which I had
sent for her. I ran down to the ladies' entrance to bring her in. She
looked brighter and better than I had seen her since she left Ireland.
She wore her black school costume, but her hair was no longer
brushed painfully down to comparative smoothness: it broke out into
the same saucy curls I knew of old. She darted out of the carriage
and in at the open door, throwing herself into my arms.
"Here I am!" she cried. "And so glad to see you again!"
"I began to be afraid yesterday," I observed, "that we were both
going to be disappointed."
"Oh, so was I!" said Winifred. "I went to the window the first thing,
to be sure that the sun was shining and the fog gone away."
"So did I. But there couldn't have been much sun at the time you
got up."
"Oh, it was there! And I saw there wasn't any fog and that it was
going to be a fine day."
I brought her up to my room and installed her in a chair to rest while
I got on my things.
"For of course we must go out as soon as we can," I declared. "It
will never do to miss a moment of such a perfect day, and it will be
all too short."
A shade seemed to pass over Winifred's sensitive face at the words.
But I called her attention to the street below; for Broadway on a
sunshiny morning is a very pleasant and cheerful sight, and to
Winifred it was all new; so that it was certain the constant panorama
of human beings, all jostling one another, eager, excited, apparently
in a fearful hurry, would keep her fully occupied while I completed
my toilet. Once the child called me to the window to see a
Chinaman. She had never seen one before, and she went off into a
peal of laughter at the odd sight. This particular John was dressed in
a pale blue silk shirt over his baggy black trousers. His pigtail was
long and luxuriant, denoting rank.
"What is he?" cried Winifred. "You have such funny people in
America. I don't think there are any like him in all Ireland."
"Not in Wicklow, at any rate," I answered. "Indeed, I don't know
what they would think of him there. He looks as if he had just
stepped off a tea-caddy, straight from China."
"Oh, he is a Chinese, then! I never saw one before except in
pictures."
The next thing that attracted her attention was one of the great
vans, drawn by enormous dray-horses.
"Look at their big legs and feet!" laughed Winifred—"as big as a tree
almost! Oh, I wish Barney and Moira could see them!"
The ladies' dresses, too, astonished her—especially of those who
drove in the carriages; for she had never seen such costumes
before.
At last I was ready, and we passed down the stairway, with its heavy
piled moquette carpet, to the street without. Just across the way
was a florist's, and I told Winifred we should make our first visit
there. We had to wait a favorable moment for crossing Broadway.
The child was naturally fearless, but she was somewhat afraid of the
multitude of vehicles—cars, carts, and private carriages—which
formed a dense mass between the two sidewalks.
"Yet crossing the street up here is nothing," I said. "Wait till you try
it some day down on lower Broadway—at Wall Street, for instance,
or near the City Hall Park."
"This is bad enough!" cried Winifred. "You feel as if some of the
horses must step on you."
However, we got safely across, with the aid of a tall policeman, who
piloted us through the crowd, putting up an authoritative hand to
stop a horse here, or signing to a driver there to give place. We
entered the florist's shop. It was like going from winter to a lovely
spring day. The fragrance from the many flowers was exquisite but
almost overpowering. Masses of roses, of carnations, of
chrysanthemums were there in the rarest profusion; flowering
plants, palms, costly exotics, made the place seem like some tropical
garden under Southern skies. The sight of the violets brought the
tears to Winifred's eyes: they reminded her of her home beyond the
sea. But when she heard the price of them she was amazed.
"Why, we get them for nothing in the Dargle—as many as we want—
coming on the spring," she whispered. "Don't give so much money
for them."
She persisted so much in the idea that it would be fearful to waste
money on flowers which might be had at home for nothing, that I
bought her roses instead. I made her select a bunch for herself from
the mass. She was charmed with their variety of color, varying from
the pale yellow of the tea-rose to the deepest crimson. We recrossed
the street, and I made her go back to the hotel with the roses, so
that they might keep fresh in water. When she came down again to
where I was waiting on the sidewalk, I said:
"Now there is going to be a circus procession on Fifth Avenue. It is
just about time for it; so we will go round the corner and see it."
"What is a circus procession?" she inquired gravely.
"You shall see for yourself in a few minutes," I answered briefly.
