THE GUEST THAT TARRIED.

Oamaru Mail, Volume XXXVII, Issue 10243, 4 September 1909, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE GUEST THAT TARRIED.

, -• :■■'..> Gilbert Parker.) vw-as falling, but, seated tir; •> of a maple which had <" ■" . :t , t <:i the late winter's fire- ■ ■■• ' ' ' : ;i ;. r took no notice. His ■\rk.-t' r.iade for him by one ■* - "" -..vre not so bright as those , . j l:ii;iskn:~-., ....-i. :-..--.; ' " i :-.'.i:T storm than this, and -■* • ." V.as turned to the south, *"' .' ti-e spring seemed to come —the sweet sting of it making r t.n of life eagerly m the veins stirring the Hood of °[j memories, turning tiie sods of new f", tven the eyes ok tin; lntorViler in a land-of buoyant ac€tsil warmed to the vibrant l.fc %&£ F»uring it, desire into the «K o- Mav. Ihr-y slion-j wit.i tie *tenti»i of unused and ample £& P His voice, as he sang, had Sfpulso of a regiment mamimg-a Xnomenou with one to whom the lortd «* but a pwrhoHse, supported ff hose fwlfch KiKkittidos who to.l«l ?•' . .vm ci ;ve or brciu <-r fame. MS Y.rLd a».J .1 good deal els,E£5W. «na he had achieved fame, aw— M t '.'- most usdeis -.wittc from the torty-nmth parallel to *t» magnetic !'°' e ,'- ~- - n i U he steeped himsclk m tbe luxury of vocal s.-«uim« utaiity, his face was 01 , ( j j W iv lri.:>: tne small house on STkn:»II a"'»ve the little ir. ? i»!js an J ro,Ur wood, tuwar.l the prune t.rcakf . m'D --rem oier a score- of miles to S' ">u:lt. Vv 1;;j could !;.;ve though:: : '" L "i,k i-ir-i'---' air and his itili more Aretes soul: th.Lt—or was there, thei.. hi tra'e.tv in the song: a manhood „ t =rr<7ri''" enough to take the adverse ?L which hat! attended the life of his The careless lilt of the song n,l however, a wealtd oi m. i.-i.iy ant which beU.-keimd to.nething Jarferncalh, if perh».p.> thai sonic; hiiiy Mi onlv a touch o: temperament in the 6-Jvoort r a vagabond, and the song it--eVonH' a luxury of that temperament. But fflio rotild h:lve thought from the ,„([«<=» air ac.'i the apparently careless ',„ r that there was dark trouble, mayLlieep tragedy, in the little house tpbisd li"-'.-' and thai he was aware ,f it'- Ami he finished the song, recatiE;; tiu- v.,rse twice—->-uu ••'">' "eiiit oi me was hurted: but thfre's ili;!i>; that's like ilos-

Ujk taw «>f a ni.ui, a voting. bearded, tmiii. appeared at the wmfniF of the hoits:;? behind him. It was ie Young Doctor who had lately come to Asfcatooti. rM ••How many years, yon say.- he ask- >.? of a i»»;:i:nt standing beside him, 'ind nodding to-.vavd the singer. ••i'ttti-tfti .wars, doctor." •■H.-'s nr." r.dat:".-.:ir :T "Jiune. Ilt-'j Iriiii and dut's all-'* . -il:i'.v did he come to plant litmseit ja yiitil-"' "Well, vuii see, doctor, it was poura' wot. that day." fift-Tii 'years ago, an' je just sttpped in out o' the ram!-' The Yottiiz Doctor tinned an J looked it her closely, ietkctiveiy. Was she mocking hirn, trying to he hr.r.ioroiss, irith tfiii dismal tragedy hshmd them [a a darkened room where two people iy stricken and beaten —flotsam of fate [eh to the sport of the monstrous sea if pain and helplessness? But he wsj [rub, too, this son cf Ksculapius, and the wars he had spent in this ne'»v land tal" not dimmed or smothered that tickering fin", that fantastic glow of m and humor, that quivering prcrence, like an uumatcriaksed spirit, shich trims real life into the parafoxical and the grotesque in the Enic-r----jH Isle. As her words fell 0:1 his ear, wlhi loukd at her, he was back again ti-.- k.iLiii:.:!. aiuong the cabin folk, to ban-:ooted, barelegged girls, with the Using hair, the creamy cheeks, and he wid glances of the eye. He was rack among all the elements of superthion and poverty and tradition, j fhere heart and head were in constant | KBtodiction;. where the heart seemed ipGKmsotis and was only calculating: »here tie head seemed deliberate and rrncial and was only spontaneous: risen; the pity and beauty and falsemod and diiloyslty and comradeship ai clanship, with treachery and bad at'th. went hand in hand; where love, tisthj". and a sweet bodily moralitv rere linked with drink and boycott and wc;!.-Living :'.nd the murder of landlord, where political immorality went rheek by jowl with financial good faith ml reliability; where men cried out like cartrrs for a free Ireland, and uiii-l sj;'t'rs from the nest county iuwsners—h.~ knew it all. And he had '.d: k all, because the eld estate was : ■; -i.:.-.' .v.crineed, with scarce enough .: : '■;".: to k:ep above the poverty- ■ ',:'■- .-.:.-..?r and mother and a futile ;n.i.-. Tfli .lie only use had been to keep ;he p««ru.i and the small farmers in :nnd-hitmor by his dry wit and homely minor, saving his people from evil irestment when other landlords bam:ided their households and never ven;ursd forth without a firearm. Yes, a knew it all. and this woman's unhtendi'd, arid humor threw him back igaiii into that land which has given Enr? exiles to the world than she has ;wp[e starving in her homes or lying a her churchyards.

