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be able an' sthrong an' wise enough then to go on the road."
Little Donal was then lying at Hughie's back, between him and the wall, and sleeping peacefully.
"Wee Donal '11 then be able to take the road with the powny an' cart; an' wee Donal '11 be as good a son, an' betther, to ye, mother, than ever I was. Though, I never kep' any money I could help, mother, barrin' (as I toul' ye the other night—an' as I confessed to Father Mick)—barrin' three ha'pence for tibacky, days I got good sale for the fish. But I couldn't do without the tibacky, mother, wanst I give myself the bad habit. Och, mother, if you would only know lonely nights that I'd be thravelin' dhreichl an' lonely roads, an' me, too, hungrier than I'd wish—if you w-ould only know the comfort an' the company the tibacky was to me, I knew ye'd forgive me, keepin' an odd wee three ha'pence for it. Now wouldn't ye, mother?"
"Och, Hughiel Och, Hughie 1"
"I just knew the kindly heart i' ye couldn't do else than forgive me. But I know, too, I should have always axed yer laive afore I started out on me journey—axed yer laive to let me buy the tibacky for meself. But ye always were so dead again' us smokin' that I was always the coward to ax ye.
"An', ay, many's the long an' many's the dhreich journey, mother, me an' the powny had with our wee cart i' fish. An', thank God, many's the pleasant journey, too—far, far more of that sort than of the dhreich wans. I mind me many's the lovely moonlight night when we thraveled along the white mountain road goin' through to Pettigo, or goin' up to Enniskillen an' to Cavan. An' where there'd be miles an' miles of that road through the Pettigo mountains where there wasn't a house or a house, or you wouldn't meet a sinner in broad day, let alone i' the night, I used not to have wan bit fear, mother. You always shook the holy wather on me when I had me cap lifted, blissin' meself afore I left the doore without; an' then, when that time i' night come that I thought yous was sayin' the Rosary here at home, an' I'd have got on me good lonely part i' the road, I'd take me cap in me han' an' I'd say me own
wee prayers as me an' the powny jogged on, an' afther that I'd know no fear, no matther howsomiver lonesome it might be. An', och, mother, the lonesomeness, in the middle i' the mountains on a clear moonlight night, had somethin' gran'about it."
"Hughie, a thaisgc? I hope ye're not disthressin' yerself talkin'," his mother said, laying a gentle hand on his forehead.
"Oh no, mother 1 Oh no, mother! It does me good to think over them things now, an' have you listenin' to me. But then, mother dear, maybe it's too tired to listen ye are?"
"Oh no, Hughie; no, Hughie a mhie. Tell on—I'd never be tired listenin' to ye."
"Thanky, mother. Och. mother, many an' many's the beautiful journey I had with me wee cart i' fish, if I only begun to tell ye them, settin' off here afore nightfall, an' thravelin' all night, an' bein' in Sthrabane market or maybe Enniskillen market next day, an' sellin' out me wee load, an' maybe clearin' ten or twelve or maybe sometimes fifteen shillin's, an' then, afther a good rest an' a good hearty male, not forgettin' poor Johnnie, startin' on thravelin'back for home the nixt night again, with me gains in me pocket—as happy as the son of a prence; an' bavin' an odd wee sleep in the bed i' the cart, too."
"Och, Hughie, it was gran' surely, an' no mistake."
"Ah, gran' was no name for it,mother! An' then, too, at the boats—when they came in, the men always give me such bargains, bekase of whose son I was."
"They did, a mhie. They did, Hughie, a thaisge. God bliss them, an' reward them."
"God bliss them over again, an' reward them, mother. They couldn't be kinder to me. An' 1 often thought it was betther, afther all, that ye wouldn't let me join a boat meself, mother."
"No, no, Hughie, a gradh.' No, I wouldn't. Not afther yer poor father, a gradh! No, nol God rest him!"
"God rest him, mother 1 God rest him 1 An' small wondher you wouldn't let wan belongin' to ye go upon the sae again. It's a cruel, thracherous sae. mother, God knows! Mother clear, don't cry. What's done can't be undone."
"Ay, ay. Hughie. Ay, a cruel, thracherous sae. But. for all that, we can't say much about it, Hughie—we can't say much about it. Where would we, an' where would all our neighbors be, but for it?"
'M y store.
"That's right, mother. That's right. That's what I've always sayed when I heerd them complainin' again' it, that, like you, lost their nearest an' dearest be it. It's ill our comin'' to say a hard word again' the sae. Mother, open the doore."