We went across Twenty-ninth Street to Fifth Avenue, and stationed
ourselves on a high brownstone stoop, which, fortunately for us, was
not yet crowded. All along the streets people were waiting in serried
rows. Small boys were mounted on trees, calling out jeering
exclamations to those below; fruit venders and venders of peanuts
elbowed their way about, or stood on corners with furnaces aglow
for the roasting of chestnuts. It was a busy, animated scene; while
the cheerful laughter and the shrill, gleeful voices of the children
added to the general mirth.
Presently the arrival of the procession was announced by the small
boys and the blowing of a bugle by a man on horseback. The first to
appear was a train of magnificent horses, some with Arab riders,
some controlled by wonderfully dexterous women. Next in order was
a beautiful lady, clad in a gorgeous, bespangled costume, seated in a
gilt chariot and driving with the utmost skill six snow-white horses.
"A gold carriage!" whispered Winifred, awestricken. "Oh, if Barney
and Moira could only see that!"
"All is not gold that glitters," I replied promptly. "But the white
horses are certainly beautiful."
"Oh, what are these?" she asked.
I looked. It was the camels that had attracted the child's attention.
Their appearance so astonished and amused her that she went off
into peals of merry laughter, which caused many a responsive smile
around us.
"What funny things you have in America!" she exclaimed. "Just see
how these things walk and the queer men on their backs."
"The animals are called camels," I said; "and their drivers are
supposed to be Arabs from the desert."
"Oh, I have studied about the camels and the deserts!" Winifred
said, and she looked at them with new interest.
Her astonishment reached its climax when she saw the elephants.
"What are they at all?" she cried, gazing at their enormous bulk with
startled eyes, as they slowly plodded on. Her glance wandered from
their trunks to their great legs and huge sides. I told her what they
were, and I think her studies had supplied her with some
information about them and the ivory which is obtained from their
tusks.
She was charmed with the monkeys.
"I'm sure they're little old men," she said—"just like those Niall used
to tell about, who were shut up in the hills."
She was never tired of watching their antics, and only regretted
when they were out of sight. Two or three of them were mounted on
tiny ponies; and, to Winifred's great glee, one tumbled ignominiously
off and had to be picked up out of the mud by an attendant.
"What's coming now?" she cried, as one of the vans containing a lion
hove into sight. The great beast lay tranquil and unmoved, gazing at
the passers-by with that air of nobility which always belongs to his
species. His appearance seemed to fascinate my companion and she
gazed at him very earnestly.
"That is a lion," I remarked.
"Oh, the king of the forest!" put in Winifred. "He looks like a king."
"A very fierce one at times," I replied. "But that next is a tiger—a far
more cruel and treacherous beast."
"I don't like him," said Winifred, decisively; "although he is
something like a big, big cat, only for the stripes on his back."
The leopards next passed by, fidgeting up and down the cage, with
their spotted coats glittering in the sun. Hyenas, wolves, foxes,
jackals, passed in quick succession, giving place at last to a giraffe. I
pointed this animal out to Winifred.
"He has a long, long neck," she observed; "he looks as if he had
stretched it out so far that he couldn't get it back again."
The doings of the clown, I think, puzzled more than they amused
Winifred.
"Is he a man or another kind of animal?" she asked me gravely. She
was not at all sure what kind of being he was, or why he should be
so dressed up and act in such a manner. I told her that it was to
amuse people.
"But he isn't half so funny as the monkeys," she declared,
contemptuously. "Why, you never told me that there were such
wonderful things in America!"
"I'm sure I never thought of it," I replied, laughing. "But I am glad
you have seen the circus. It is quite an education in natural history.
Now you will know an elephant from a giraffe, a lion from a tiger, a
camel from a zebra, and a monkey from a fox. But, dear, we must
hurry on and see what sight-seeing we can do. I declare it is almost
noon already."
Presently, indeed, we heard the shrill sound of many whistles and
the ringing of more than one bell.
Winifred put her hands to her ears.
"What a noise!" she cried; and she laughed merrily as she did so,
her feet fairly dancing over the pavement in the pleasant sunlight of
that winter day. And so we pursued our way up Fifth Avenue, with
its rows of imposing brownstone houses, toward the cathedral,
which was our destination.
 CHAPTER XX.
ANOTHER UNEXPECTED MEETING.

Coming to the cathedral, where it stands on the corner of Fiftieth

Street and Fifth Avenue, we stopped to observe its proportions, at
once noble and graceful, its white marble façade and tall spires
being one of the ornaments of the Empire City. Entering the edifice,
we knelt a while in prayer before we began to examine all its
beauties in detail. The rich glow of the beautiful stained windows
was a revelation to the child, and the stories which they tell of saints
and martyrs appealed to her strongly. She watched their varied tints
falling upon the marble altars with a visible delight.
