By holding tight to the memory he could see that
her eyes were blue like his own, but her hair was black. He could hear
the ring of her laugh as she told him Irish stories, and the soft
drone of her voice as she sang him old Irish songs. It was she who
told him about the fairies and witches that lived up behind the
peat-flames. He remembered holding her hand and putting his cheek
against it when the goblins came too near. Then the picture would go
out, like a picture in a magic-lantern show, and sometimes Sandy could
make it come back, and sometimes he could not.
After that came a succession of memories, but none of them held the
silent father and the merry mother and the little white house on the
heath. They were of new faces and new places, of temporary homes with
relatives in Ireland and Scotland, of various schools and unceasing
work. Then came the day, two years ago, when, goaded by some
injustice, real or imagined, he had run away to England and struck out
alone and empty-handed to care for himself. It had been a rough
experience, and there were days that he was glad to forget; but
through it all the taste of freedom had been sweet in his mouth.
For three weeks he had been hanging about the docks, picking up jobs
here and there, accommodating any one who wanted to be accommodated,
making many friends and little money.
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