'o!i. he just stepped in out of the ""in. did he. fifteen years ago?" he re'"hM mrfiit.itivelv" to the woman. "That's a long time. But it's been dry

; " T TVas the luck o' heaven that whincvtr In; n-int out to take the road iibm. it betran to rain—there, 'tis lisis' hr-rri now, and him out in it, wi'ji' dr;i;h onto him I" The Doctor's face suddenly Pitched v. i:h a laughter which seemed '•aroiuroilabte. Then he recovered Misetf. Ic would not have been seemly ':■ ,!;fT;nr. with that tragedy in the ;»:'•: fc.'-!ni;.-I: and, besider-, it would '■■-• rtfi-ri'L.'d .".rid shocked greatly the ' "':i v.h.o face was drawn with !;. ::'-.,v ard clouded by anxiety:

■="■;:!'.. :k *hc- spoke now, a light came lv >* it which seemed stolen from a ri, rfd with which she could have no

"'Hour r.!;l are vou?" the Young P"«or asked curiously, but with his uce turned toward the bedroom where ► Oman's voice was sobbing softly and > man's mice was sneaking iu gentle "fowilms: tut:?:-,. ."I'm tlu'rtv-oito." <hc said with a tess « her h«.;>rl"; iititl by that the Young Wii'tor kiu>'.v tHnond'peradveiiture that »"> !<>red tlu* mi, outside for she was pwy-orip. if s he was a dav. ''And tt-!: :ic for d've ask? Couldn't P, ■ tdl J;y I.).)kt;i' at ZT.O teeth ?" sllC maliciously. »!■.' s!ior.-.„>d her teeth not unpleasantL' ai 7 ? !l " foiild h:ive no reason to reP l ' fl'i".; it. for tisoy were her host ['"'!"■'•'• : - line and even and white ["•'■ '.i:;r?;\,i : j se t of teeth as ever

><■•■ tivta arc twcnty-ono," ho ana ?:;-.:!? plaved at her ?'• an.-! bkfsf of light suddenly iloodcd ; cr e?t\:. How far can not a woman %' a,l d vrhat hard roads can she not with a word of flattery in her -n and a little bread of praise in her 'Lot. The Voting Doctor suddenly ™_l ~ revelation on this matter. He ,** known it somewhat indefinitely in jw pa?t. hut now the lesson was set *°*n on the everlasting tablets of life. . -W ,'; r j; e lifcc mine any better £ n *• hj" like hers?" he asked himh\ AtI(l - vet - niv little lie will stiffen F-r» v t0 tJie neav >" task snc l ,as •fcell i- : a " * sa -' '* often dough, nr. I-'' 10 n '"- t a smile on her lips, iB 5" . dowi « 'neath the load of it ■ Serin' the weakness of liunian ii,.Jj r t: isn 't 1"'"' a virtue of an es"s .. ,-• Milnesto'ii't, n ' v "'■' t,7f-e P rP,v ' very grave. v4__". '"«k?d at hor fixedly and very -'W '"*'• or skilful as he was his B.*-'m' ? r:,>t so f? -r Winded him to erf j,**', 1 ".- 1 <*>'dd not be healed or help- ' or d'ye look so sharp at UI, s "f asked a little fiuticringly, hi -? "" was repenting what ho (L j?" 1 to her about her teeth, and «! of it made her weak at kl° n tav e the teeth of twenty-one," slowly, "and the light in

