" She paused. "What makes ye think of that just now,
father?"
He did not answer.
"Is it on account o' that letther?" she persisted.
"It is, Peg." He spoke with difficulty as if the words hurt him to
speak. "We've got to a great big crossin'-place again where the
roads branch off an' I don't know which one to take."
"Are ye goin' to lave it to me again, father?" said Peg.
"That's what I can't make up me mind about, dear--for it may be that
ye'll go down one road and me down the other."
"No, father," Peg cried passionately, "that we won't. Whatever the
road we'll thravel it together."
"I'll think it out by meself, Peg. Lave me for a while--alone. I
want to think it out by meself--alone."
"If it's separation ye're thinkin' of, make up yer mind to one
thing--that I'LL never lave YOU. Never."
"Take 'MICHAEL' out for a spell and come back in half an hour and in
the meanwhile I'll bate it all out in me mind."
She bent down and straightened the furrows in his forehead with the
tips of her fingers, and kissed him and then whistled to the wistful
"MICHAEL" and together they went running down the street toward the
little patch of green where the children played, and amongst whom
"MICHAEL" was a prime favourite.
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