never yet been at sea, I was hardy, and willing to make myself useful in any way. But how could I tell whom to trust? I might speak fair to some likely-looking man, and he might take me somewhere and strip me of my slops, and find my leather money-bag, and steal that too. When I thought how easily my fellow-traveller might have treated me thus, I felt a thrill of gratitude towards him, and then I wondered how he had prospered in his search for work. As for me, it was pretty clear that if I hoped to work my way in this wicked world, I must suspect a scoundrel in every

man I met, and forestall mischief by suspicion. As I sat and thought, I sifted the beans through my fingers, and saw that there were lots of strange seeds mixed with them, some of very fantastic shapes; and I wondered what countries they came from, and with what shape and scent and colour the plants blossomed, and thought how Charlie would like some of them to sow in pots and watch. As I drove my hands deeper into the heap, I felt that it was quite warm inside, and then I put my head down to smell if there was any fragrance in the seeds, and I did not lift it up again, for I fell fast asleep.

I was awakened by a touch on my head, and a voice just above me, saying: “He’s alive annyhow, thank God!” and sitting up among the beans I found that it was dark and foggy, but a lamp at some distance gave me a pretty good view of an old woman who was bending over me.

She was dressed, apparently, in several skirts of unequal lengths, each one dingier and more useless-looking than the one beneath it. She had a man’s coat, with a short pipe in the breast-pocket; and what her bonnet was like one could not tell, for it was comfortably tied down by a crimson handkerchief with big white spots, which covered it completely. Her face was as crumpled and as dirty as her clothes, but she had as fine eyes and as kind eyes as mine had

ever met. And every idea of needful wariness and of the wickedness of the world went quite naturally out of my head, and I said, “Did you think I was dead, Mother?”

“I did not; though how would I know what would be the matter wid ye, lying there those three hours on your face, and not a stir out o’ ye?”

“You’re very kind,” I said, dusting the bean-dust off my trousers, and I suppose I looked a little puzzled, for the old woman (helping me by flicking at my sleeve) went on: “I’ll not deceive ye, my dear. It was my own Micky that was on my mind; though now you’ve lifted your face, barring the colour of his hair, there’s no likeness betwixt ye, and I’m the disappointed woman again, God help me!”

“Is Micky your son?” I asked.

“He is, and a better child woman never had, till he tired of everything I would do for him, being always the boy for a change, and went for a stowaway from this very port.”

“Sit down, Mother; stowaways are lads that hide on board ship, and get taken to sea for nothing, aren’t they?”

“They are, darlin’; but it’s not for nothing they get kept at sea, ye may take your oath. And many’s the one that leaves this in the highest of expictations, and is glad enough to get back to it in a tattered

shirt and a whole skin, and with an increase of contintment under the ways of home upon his mind.”

“And you hope Micky’ll come back, I suppose?”

“Why wouldn’t I, acushla? Sure it was by reason o’ that I got bothered with the washin’ after me poor boy left me, from my mind being continually in the docks, instead of with the clothes. And there I would be at the end of the week, with the Captain’s jerseys gone to old Miss Harding, and his washing no corricter than hers, though he’d more good nature in him over the accidents, and iron-moulds on the table-cloths, and pocket-handkerchers missin’, and me ruined entirely with making them good, and no thanks for it, till a good-natured sowl of a foreigner that kept a pie-shop larned me to make the coffee, and lint me the money to buy a barra, and he says: ‘Go as convanient to the ships as ye can, Mother; it’ll aise your mind. My own heart,’ says he, laying his hand to it, ‘knows what it is to have my body here, and the whole sowl of me far away.’”

“Did you pay him back?” I asked. I spoke without thinking, and still less did I mean to be rude; but it suddenly struck me that I was young and hearty, and that it would be almost a duty to share the contents of my leather bag with this poor old woman, if there were no chance of her being able to repay the generous foreigner.

“Did I pay him back?” she screamed. “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 agin, 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 of us, 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 laste 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 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.’ ‘Let it run,’ says I, in the joy of me heart, ‘and you after it, and the barra on the top of ye, now Micky me son’s come home!’”

“Wonderfully jolly!” said I. “And it must be pleasant even to think of it.”

But Biddy’s effort of imagination seemed to have exhausted her, and she relapsed into the lowest possible spirits, from which she suddenly roused herself to return to her neglected coffee-stall.

“Bad manners to me, for an old fool! sitting here whineging and lamenting, when there’s folks, maybe, waiting for their coffee, and yourself would have been the betther of some this half-hour. Come along wid ye.”

And giving a tighter knot to the red kerchief, which had been disordered by her lamentations, the old woman went down the dock, I following her.

We had not to go far. Biddy’s coffee-barrow was placed just