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 again, will you, father, will you? And we'll go to Ireland in the spring, won't we? Tell me, in the spring?"

A pain struck through Malachi Nolan's heart, a pain that was made only more poignant when, with her American fear of the sentimental, Nora joked:

"I must see our ancestral cabin."

Malachi could not open his eyes. For once he was afraid. He did not move for a long time. But at last he sighed and set his jaw, and said:

"Well, Nora—if ye saay so—in the spring."

Malachi Nolan sat bolt upright in his seat in the Pullman. He was clothed in his decent black suit, and he wore his black cravat tucked stiffly under the collar that so tightly bound his thick, red neck. On his glossy shirt front the great diamond, four carats in weight, rose and fell with his heavy breathing. At his feet was a new yellow valise; beside him, wedging him tightly into his seat, was Nora's luggage, her new bag, the roll of steamer rugs, her little umbrella, her plaid cape, and all the things she had got at the suggestion of friends who were interested in her journey across the sea to Ireland. Nora, in