your face is that of a girl steppin' home along the road down by Tralee — cteppin' home from school. Faith, I hope your heart is as young, for there's [ stilf work before you —bitter stiff work :to your hand." He glanced toward | the bedroom door, through which came ; oiilv the man's voice now, pleading and I kind. | A flush of pride stole over her face. \ . .i? liiii'.-j in it softened, and some of t them stole away altogether. Never did I liar reop so fine a crop of honest j flowers from the seeds •of false weed ! sown. Then a look of firmness and resolve came into her face, and courage seemed to make sacred the pride and vanity of it. "There's a dark road ahead, I know," she said. "But 'tis me own ih-.:t I'll work for, and that must be cared for; and, God's love! but the back will not break nor the hand go palsy." The Doc-tor's eyes rested for a moment on the man without, whose voice I still told the rain and the world of : spring of Kosleen of inniskillen, then they turned gently and inquiringly upon the woman. "Vour father may get well perhaps; but it will be slow, and he can't help himself much"—he nodded toward thcother room —"but 'tis a kind man, and—" " 'Tis the kindest iver was —wid no whisky in the house. AA'id the book of Isaiah and '.Burke of Ours' and the other .tales of Mr Lever he's eontint. He was a schoolmaster in Ireland, at Alalahic'e, it was. The kindest iver was and the best —widout the drink." "•'Well, he will make it as easv for you as he can; but she —your mother—can't make it easy, no matter bow she tries. She can only move one arm, and even that may go with the rest—but, there, we'll hope for the best. She has to be lifted often and often, and you can't do it alone. Besides, it's a night and day business. Is there no sister, or aunt, or cousin—?" "There's no one at all, at all, of women folk. AA'e were five —father and mother, the two b'ys, and meself. Terry, he's gone this fifteen year. Left us one day after a shindy—father'd been drinkin', an' he laid bands on Terry, and Terry flew of!" like a colt with the bars down. Did ye iver see a horse gone mad and wild, and runnin' over the long road from Connemara to Galway maybe? Shure, that was Terry. All" temper and spunk and divilry, an' could do annytbing wid his hands or his head. Nothin' was too hard for him. Many and many a time he used to help the schoolmasters out with the algebry and the gayinoinitry — as r.lsy as tiyin' to a bird, it was to Terry. But he wint; and he niver looked back, or sint word, or give a sign. All, Lord, Lord, he was the pick o' the posy, wild as he was. And cruel, too, lie was in goin', for him and her" — a hand hung toward the bedroom door —"wao niver the same after Terry wint." Her eyes filled with tears, which she dashed away, "and her face turned to the man without. " 'Twas a week after Terry wint, he came. He'd seen Terry dowii by the new railway, and they'd been drinking together, and whin he , stepped in out o' the rain, 'twas like a link with Terry, for he'd seen him since we bad, and—" "Come in out o' the rain, Nolan," she said sharply. " 'Tis growin' weather," said Nolan over his shoulder at her, but not looking toward her. "You've got your growth—come in," ' she urged. "AYhen the doctor's gone, I'll come," he answered, and went on humming to ] himself:

"Did ye see her with her hand in mine the.day that Clancy married? Ah, darlin', how we footed it—the grass it was so green! And when the neighbors wandered home, I was the guest that tarried — An hour plucked from Paradise: come back to me, Rosleen!"

The Young Doctor intervened. He touched her army peremptorily. "Come in," he said. "What's your name?" he added, as she shut the door with a sigh. "Me name's Miss Brennan," was the stiff reply. Who was he to command her and to question her? "That's a woman's name. What's yours as they call you, girl?" .-. Girl! Oh, deceitful human nature? —the black hypocrite! Yet, he had lived in the siiakeless land of the broken harp and the shattered oath, and he knew —he knew!

"Norah's me name," she answered him softly, for he had got into the softest comer of her nature. Surely there was no trouble too big to be borne, even with the stricken ones yonder, and poverty so deep, and Terry gone, and — "You've told me about Terry, but what of the other?"

"Shannon's carting over against Askatoon. He'll be back to-night. Ah, that's a man for all the year, is Shannon, drivin', drivin', drivin' —at four dollare a day." . "Why isn't he a farmer, with land so cheap end plenty?" He waved an arm round the circle of the horizon. "That's how we started —farmin'; but after Terry levanted everything wint wrong, and then the land wint bv and bve, and only the horses and the two wagons was left, a hay-wagon wid a rack and a grain-wagon wid a box." "It's a struggle to live then.' "There's only Shannon's four dollars a dav and the" garden. Father had a job on the nevr railway—away all week and back on Saturdays, two dollars a dav it was. But that's over now. Her face turned sympathetically toward the bedroom. "And him—Nolan —what else— i "Nolan Dovle's his name." "And Nolan Doyle—what does he do?" He knew well what he did not do, for the fellow's discreditable fame needed no special revelation. It was common knowledge: he was a loafer, a vagrant, and a pauper in a land of work and action. "Shure, there's the garden stuff to be pulled, and there's food to be got in the citv" —a village of one thousand people is "a "city" iu the West—"and there's prairie-hens to be shot, and fish to be caught, and —and all that, doctor dear."

"Four dollars a day won t he enough." He glanced toward the bed-, roonTdoor again. "You'll need help for the sick-room and for the housework, and help out here is expensive.-' "I'll do it meself, or die," she responded stubbornly. * "It'd be hard on the sick ones if you should die," he rejoined pointedly. "There's no glory or gain in that. 'What's all the world to a man when hi.s wife's a widow." they say on the prairies, and they're right. It's an expensive business, Norah, girl." Her eyes contracted and expanded, expanded and contracted. Was he anxious about being paid then? But ho had called her "Norah, girl!" and she grew younger every minute, braver and younger and stronger. They heard a noise behind them, and turned quickly. The old schoolmaster stood in the door, his gray hair tumbled, his bodv bent almost double, but his eves bright, feverishly bright. He had heard something of what they had been saying. "Tho Lord will provide," he said tremblingly. "He sent the ravens to feed Elijah. There was manna in the desert. The widow's curse of oil did not fail —oh, ye of little faith! . . ah, doctor dear —!" They were beside him now, lifting him back to his bed.

"Lave Nolan alone," lie whimpered. "Tell him to step in out of the rain, Norah dariin'." ... As they laid him down, he murmured the name of the boy who had fled from his hand and his fury fifteen years ago. "Terry—Terry—Terry!" he said pleading! v," as it were to God above, for Terry had been the apple of his eye, in spite of all, A few moments later the Ypnng Doctor was out in the rain, now diminishing to a fine mist, making his way to

Nolan Doyle. Still tbe voice kept dreaming of Inniskillen far away and all that was done and left undone by Rosleen—

"Across the seas, beyand tbe bills, by lovely Inniskillen, The rigimint come marchin'—l hear the call once more: A woman's but a woman—so I took the Sergeant's shillin', For the pride o' me was hurted: shall 1 never see her more?"