"For what, a leanbh I Are you too warm, a paisdin f" 2
"No; but I want to see the sae, an' to hear it. There's a moon, isn't there?"
"Yis, Hughie dear; there's a moon, an' a bright wan, thank God," his mother said, going to the door and opening it wide.
"Mother, are ye too tired to rise me up a wee thrifle in the bed, an' let me head rest in yer lap, till I see out?"
"Tired? No, no, Hughie. No, no. Aisy, a m/iic—gently now. Don't sthress yerself, a paisdin mhilis. There now, there now, lay yer head there. Now can ye see the sae away below thonder (yonder)?"
"Yis, yis, mother, thank God. I see it—I see it. The yalla moonlight baitin' down on it has it like fiowin' goold. Oh, mother, it's beautiful 1"
"It is beautiful, a theagair—beautiful 1"
The Widow Cannon's house was far up on the Ardaghey hillside, and the sea out at Inver bar and beyond was plainly visible through the door from the corner in which was placed Hughie's bed. A muffled music, too, could be heard ascending from the bar.
Hughie lay quietly gazing, gazing.
After a while two yawls were plainly seen far out darting athwart the yellow path which the moon laid along the waters.
"The boats," Hughie said, "are aff,8 mother, the night."
"Yis, Hughie; they're aft."
Then Hughie again relapsed into silence, watching and thinking. A smile of sweet content, his mother saw with gladness, gradually grew upon his countenance and played about his glistening eyes. And presently, to the sweet murmur of the bar, his eyes closed, and he slept.
The Widow Cannon stirred not one little bit, lest she should disturb the poor boy's slumber-—his first for many days and nights. But her lips began to move again in prayer, and a disengaged hand to tell the beads. Occasionally her eyes were turned up to heaven, but mostly they rested upon the now placid, smiling countenance of her poor boy, who slept on.
"Yis, a mhilis 1' Is it awake ye are?"
"Why, was it sleepin' I was, mother dear?"
"Ay, sleepin', a mhic dhilis. A sweet sleep."
"There ye are—an' I thinkin' 1 went through it all."
"What, darlin'? Was it dhraimin' ye were?"
"Ay, dhraimin' I suppose it must 'a' been. But I thought—mother!"
"What is it now, a mhic .<"'
"I hear no wan callin', Hughie dear."
"Listen! Don't ye hear? Hear to that 1 Who's that? What's that?"
"That? Oh, that's the bar, Hughie dear—that's only the bar ye hear."
"Is it the bar? Well, mother, as I was sayin', I thought I had got up an' fed Johnnie, an' then pulled out the rakin's i' the fire, an' made myself a dhrop i' tay in the porringer, an' then harnesshed Johnnie, an' yocked him, an' away with the both of us away to the sthran', to see if the boats was in. An' when we got to the sthran' there wasn't a boat in yet, nor there wasn't a cadger come upon the sthran' with powny or donkey. An' then I saw it was the moon was shinin' bright upon the wathers, makin' it look near like day. There was the big white sthran' sthretchin' from me to the right an' to the left, with niver another sowl on it but meself an' Johnnie, the powny. An' the Inver Warren over beyont me; an' the Fanaghan banks risin' up black behin' me; an' the full tide washin' in an' br'akin' in wee ripples that had a dhreamy, sing-song sound, at me feet. An' then, far, far away, away out on the wather, I could see the yawls an' the boats hard at the nshin'. An' all at wanst, mother, while I was lookin', what does I see but wan particular boat comin' glidin' in swift, sthraight along the sort of yalla river that the moon made from where the wathers an' the skies met, right up to my feet; in along this goolden river I sees the boat comin' faster an' faster, far faster than any of the boats ever does; an' it was comin' rowin' right up towards where I was. I seen there was a lady all in white in the bow i' the boat, an' when it come near she was standin' up an' callin' me with her finger. An' she looked iver such a beautiful lady, mother, when they come nearer still. An' when they did come nearer, into within wadin' distance, an' they turned the boat roun' so that they faced me, an' shipped their oars, I knew every wan was in the boat. An', mother dear, who was it but me father was at the helm I me father himself I An' James an' Path rick Magroarty was on the afther oars! an' Feargal McCue on the second bow I Just the very four, mother, that went down in me father's boat. An' Micky Dinnien, that got saved, his oar it was lyin' along the thafts with no wan to pull it 1
1 It ill becomes us. • Mv little boy.
*. *., at the nshing grounds.