"I must write a letter about this to Father Owen," she said as we
came out again upon the dignified bustle of Fifth Avenue, so unlike
the activity of Broadway, but still noticeable after the quiet of the
great temple. "It is all so grand in there!" she said—"grand as our
own mountains and beautiful as the Dargle. It reminded me of
heaven. Perhaps heaven is something like that."
I smiled and did not contradict her; for the calm and repose of a
great cathedral is very far removed indeed from earth.
"Of course there are several other churches I want you to see," I
observed; "but perhaps that one will do now. As we had breakfast
late, and are not in a particular hurry for our luncheon, I think we
will take a trip in an elevated car first."
Winifred, of course, consented eagerly; and, having procured the
child a cup of hot bouillon at a druggist's as a preventive against
hunger, we climbed up the great iron stairs of the elevated station at
Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, and were soon seated in the
car.
It seemed very wonderful to Winifred that we should be flying
through the air at such a rate of speed; but she was delighted with
the swift motion and had no thought of fear. She kept looking in with
eager curiosity at the houses or the shops as we passed by their
second- or third-story windows, and down at the pigmy-like people
on the sidewalk, making continual exclamations of wonder or
interest.
We got out at the Battery; and before taking the East Side car up
town I let Winifred take a run in Battery Park, so that she might
have a glimpse of the bay and the huge ferry-boats landing their
loads of passengers, and the funnels of the steamers or the masts of
tall vessels in the offing.
"Across all that water," she cried, stretching out her arms with a
pretty and graceful gesture, "is my home—my dear hills, the Dargle,
and the people that I love!"
She sniffed the salt air as though it were wine; and ran about in the
alleys, gazing longingly at the green grass, while I sat upon a bench
and waited. At last I reminded her that time was flying, and that she
would be a very hungry little girl by the time we made our trip up
the East Side of the city and got down again to luncheon.
We were soon seated in a Third Avenue elevated car and passed up
Chatham Square and the Bowery—that great thoroughfare, where
such curious people congregate; where the very shops have a
different air, and the oyster-saloons and other places of refreshment
seem to revel in strange sign-boards and queerly-worded
advertisements. The Jews are there in large numbers, as also
Syrians, Chinese, and other Orientals, so that it has a strange and
foreign air.
It all amused and interested Winifred, and she called my attention
every now and again to some grotesque figure on the sign-boards or
to some poster on the wall. I pointed out to the child Stuyvesant
Park and Union Square Park as a rest to the eyes tired with so much
sight-seeing. Then we jogged up the uninteresting and uninviting
Third Avenue till finally we were in the vicinity of Harlem Bridge and
away up in the open country, past Harlem and Mott Haven, and well
up toward High Bridge itself.
At last I called a halt, and we alighted and began the descent again.
I resolved to take the little girl to luncheon at the Waldorf as a
special treat, so that she might see modern luxury, so far as hotels
are concerned, at its height. We sat in the Empire dining-room, with
the imperial eagle of the great Napoleon on our chair-backs and a
large bunch of fragrant pink roses on the table before us. Our soup
was brought in small silver bowls, which reminded Winifred of Niall's
treasures. She much enjoyed the very choice and daintily served
luncheon which I ordered for her, particularly the sweet course and
the dessert. An orchestra was playing all the time of luncheon,
changing briskly from grave to gay; and its strains helped to make
the whole scene dreamlike and unreal to the child of Nature,
accustomed only to the glory of the hills.
Other wonders awaited her: the café, with its ever-blossoming trees,
and the goldfish swimming in its ponds; the onyx stairway, and the
Louis Quinze salon, with its inlaid cabinets, its brocaded furniture,
and above all its gilt piano. This last object seemed to cap the climax
of splendor in Winifred's eyes. I think, indeed, that very modern
hotel seemed to her a page from the Arabian Nights—some Aladdin's
palace which the genii had built up. She was very pleased, too, with
the private dining-room upstairs, where the turning on of the electric
light showed such a display of china of all sorts.
When we were tired of exploring, and had, in fact, seen all that was
really worth the trouble or that was open to the public, I sat down at
a table in the Turkish parlor to write a note, bidding Winifred rest a
while. She coiled herself up in one of the great armchairs, keeping
so still that I almost thought she had gone to sleep.
