Part 12 (1/2)

”I'll niver get enough o' the dears,” she would say to the mothers, and they quite believed her.

In the winter of the following year Will Devitt came home from the North-West. He had been absent three years, and during that time had secured a grant of land. He boasted of his possessions to his foster-mother, and she was almost as proud of them as he was himself.

”It's a grand country, sure, this Canada of ours, an' were I younger I'd go back wi' ye, Will. D'ye think we could find business fer a tavern?” she asked him one day.

”You would just make your fortune,” Will responded, enthusiastically.

Nancy smiled and shook her head.

”I'm only talkin' like a silly ould woman, laddie. In the first place, I'm no fit to run a tavern, an' in the second, it's no fittin'

occupation fer the loikes o' me.”

Will had been home a short while when Nancy's suspicions were aroused, and being unable to lay them bare to Katie Duncan, she told them to Mrs. Doctor Dodona.

”There's somethin' mysterious in the behavior o' the young folk,” she confided. ”I'm uncommon versed in the language of sighs an' tender looks, an' it's comin' to somethin' before long.”

”You don't mean that Will Devitt is in love?” the doctor's wife asked, in mild surprise.

”I'm afeard it's just that,” Nancy admitted, regretfully.

”And with whom, pray?”

Nancy bent forward and whispered in her ear.

”Your Katie!” Sophia Dodona exclaimed.

Nancy nodded, and they both laughed.

Nancy knew instinctively that her two foster-children had something they wished to say to her, and she purposely kept them at arm's length, whilst she enjoyed their discomfiture.

”It's rare fun,” she told Sophia.

Will Devitt was becoming desperate, for he must soon get himself back to his prairie farm. So, after a lengthy twilight consultation with his heart's desire, he came tramping awkwardly into the presence of the widow McVeigh.

”Ye're lookin' serious the night,” she greeted, as she paused with her knitting.

”I'm feeling that way, too,” he conceded, sighing.

”Maybe ye're thinkin' o' the closeness o' yer leavin'?” she questioned.

”It's partly that,” he admitted, sheepishly.

”Only partly, ye say. Fer shame, to let anythin' else be a part o'

such thoughts,” she observed, somewhat severely.

”Now, granny, it is no use you being cross with me. I'm full of love for you and the old place, and you know it,” he expostulated. ”There's something else, all the same,” he continued, with a forlorn pleading in his voice.

”Then ye had better out wi' it, lad,” she replied, giving him her whole attention.

”It's about our Kate,” he commenced.