1 M y sweet.
"But the most curious part of the thing, mother, was that I wasn't wan bit surprised to see them.. Lookin' at them there, I knew right well—minded right well—that they were dhrownded; but, all the same, I somehow thought they were still alive—ye know, mother, how dhraims does go that way?"
"Yis, Hughie; vis, Hughie. O God rest their souls, Hughie 1"
"God rest them, mother. Well, as I sayed. when the boat come as far as to be near groundin', they swung her round, be Feargal McCue sheioin' on his oar. An' then me father, he rises from the helm, an' he says,' Hughie,' says he,' we're short of a han' since we lost Micky Dinnien' (him was saved, mind you, mother)— 'short of a han',' says he, 'since we lost Micky Dinnien,'an'—mother, do ye hear?"
"What! what! a stoir mo chroidhe .<" What is it?"
"Who's that callin', mother? Listen! Now—hear it now I"
"Hughie, Hughie, a thaisge, that's the bar ye hear again. The noise is risin' an' fallin', as ye know it always does. That's the bar, apaisdin."
"Is it the bar, mother? It sounds to 1 ijtore of my heart.
me very like some wan callin'—very. Well, mother, as I was tellin' ye, me father he says, ' We're short of a han' since we lost Micky Dinnien, and we can come but poor speed on the fishin' grounds. We seen you, Hughie, come down with the powny to the sthran', an' we rowed in, to take ye aboord. Will ye step in like a good chile, Hughie, and pull on the bow oar for us?' But I minded, mother, how you promised, an' made me promise, I'd never take to the fishin' afther what happened; so I had to refuse him. 'Father,' says I, 'I'd like to do as ye ax me, an' take the bow oar. but I can't—I can't. Ye know,' says I, ' how me poor mother's so dead again my ever goin' in wan i' the boats; and ye know her poor oul' heart it's nigh bruck already; an' I'll never have it sayed that / was the manes of br'akin' it out an' out.' 'An' God bliss ye, me son, for mindin' yer poor mother's wishes so,' says me father back again. An' with that, mother, who should appear but yourself up on the bank above me, an' ye called down to me: 'Go with yer father, Hughie—go with ye poor father.' I was ever so glad when I got your laive to go, for I was burning to go. I threw me arms roun' Johnnie's neck, an' I called to ye, 'Mother, come you down an' take Johnnie home, an' don't forget him while me an' me father's aff.' The white lady she was standin' up in the bow of the boat now, and she was wavin' her hands to me to come. 'Come, Hughie,' she calls; 'come, wee Hughie! the tide's laivin', and we'll get sthranded when we should be on the fishin'grounds.' I waded into the wather immediately an' out to the boat—and I was just almost beside the boat—within a step of it or two, an' the beautiful white lady had her hands sthretched out, to give me a help in over the bows, an' I was sthretchin' out my hands tor'st her, when there's comes a smooth swell that shook an' staggered me where I stood, an' I thought I'd 'a' fallen backwards—but the white lady at that sthretched out further to help me, when I wakened 1
"Mother, wasn't that or not a wondherful dhraim?"
"Yis; wondherful it was, Hughie— mighty wondherful, me poor fella. It was a very sthrange, oncommon dhraim. An' Micky Dinnien's oar, too, was idle 1 And they sayin' they'd lost Micky!"
"That was the very thing, mother, I thought strangest of all."
"Hughie, we'll say a Pather-an'-avvy for the rest of yer father's sowl, an' the sowls of the crew." 'Yis, mother, do."
Then the widow slowly intoned the "Our Father," and Hughie took it up fervently at "Give us this day," and the widow poured forth her soul in the " Hail Mary! full of grace," while poor, wasted, emaciated Hughie clasped his hands and with streaming eyes strenuously pleaded a "Holy Mary, Mother of God;" and both then chorused joyously a " Glory be to the Fa her, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, Amen.'"
"Mother," said Hughie, "I'll sleep."
'■ Sleep then, a chitisle mo chroidhe,1 sleep. Thank God," said his mother.
And ere she had finished the sentence Hughie's eyes had closed, and he was again asleep. She still held in her lap his head, as she had done now for upward of two hours. She bent down and left a light kiss on his pale brow.
"Mother, is that you, there?"