The rugs in that room are very soft and the draperies ample, and
sound is very much deadened, so that I did not perceive any one
coming in. Looking up suddenly from my writing, I was surprised to
see Roderick O'Byrne. I grew pale and red by turns; my heart sank
within me and I could not meet his glance. I thought of Niall, his
anger, his threats, my own promises. Yet what was I to do in such a
situation? Unconscious, of course, of the tumult he had raised in my
mind, Roderick came directly toward me, making a few indifferent
remarks on the weather, the last political event, the hotel. Finally he
asked, abruptly:
"By the way, do I remember aright, that you said you were in
Wicklow during your recent trip to Ireland?"
"Yes—no!" I cried, confused. "Oh, yes, of course I was there!"
He looked at me in some surprise; then he asked again:
"Of course you saw the Sugar Loaf Mountains, as the Sassenach call
them, but which we Celts loved to name the Gilt Spurs?"
"Of course," I assented, more uneasily than ever; for I heard a
movement in the chair.
"The Dargle goes without saying," he continued.
Another rustle in the chair.
"But I am not going to put you through a catechism on Irish local
scenery," Roderick said, with a laugh; "I am almost sure you told me
that you knew Father Owen Farley."
"Oh, my dear, dear Father Owen!" cried Winifred from the depth of
her chair. The mention of that beloved name had aroused her from
the spell of shyness, or some other cause, which had hitherto kept
her silent.
Roderick turned quickly, and at the same moment Winifred stood up
and faced him. There they were together, father and daughter, as
any one could see at a glance.
"Do you know Father Owen, sir?" the child asked; and at her voice
Roderick started. He did not answer her question, but, gazing at her
intently, asked instead:
"Who are you, child?"
Something in the question abashed or offended Winifred; for she
drew her little figure to its highest and replied not a word.
Roderick smiled involuntarily at the movement; and I, stepping
forward, interposed myself between the father and daughter and
drew the child away.
"Come!" I said: "we are in a hurry." And, with a bow and a few
muttered words of farewell, I hastened out of the room; and,
rushing from the hotel as if a plague had suddenly broken out there,
I almost ran with the wondering Winifred to Broadway, where we
took a cable car as the safest and speediest means of leaving that
vicinity behind us. I had left the note which I was writing on the
table; but, fortunately, I had sealed and stamped it, intending to put
it in the mail-box in the hall. I was sure it would be posted, and gave
myself no further concern about it.
I knew Roderick would come to me sooner or later for an
explanation of that strange scene—the presence there of the child
and my own singular conduct. His impetuous nature would give him
no rest till he had cleared up that mystery. But at least the child
should be safe back in the convent before I saw him; and I could
then refuse to answer any questions, or take any course I thought
proper, without fear of interference on the part of Winifred.
"We shall go on up to the Park," I said to the child; for I had some
fear that Roderick might come straight to my hotel.
Winifred made no answer, and we took the car to Fifty-ninth Street,
where we got out and were soon strolling through the broad alleys,
thronged with carriages; or the quieter footpaths of that splendid
Central Park, justly the pride of New Yorkers.
"Why are you afraid of that gentleman?" Winifred asked me in her
abrupt fashion as I led her by a secluded path to show her a statue
of Auld Lang Syne which had always appealed to me.
"I am not afraid of him, dear."
"But why are you trembling, and why did you run away?" she asked
again.
"Because it was time for us to go. I still have much to show you."
"I like that gentleman," she said.
"Do you?" I cried impulsively. "I am so glad! Go on liking him just as
much as ever you can."
She did not seem so much surprised at this statement and at my
apparent inconsistency as a grown person would have been; but she
went on:
"Only I thought it was rather rude of him to question me like that."
"He did not mean it for rudeness."
"No, I suppose not," the child said slowly. "I'm sorry you took me
away so quickly. I would like to have talked to him. He reminded me
of Niall."
"Of Niall!" I repeated in amazement.
"Yes," she answered. "Of course he hasn't gray hair and he doesn't
wear the same kind of clothes that Niall does, but it's his face."
I remembered how the same thought had on one occasion occurred
to me.
"Then I think he knew my dear Father Owen," the child continued. "I
wonder how he knew him? Father Owen never came to America."
"Perhaps he heard of him," I suggested; for I was not anxious that
her curiosity in the subject should be too keenly aroused. I tried to