"_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!'"