"AYhy not go back to Inniskillen, where you'd have a chance of seein' her? Do you expect her .to come to you?" said the Young Doctor. There was cold irony in his tone, and Nolan, who had begun the next verse, stopped short;. For an instant he did not move or turn his head or make reply. His senses seemed arrested. His eyes half-closed, as though in sulky meditation —or was it an effort at memory, for the Young Doctor's voice' had struck strangely on his ear. They had never mec or seen each other since the Young Doctor came to Askatoon. "lnniskiileii's the place for you, my man. Vou'd not be a rara avis there. Here you are a rara avis, and you're not popular." "I'd be what I was before, and it wasn't a rareavis ayther," said Nolan, still without looking up, though the Voting Doc-tor now stood almost •in front of him.

"And. what were you before then?" asked the Young Doctor. "As good a man as anny —barrin' one, an' he was a lad of life and fame." "What did you do for a living?" "What does anny one do for a living in Ireland?" "Why don't you do it here?"' "AVhere's the peat to cut here?" "There's land to plough, man." " Where'd Ibe larnin' to plough?" "How did you learn to cut peat?" "That's born wid ye; ye don't larn it."

"I heard you singing, as I came out, about a lad that tooK the Sergeant's shilliu'. It's a pity you're not j-oung enough to do the same, and make a man of yourself." "Well why didn't it make a man o 1 me—if it didn't; an' by the sour speech of ye', ye're thinkin' it didn't?" "Voii took the shillin'? You were in the army?" Suddenly Nolan got to his feet, for the first time looked the Young Doctor in the eyes, and saluted. "I was helpin' hold the pass beyand Peshawur whin you was ridin' the gray mare barebacked round the Bantrim Itidges. There was work doin' then beyond Pashawur. You're a doctor now, savin' a man or two here and there; I was a soldier then helpin' save the English pride—and that's life or death to millions from Kosslare to Gravesend."

The Young Doctor's eyes opened wide, and he stood astonished and inquiring. "Vou came from Inniskillen then —the song you sang . . .!" "Oh, the song —well, can't the truth be told in a song annyhow?" "It is your song—your words—you made it?"

"Shure, it's aysier than cuttin' peat or stalkin' Afghins." "And who was llosleen —ah, was it then llosleen Dennis from under Calladen Hill?"

The eyes of the vagrant grew brighter, and he threw his head back, as though his thick waving hair was in his eyes—as he had been wont to do as a boy when he wore no hat or cap, and his hair was the pride of his life. "The same, sir. And I saw her kiss you once. You was but twelve years old then, and she was 'most a woman grown. 'Twas hard by Callden Wood, where the red cross stands." "But your name —Nolan Doyle?" "Me name then was Phelan Fane." "Phelan Fane—ah, now I remember! You joined the Divil's Own, and went to India with Lord Harry Nolan as your colonel?'' "And Captain Doyle was adjutant, sir." "Why did you change your name?" He looked at the other suspiciously.

"I desarted." "A deserter, tool Why did you desert? How many years had you put

"Six and a half —sivin was me time. I desarted, because I had a friend in the same rigiment, and he killed a man —oh, a villain he was, that man! And I'd rather desarfc than swear false upon the Book before the Judge. For, God help me, I saw the man killed wid me own eyes, and I was the only one that did, and if I'd spoke the truth !" "And vour friend?" "Shure, how could they hang him, whin the evidence was gone away into the wide world —flyin' and flyin', and flvin' twiuty thousand miles away?" '"Aren't vou afraid to tell me this? . . . . The arm of the law is long; years do not count when crime's been done. The law goes on and on and on, no matter how far you be flyin'." "Hush! Arrah—hush! I'd never be thinkin' that one from Inniskillen would betray me. D'ye mind the day twintv-two years ago I filled y'r basket with fish y' didn't catch y'rself ? And 'twas not aisy fishin' yander. Betray me! Shure, wan that's been kissed by Kosleen Dennis —is it that y'd have me think?"

