All were chatting gaily with their sweethearts, wives, and
daughters, save one gloomy fellow sitting alone in a corner,
searching the crowd with sad eyes for a wished-for face or a last
greeting. The bell rang, the engine stirred; suddenly a pretty,
rosy girl flew breathlessly down the platform, pushing her way
through the groups of onlookers. The man's eyes lighted; he rose to
his feet, but the other fellows blocked the way; the door was
locked, and he had but one precious moment. Still he was equal to
the emergency, for he raised his fist and with one blow shattered
the window, got his kiss, and the train rumbled away, with his
victorious smile set in a frame of broken glass! I liked that man
better than any one I've seen since Himself deserted me for his
Duty! How I hope the pretty girl will be faithful, and how I hope
that an ideal lover will not be shot in South Africa!
And if he was truly Irish, so was the porter at a little way station
where we stopped in the dark, after being delayed interminably at
Claremorris by some trifling accident. We were eight persons packed
into a second-class carriage, and totally ignorant of our
whereabouts; but the porter, opening the door hastily, shouted, "Is
there anny one there for here?"--a question so vague and illogical
that none of us said anything in reply, but simply gazed at one
another, and then laughed as the train went on.
We are on a here-to-day-and-gone-to-morrow journey, determined to
avoid the railways, and travel by private conveyance and the public
'long cars,' just for a glimpse of the Weeping West before we settle
down quietly in County Meath for our last few weeks of Irish life.
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