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The last information was given in a sibilant whisper, that might have been heard by other ears than Jessica’s, and was to her so wonderful that she stared in astonishment. This plainly-dressed old lady carrying so much money? Who would have dreamed it?

“Me own name is Dalia Mary Moriarty. Me son Barney, he come to Ameriky when but a tiny bairn, along with Dennis me man. To Californy Dennis went, to a place called Riverside, an’ a gardener by trade went into oranges an’ olives. The blessin’ of Heaven was on him an’ he prospered, even as Barney himself has done. But ’twas not till Dennis stepped into another world, the world beyant this, me dear, that I left Connemara an’ follyed here. A nice town, ’tis to be sure, but not like Ireland. There’s no land that ever I see can match old Ireland for richness an’ greenness, me dear. Here in Californy ’tis all the talk of ‘irrigatin’,’ ‘irrigatin’!’ Nought grows without that costly ‘irrigatin’,’ but in me own true land the water is given with the crops by the same free Hand above. Sure, I’ll be glad to get me home to a spot where I’ll be let toss out a dipper of water without bein’ bid: ‘Don’t waste it, mother! Remember the garden!’ As if I was ever let to forget it!” The old lady paused for breath, then added: “But ’tis kind they was, each and ivery one. Now, all about your own self, me dear, if so be there’s none waitin’ you to leave me an’ tend them.”