"Kosleen Dennis!" The Young Doctor looked at him queerly, hesitated a moment, and then added: "Have you heard of Rosleen since then —how many years ago?" "Oh, twenty-one years, and mver word of her. Shure, she wint with Michael Kelly, a lad of life and fame—wint to the altar wid him. But the day that was married I —" As though/oblivious of the other s presence he began to sing again: "Did ye see her with her hand in mine the day that Clancy married?" . . His eyes were fixed on the eastern horizon where the light of the sun was breaking- through the gray sky, a soft joyous radiance; and, overhead, a great rainbow drew its band of gorgeous ribbon athwart the heavens. "Dreamer sentimentalist! But there's something in him somewhere," murmured the Young Doctor to himself. "Poor thing, let him have his ■ memory. I'll not tell him what happened to Eosleen. ... And a clever song, too, as good as Tom Moore might have written! Oh, there is something in him! He deserted to save a friend. He's gallant and generous, too. He speaks of Michael Kelly as a lad of life and fame —the dirty dog of a buccaneer! Well, we'll see if what's left is as good as what once was, as far as it goes.'' As Nolan Doyle ceased singing, breaking off abruptly, and sank back upon the stump, whispering to himself, the Young Doctor came close to him and put a hand upon -his shoulder. "You needn't have any fear, man, though Lord Harry Nolan was my uncle, and is still alive; and Adjutant Doyle is now commanding the troops in Canada—he was only fifty miles from here last week. I'll not give you away. But in return —'' ' •'Must there be a bargain? Can't ye do it for its own sake —or for the sake of Inniskillen?" -- mi i> "Quite right, quite right, Phelan. The man started up. "Phelan! Is that the way you'll be kapin' me secret? Need I have told you? Didn't I trust you? Oh, wurra, wurra!" "And quite right again, Nolan Doyle. 'Tis a good name you've taken; of two unwilling godfathers, as fine men as ever gave glory to. Ireland. 'Tis a better name than you've sluffed. Now, here then. We've been palaverm' of Inniskillen and of you that's of no account —for is a man of any account that lives on bread he doesn't earn, and doesn't own?" His voice grew stern. "I'm ashamed of you, Nolan Dovle. I thought you a fine fellow over beyond the seas, when you filled my basket with fish, and when you beat them all, tossin' the stone in William Conner's yard.'' "Oh, you remember that —the stonethrowinM Shure, now, I recall ye" sittin' on the gray mare watchin' us! She could take a fence in her da3 r , the gray* mare-^ —" "Never mind about the gray mare. You've ]iyed qa tarry Brennan. and Jus

; .family ever since you stepped in out of I the rain fifteen years ago." "And there's been a dale of rain since—and the deep snow that makes rain." "Oh, have done, you idle gossoon! You're no better than a leech. As fine and handsome a fellow as you- " Doyle spat upon the ground. "That for me looks'." he said. . "Michael Kelly—" "Damn Michael Kelly! Have done with all that. Man, it's over twenty years, and nothing's the same as you left it yonder. All's changed, and your song can't set it right. Have done witn it. We're here to-day on the prairies in another life. You've been livin' in a dream; ' come out of it. J You've moved from eighteen to near j fortj' years of age since you joined the Divil's" Own. There's no going back. There's sorrow hero in the little house. There's terrible sickness. Mrs Brennan is paralysed, and the poor old man —" "I know.- Shure, I know." "Then what you are going to do —?" "Shure, I came out here in the rain to think it over." "You're not to bo trusted in the rain. 'Tis your habit to take shelter, and food, aiid bed, and friendship, and all the heart a woman can give—" Doyle stood up and put out a hand. "If the place had been mine, and Terry Brennan or Shannon had stepped in, they could have stayed and welcome. But that's no matter. I —" i "I want to know what you mean to I do, Doyle," the Young Doctor interrupted. Then he hastily drew a picture of the dark days ahead; of the misery and trouble and awful hardship, and the sickening burden which must fall upon the shoulders of Norah Brennan ; of the killing expense, and only Shannon's four dollars a day to meet it. There must be help for Norah. There must be some one to nurse and some one to help in the house, and all — 2. tale which grew more sombre as it went on. Once or twice Doyle closed his eyes for a minute, as though to shut out the picture. AYhen, at last, the Young Doctor had finished, and stood with a look of inquiry on his face, the clear eyes of the vagabond looked into his own with all the turbid emotions, and vague, useless, dreams, and fifteen years' stagnation gone from them, and the deserter froni the Devil's Own said slowly: "I'm goin' to help." "AA'hat are you going to do?" "To nurse them —in there," he answered. "You —nurse?" "Could I earn as much as two hospi- . tal nurses'd want pay for? AAliat can. I do —a peat-cutter and a soldier? But I can nurse. Didn't I nurse a dozen b'ys that was struck wid fever in lnjy? Have 1 a gift? Shure I have. I'll be two nurses yander—night and day. She's been a mother to mc —Mrs Brennan, an' the old man always sayin'. 'Tha Lord will provide,' and believin' in the manna, and Elijah's ravens, and the widow's cruse of oil, and all the rest. I lost me own mother when I was nine, and she's been like a mother i to me. God save me, but I'll wait on '. her like a son." i

"There's things a man can't do — nursing." The Young Doctor could scarcely take it in. It was unlike what he had expected. "There's nothing a man can't do for his mother."

"There's Miss Brennan, a young woman — You alone with her in the house! Do you think —?"

Nolan Doyle's face flushed. "God forgive ye!" he said. "And you an Irishman, an' from Inniskillen! The cabins are small in Ireland, and there's a dale o' propinquity bewhiles, for poverty makes small rooms, and there's many slape in one room, but Irishwomen and Irishmen —!"

The Young Doctor suddenly caught the vagabond's arm. "That's all right, Doyle. Say iw more. I apologise. If you mean it—" - "I'm going to pay for the last fifteen years' bed and bread," he said. "Are you sure they'll— ?" "Lave it to me. Mrs Brennan's glad to have mo by her. She says it kapes her from frettin' too much about Terry." ; "And 1 suppose Terry was a waster." "Terry? Terry was a man, ivry inch of him. He was as good as you an' two of you. Wid a head —ah, sure he had a head I" "Very well.- Settle it in your own way. But if you are going to nurse theso old people —I warn you 'twill be a heavy job, a dismal and weary task! —then listen to me, Nolan Doyle,, and hearken hard to what I say, and take note of what's to be done, and how it's to be done, and—"

11. And it was so. As he said he would, Nolan Doyle laid himself out to pay for the bed aud bread he had had over fifteen years. The summer came, and the autumn, the former and the later rain, falling oil the just and the unjust, the snows of winter, the inexorable frost, with all the bitter outhouse tasks —the wood to cut and carry, the water to fetch, the wet clothes to be hung out on the line and brought in frozen stiff, the hundred harrying chores to be done. Yet all the time, day and night, the man-nurse, with the fine gentleness of a woman and his strong arms and coaxing voice, -contested inch by inch the advance of disease and death, ceaselessly vigilant, automatically precise, concentrated, self-forgetful, comprehensive, thinking of everything, and doing all with a smile and a hoinorous word.