"Yis, Hughie, a leanbh. Are ye aisy?"
"Mother, what are ye doin' there? Who's callin', mother?"
"I'm only aisin' yer head, Hughie, holdin' it up—an' restin' meself sittin' here. There's no wan callin', Hughie. That's the bar, ye hear."
"Oh, but there's some wan callin'— callin' me, mother. Listen to it I" Hughie's voice was very low.
'• Hughie, a mhilis, no. It's the bar. Sure yer own mother knows."
"Is it near mornin', mother? What time is it?"
"It's near mornin', Hughie. The first sthreaks is on the sky."
"The first sthreaks on the sky, an' me lyin' here! an' the boats in! Mother, what day's this? What's come over me, anyhow, that I've lost the memory o' what day it is?"
"This • is Monday mornin', Hughie, a thaisge."
"An' the morra's market day in Enniskillen—isn't it, mother?"
"I suppose so, Hughie, I suppose so. But, a thiisge, don't, don't be disthressin' yerself about them things."
1 Pulse of my heart.
"Och, mother, mother, it's not here I should be lyin'at this time in the mornin'— an' I havin' to go buy me load yet, an' be as far as Pettigo afore nightfall, an' be goin' up Enniskillen sthreet with the first light the morra mornin'. Mother, mother, let me up. Put me on a dhrop i' tay, an' butter me a bit of oat-cake, an' I'll give a grain i' corn to poor Johnnie. Mother, why don't ye let me up, I say? The boats is in two hours ago. Look out. There isn't a sign i' wan of them on the wather!"
"Whisht, whisht! Oh, Hughie. a thaisge, whisht an' lie quiet. Don't ye know, a gra th, ye're far through with the sickness? Oh, Hughie, a paisdin, whisht, whisht with ye!"
"Mother, I must be on the market pavement of Enniskillen this time the morra mornin'. Mother, why will ye hould me, an' you hearin' them callin'? Don't ye hear, mother? Don't ye hear? 'Hughie! Hughie! Hughie I' Don't ye hear them, mother?"
"Och, Hughie i' me heart, lie down quiet. Or what's comin' over ye, Hughie? No, no, Hughie! ye musn't, ye can't go for to rise, a leanbh .'"
"Hear to them, mother I Hear to them 1 'Hughie! Hughie! Hughie!' Don't ye hear? Ay! ay I Och, call you from the doore for me, mother—call you, mother dear, for my voice'll not let me call loud, whatever's come on it. Call 'Ay !' mother, an' tell them I'm comin' as soon as poor Johnnie's fed."
"Yis, Hughie, a thaisge, yis. If you lie quiet I'll call to them."
"Mother, what do ye mane? Lie quiet! an' the boats in!—an' the light on the sky—an' me havin' to be goin' up Enniskillen sthreet this time the morra mornin', mother !—forty long mile, an' a tiresome journey for poor Johnnie. It's a long journey, mother, but—I—must—"
His poor mother had to force Hughie back upon the bed. It didn't take much force, indeed. Then he became quiet, suddenly. The look of anxiety and unrest slowly passed from his features. His two hands closed in a faster clasp upon one hand of his mother, which in the struggle he had caught. A smile of sweet peace settled upon his white, wasted face, and the cadger-boy started upon his last journey.
CONGREGATIONALISM was the Church polity of the Pilgrim Fathers and of the early clays in New England. At one time in the history of our country it numbered more adherents than any other form of ecclesiastical government; and at all times it has been conspicuous for the intelligence of its members, the intellectual strength of its leaders, the amount of its gifts for charities and missions, and in its influence on the life of the Nation. For a hundred years after the landing of the Pilgrims it was the dominant Church polity of the New World. To-day the number who prefer this form of government is much larger than those who bear its name.
All Baptists are Congregationalists, as are also Unitarians, Universalists. and the large and rapidly growing body known as
Disciples of Christ. The Episcopalian and Presbyterian communions have felt the influence of Congregationalism, and in many respects are as distinctly independent as the descendants of the Pilgrims themselves.
One of the claims of those who advocate the unity of Christendom on the basis of the Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral is that the Episcopalian body has practically united Congregationalism with Episcopacy; while one of the most eminent officials of the Methodist Episcopal Church not many years ago thought it necessary to warn his people against the Congregationalizing tendencies which are at work in American Methodism. Con sidered as a body whose adherents may be counted, it has a respectable but not the first place among modern Protestant com