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“  his garden. For two years I worked, and laid up my wages; and not a single letter came for me. I grieved and sorrowed, and thought about Mary — I thought maybe her letters were stopped by somebody. I knew she would not forget me. Sometimes I thought I would go home to Ireland, and see what was the matter. At last, one day, my employer came into the garden with a newspaper in his hand. ‘Mr. Crumley,’ says he, ‘here is something for you;’ and sure enough there was a line to John Crumley, asking me to meet an old friend that had just come from Derry. I could not work another stroke, but went to the city, and there he was. I asked him first about my mother. ‘ All well; I have a letter from her to you.’ ‘ And haven't you another letter? Didn't Mary Dare write to me?’ ‘Mary Dare!’ he said; ‘ don't you know that Mary Dare died soon after you left the old country?’ ” The old man stopped a moment to recover himself. Then, striking the side of his cot with his hard, sunburnt hand, he added, “Yes, she was dead, and I was then left the lone man that you see me now, Mrs.--. My mother had not written before, because she hated to distress me, but she wrote to beg that I would come home; my father's health was failing, and he wanted me, his first-born, to come and take the homestead. But Ireland and home were nothing to me now. I wrote to her that my next brother must take the homestead, and take care of my father and her, God bless her! I should never see Ireland again, but I loved her and my sisters all the same. The next letter was long after that. My mother wrote, ‘ Your father is dead; come back, Johnny, and take your own home.’ I could not go ; and then I went to Georgia, and never heard from home again. I tried to fight for the South, because the Southern people were good ”
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