His long, idle life, lived in the open air, without excess of any kind —for he drank nothing, smoked little, and had never been a big eater—had given him a store of energy on which he now drew, steadily diminishing the supply. The Young Doctor watched him almost as closely as he watched the two sick people whom he was drawing slowly-away from the brink and setting them on high, safe places. There was talk, of course, at Askatoon at -first —ugly, unstinted talk; for there were days and days when Shannon was away with his sleigh or his wagon, and Nolan Doyle and Norah Brennan were alone in the house, save for the two bed-ridden people—and Another; and the talk became a scandal, which at least materialised in the definite proposal of tar-and-feathers for Nolan Doyle. It was then that the Young Doctor, who had a gift for acting at the right time —not by auy means a rare thing in his race —went out upon the warpath. First ho went to the Rev. Ebenezer Groom, the Methodist minister in wliose "parlor" much sanctimonious scandal had been brewed, and insisted that he should come out to "the house of shame" and learn the truth. They came to the door of the shaded sick room at a moment when" Nolan Doyle was holding the paralysed woman in his arms like a child —and a very heavy child at that—and Norah was freshening the" 5 pillows. The pious skypilot saw the woman put gently back on her bed, whispering blessings on the head of "Nolan, dear,'' heard the whimsical replies of the man-nurse, saw the face —how thin and worn it had become! —met the dark eyes with the soft slumbering fires, saw the girl on the other side of the bed with that look of single purpose which sick-bed watching, more than anything else, gives to the faces of those who fight death and decay for others, and into his lean soul thero entered a new understanding of human nature, the first glimpse of a real- revelation of humanity.

"My deal" friends, I would offer Tip a prayer at the throne of grace," he said unctuously to them all at last. "Verily, pain is the bowl into which God's mercy flows." The old paralytic woman turned incU<irant eyes upon him, for she was a Catholic, though her husband was a Protestant of the Church of Ireland, and her" daughter and Nolan Doyle were Catholics also. It was the old man who settled the question, however. He raised himself on his elbow, and a flush spread over his face, where undeveloped intellect did not wholly submerge the contour of the peasant — distinction and the commonplace in conflict—and he said in a low, reproving voice;

"The bowl will be no fuller for one prayer more. Shure, in this house we catch the drip of mercy at matins and evensong, and betune whiles —betune whiles. Tis not a Pagan place, and the only haythens here are those who come from beyond and away. Lave us be—lave us be wid the praying, but

thank ye kindly for steppin' in with the Doctor. Ah, a man —the best that ever grew by inniskillen \ Slrure, if it wasn't for him and Nolan —and Nolan the boy, the silver cord would be loosened and the golden bowl be broken —not the bowl of pain, as you say, but the bowl of life. AVeil, goodday to you, for 'tis time for us to_ be shiapin'—'tis time, isn't it, Mary, darlin''{" be called across to his wife. " 'Tis long past the time," she answered peevishly. Then with a faint flash of her eyes she drew a rosary from beneath her pillow with her one strong hand, and repeated a prayer over and over: "Salve, Regina Mater. . Mater clementissima. . . . Ora pro nobis . . - ." with a'look out of the corner of her eye at the preacher. "You see we're papists here—most of us," said Norah as they all left the room, "and so we'll not be forgetting to remember where's help to be had whin needed."

In the other room Nolan Doyle said to the bewildered preacher: "I've had letters —from some of your flock, I'm thinkin'. Here's wan of them—read it. It come this mornin'."

The preacher read a letter of a dozen lines which brought the blood of shame to his fat face. He was not wholly a hypocrite; he had a good heart and an ill-used conscience. He had had forced into his Cornish mind, prone as it was to believe evil, that this house was saintly with self-sacrifice, and free from all impurity. He had been in hundreds of sick-rooms, and this he knew was shadowed by no umbrageous growth of sin or shame. He handed the letter back.

