He flung out
his hands, and said: 'Let it go! It's nothing to me.' Michael, have I
said true?"
Michael nodded.
"Almost his very words you've used, and he flung out his hands, as you
said.
"Aye, he'll be changed; but they've kept the clothes he had when he went
to prison, and he'll come out in them, I'm thinking--"
"Ah, no!" interrupted Michael. "That can't be, for his clothes was
stole. Only a week ago he sent to me for a suit of my own. I wouldn't
have him wear my clothes--he a gentleman! It wasn't fitting. So I sent
him a suit I bought from a shop, but he wouldn't have it. He would leave
prison a poor man, as a peasant in peasant's clothes. So he wrote to me.
Here is the letter." He drew from his pocket a sheet of paper, and
spread it out. "See-read it. Ah, well, never mind," he added, as old
Christopher shook his head. "Never mind, I'll read it to you!"
Thereupon he read the note, and added: "We'll see him of the Calhouns
risin' high beyant poverty and misfortune some day."
Old Christopher nodded.
"I'm glad Miles Calhoun was buried on the hilltop above Playmore. He had
his day; he lived his life. Things went wrong with him, and he paid the
price we all must pay for work ill-done."
"There you're right, Christopher Dogan, and I remember the day the
downfall began. It was when him that's now Lord Mallow, Governor of
Jamaica, came to summon Miles Calhoun to Dublin. Things were never the
same after that; but I well remember one talk I had with Miles Calhoun
just before his death.
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