Peter sat in his office, one hot July day, two years after his arrival,
writing to his mother. He had but just returned to New York, after a
visit to her, which had left him rather discouraged, because, for the
first time, she had pleaded with him to abandon his attempt and return
to his native town. He had only replied that he was not yet prepared to
acknowledge himself beaten; but the request and his mother's
disappointment had worried him. While he wrote came a knock at the door,
and, in response to his "come in," a plain-looking laborer entered and
stood awkwardly before him.

"What can I do for you?" asked Peter, seeing that he must assist the man
to state his business.

"If you please, sir," said the man, humbly, "it's Missy. And I hope
you'll pardon me for troubling you."

"Certainly," said Peter. "What about Missy?"

"She's--the doctor says she's dying," said the man, adding, with a
slight suggestion of importance, blended with the evident grief he felt:
"Sally, and Bridget Milligan are dead already."

"And what can I do?" said Peter, sympathetically, if very much at sea.

"Missy wants to see you before she goes. It's only a child's wish, sir,
and you needn't trouble about it. But I had to promise her I'd come and
ask you. I hope it's no offence?"

"No." Peter rose, and, passing to the next room, took his hat, and the
two went into the street together.