"A cowardly attack —a cruel slander," lie said. "I will try to put things right. I should like to shake hands with yon, Mr Doyle." "It was an inspiration fetching him here," the Young Doctor said to himself as Norah brought from a cupboard a jar of preserves and a cake, and poured a cup of coffee for the preacher. This softened the shock of the reproof the man had had from Larry Brennan, and lie ate and drank with an appreciation which only those know who find that stimulant in food which others find in spirits. His heart grew warmer and warmer, and, by accident, his visit left behind it a seed of pleasure which .flourished exceedingly in Norah Brennan's broken heart. As he was leaving, he said with oracular sympathy and pompous kindness to Norah: "Ah, to bo young—young at the start of life, like you, and so to have opportunities for devotion and sacrifice and the Master's service! To be young," lassie, to be young like you! The coffee excellent-^-excellent, and the cake. Well, good-bye. God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb —to the lamb. Farewell and farewell —excellent coffee, excellent ! Soon it will bo spring again. Be patient and hopeful, lassie. 'He maketh mc to lie down in green pastures, He feedeth me beside the still waters.' The wind is tempered to the lamb, lassie." After his fashion he kept his word. The Sunday following, having judiciously set the rumor flying that he would preach a special sermon, on a special subject of importance, he found a congregation that filled the church to the doors; and when he stood up to preach, it was so still that only the roaring of the fire in the huge stove could be heard —typical of the flame of the spirit, as he very obviously said, when he gave out his text, which was: "Judge not, that ye be not judged." He did not delicately veil his allusions, and, at the last, after ruthlessly condemning judgment by appearances, and asking if none of them had hidden sins and unrepented misdeeds, without mentioning a name, he drew a picture of an apparently worthless, useless being winning his way back to self-respect and manhood by service to the afflictedj such as few could sustain and probably no man had ever to the same degree, and in like delicate circumstances, done before. He repudiated the slanders brewed in his own parlor, though he did not say they were brewed there, and he them all to put forth the handsNpf succor and charity, and help to lift the burden carried heroically .by two people whose lives were being eaten away by selfdevotion—"shredded of vigor and youth aud strength," he said. The sermon was very fully reported in the local papers, and the story he had told was of such an unusual nature that the sensational parts of it were copied in paper after paper till they appeared in cities on the Mississippi and ports in the Bay of Fundy. And the people of Askatoon, if not all wholly convinced, strove to make amends for slander and suspicion; though they not inaptly said that people should not fly into the teeth of decent custom, and should not give cause for suspicion by strange conduct, which the world said was beyond the bounds of convention. Their kindness came too late, however. They had practically boycotted the house of Brennan, they had ostracised Nolan and Norah, and —worse still — had let the effects of their ostracism and boycott fall on two helpless, bedridden people fighting with death. They had so frightened the few timid, if true, souls, and the charitable-hearted, and those women who might have helped in the sick-room or in the household work, that the people of the house of Brennan were on an island in the sea of Christendom, into whose harbors, to whose shores, no ship came, no boat brought freight' of human sympathy, no corn and wine and oil of friendship —save that shallop of the Young Doctor which touched the sands now and then, and was gone all too soon, for he, too, was overworked, and medicines could do little in the houso of Brennan. Nursing and nursing only with ceaseless care, could bring back to the height of land, where people lived in safety, these two falterers on the brink. Sometimes he asked himself, did the Young Doctor, if it was well that the lives should be saved at such awful toll of the health and vigor of youth, for the vital forces of Nolan Doyle and Norah Brennan were being worn away, ind what would come if either broke dawn, he shuddered to think. Yet it had made a man of Nolan Doyle—or had he always been really the same man, waiting his opportunity, reserved for this strange experience, this terrible test of patience, strength, human love, and sympathy ? The hospital? It was in a town far away, and the house of Brennan had opposed it from the first. That might come; it would hav* to come if Norah or Nolan fell in the struggle. But what was the end to be, and was it worth all the sacrifice? People from Askatoon came to offer help, but Nolan and Norah and the old people would have none of it. The sick seldom realise, the drag and drain made upon them who nurge and serve 'them, and Mrs. Brennan would hear of no one touching her save Norah or Nolan; and Norah flamed out at any stranger from Askatoon, which had so cruelly treated them, entering the sickroom. A little help—very little —was accepted for the kitchen and the garden, but the burden and the watching and the wearing care of the sick-roou. remained their own portion. Another spring came, and then the early summer—the first of June; and then the end came like, a sudden gust of wind in a still valley, which whirls the dead leaves and lifts old branches from the ground, and while yet the valley is all tremulous and disturbed, the gust becomes a gale, and the floods break loose, and villages are swept away. The end fell suddenly—hut not like that. .There came to the door of the house of Brennan one bright morning a man bearded and big and buoyant. He had in his hands a caiivas bag, such as postmen or fishermen use, and in his eyes was a light oi; humor and eageiv 1 ness and anxiety- all in one. He knocked at the lintel of the open door and'entered. As he did so a figure came slowly frflm the other room, bent and feeble and gray-haired.At sight

of the bearded stranger tho old man stood still for an instant, bewildered and troubled, and then with a moan of joy ho stumbled forward. "Terry—Terry—Terry, me own boy!" he cried, and was caught in the strong arms. The old man convulsively clutched the man's hands and kissed his cheek. "Shure, God wouldn't let me die till I'd seen you once again. 'Now let Thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy Word,' " lie added. Then, after an instant, he said: "Let me break it to her —to your mother; Terry. Oh, God be praised! 'Tis just in time you've come, for you'll set things right —Terry, Terry." But the quick cars of love had heard: the ears that had listened so long had grown acute beyond all usual measure. They heard the voice of the old woman calling from the bedroom. "Terry, my sou —oh, my son, my own son!" A moment later her arms were round him, drawing him close- —her arms were round him, for this much had Norah and Nolan done. They had brought her back from the moveless life, to the use of all her body again, albeit feeble and uncertain; and her face shone as she held her boy's hand in hers, and she told him of the months that had gone, and of Nolan and all he liad done, of Norah and all she had suffered. And the strong man shook with sobs as he heard the tale, and looked at these two beloved beings brought back from the brink to the height of land where the feet are firmly placed. "There was a piece in a newspaper— I got it down in New Orleans," he said at last. "Lifted out of a sermon, preached at Askatoon it was, and I came as quick as I could. I ought to have come before, but —" He paused, for some one .was entering the room —the ghost of a man, as frail and worn as one that has come back from the desert, its famine and its thirst. The hair was no grayer, but the face was sunken and the eyes were like caverns in which great lights glowed. He moved with an effort at briskness —a pitiful attempt to imitate the days that were gone. "Oh, 'tis you—'tis you—and in good time!" he said feebly, *and in a voice husky with weakness. "You can take my place, Terry, for I'm not feelin' so well as I might; but 'twill be all right in a day or two if you'll take the shift. Turn and turn'll do it."

The strong man put an arm round him, drew him into the other room, and seated him peremptorily, yet gently, in the great armchair.

"Yes, 'twill be all right now, Nolan," he said with a voice blurred.

"She'll need good care yet," Nolan said; "they'll both need watchin', but the worst is over, and they're steppin' out into the sun —out into the sun."

" "fis fifteen years since you stepped in out of the rain," said Terry. "I met Norah and the Doctor on the road here, and they told me all I wanted to hear. I wouldn't let 'em come back with me." "But I've earned me bed and Bread this past year and more. Shure, I can say that, Terry. 'Tis all I can say, I owe thini the rest." "Owe tkem —God's love, owe them! I tell you what, man, I owe you two lives as dear to mo as my own, and I mean to pay you for them, one way or another."

"How d'ye mean to be doin' that?" "Well, first, I'll be settin' you up in any business that you like —when you're filled out again, and look like a man and not a disembodied spirit." "Settin' me up in business? How'd ye be doin' that?" He looked at Terry's bag on the floor. Terry's clothes were not especially fine. He did not look flush. "With a few thousand dollars, Nolan. Listen now. I came here —I'd a fancy to do it —pretendin' to be as poor as when I left. But it's little they think of that—" and he jerked a thumb towards the other room. "It was me, only me, they wanted. Well, there's me luggage"—he kicked the hag on the floor—"but here's my wallet," and he drew forth a great pocket-book, opened it, and took out a handful of thousand - dollar bills. "Nolan, my boy, I'm a millionaire—twice a million airer—and in fifteen years. Mines — railways—mines again, and then a newspaper—and that's a mine too! There you are, Nolan." He chuckled and slapped Nolan's knee. Nolan did not show surprise. He did not seem greatly moved by the sight of the money. There were other tilings in life. "Shure, what else but a millionaire would you be wid your head, Terry? There was niver a head like yours; and I said that when I stepped in here fifteen years ago. You'll be doin' a lot for them, I suppose," he nodded towards the other room, "and for Shannon and for Norah?"

"They'll have everything and anything they want." "Norah's a fine woman —oh, the finest and finest! To think that I've come into sich a family! Put ye're hand behind ye're ear, Terry, and hear the news I've for ye. Norah's to be marryin' of me when we can lay hands on a priest—if ye think I'm not too old for her," he added innocently. "Too old? Norah? Why she is—" Terry stopped short and changed the sentence. "Norah is the pick of the bunch; and the two of you are the best of the basket."

"Well, if I'm not too old for her —" Terry smothered a laugh. "What kind of business shall I start you in, Nolan?"

"Shure, I think a stage 'twixt Askatoon and Cowrie would do. Four horses to the stage, and ten altogether—that'd mean a change and two for accidents as well. An' the stage painted red, and a horn—there'll not he a railway that way for ten years. Then there'd be breedin' of a few horses—l larnt about horses hi Ireland and I cared for them in Injy—bedad, I did care for them there. Shure, that's a life to keep the blood stirrin'—a fine stage painted red, and a horn, and four horses forninst it, rattlin' the whippletrees! Would that be too much, d'ye think, Terry? Could you stand it now.

"Well, of all the blasted—" But Terry turned away to choke back his tears!

A week later Nolan sat in the sun on the maple stump in' front of the house, singing; to himself: "Did ye see her with her hand in mine

the day that Clancy married? Ah, darlin', how we footed it —the grass it was so green! And when the" "neighbors wandered home, I was the guest that tarried. . ."

'What's that you're singin', Nolan?" said Norah's voice behind him.

Nolan started, as. from a dream; then, with the resource of a resourceful race, he said with an air of delicate confidence and a candor quite inimitable:

"Oh, just a little anthim of the happiness that's comin' to us, Norah, dear." But he winked slyly to himself.

She laid a warm, kind hand on his head and looked down at him with a rich, low laugh, bubbling from her

u.'.v n fine tooth ye have in your h;;-t'.. Nor ah, girl," ho said, glancing \:r. ; '.. he: - , the rogue in his eye. '"•.r face flushed with pleasure. ''That's what the Young Doctor said," she answered; and what the Young Doctor said had carried her on through many a dark day and night, not forgetting the help of Nolan Doyle. "Oh, the Young Shure, he's the best breed of Inniskillen. We'll ride a steeplechase yet together, him and me, same as we did beyand—under Calladen Hill." And they did. They drive the finest horses .in the Far West, importing the brood-mares* from under Calladen Hill near by to Jnniskillen.