over by. But what are they, only a pair of childer."

"Childer or no," said Annie, catching up her pot of potatoes with an angry jerk, "there's them would like to put notions in Johnny's head. And that would be a fine thing to see him to marry with a girl that was out herding for a common man, and her a child."

Robert rose and stretched himself wearily, as he prepared to go out.

"There's no call for you to vex yourself now, any way," he said. "Maybe it might be better if there was. But I've no call to stand talking, with my work to do, and his to the back of it. It's a black day, God knows."

For a matter of three miles Johnny Corscadden tramped stoutly up the main road which was leading him to the distant railway station. But when he reached a divergent path or cart track, roughly metalled, that pointed away to the heathy hills on his right, he paused, hesitated a moment, then struck up it.

For half an hour he walked hurriedly, looking self-conscious as he passed one cottage after another on the wayside, and here and there folk recognised and greeted him. At last he sighted a cabin, enclosed in bushes, and standing a little back from the road. Over the door in wavering letters was the legend stating that James M'Cormick was licensed to sell groceries. In the window was the usual jar of cheap sweets, making a patch of colour among the drab miscellany of objects offered for sale. Johnny looked at the door from a distance it seemed to repel rather than attract him. Then suddenly his eye caught something. Scrambling across the bank which enclosed a field of

II.

poor pasture, he walked up the hill to where he had espied, on another fence, a dark-haired girl sitting bareheaded, with her eyes mechanically following the motions of two or three meagre cows as they explored round the outskirts of the tillage, constantly threatening raids on a field of young oats.

"How's Johnny?" she said, raising her voice in the habitual greeting. Then, as she noted his clothes and bundle, "Where are you for this day?"

Her eyes had a touch of anxiety in them which did not fit the careless tone.

"For Scotland," Johnny answered, with some embarrassment.

"I wish you good luck," she said. "Dear, oh, but that's sudden. There wasn't the talk about it this time there was before."

"I'll wager, now, Mary, you're put out with me for not telling you," said the boy, with an awkward laugh.

"'Deed, then, why would I be put out?" cried Mary, with a toss of her head. "What call have I to know if you go

"Deed, then, I'm no such thing, nor never will, till I'm asked right-and that will be the long day, I'm thinking. Oh, the long day it will be, before Robert Corscadden comes to our house looking a wife for his son.'

"Ah, what matter," said the boy. "We're young yet, any way. But sure, Mary, you kissed me many's the time." "Maybe I did, when you and me was wee childer. But if we're young enough, we're not that young now.'

"You kissed me the last time I was going to Scotland, any way," he said resentfully; “an' I didn't think you would ask to part this way, and me going across the sea.

"It wasn't this way the last time," she retorted. "And what's taking you at all? Sure, no beasts died on Robert this year."

"You won't give me leave to tell you," he said sullenly, "and me striving to, since ever

I saw you. Indeed, it's the sore day with me."

"Ah, for goodness sake, Johnny, what is it," the girl cried, her dark eyes suddenly softening. "Tell us, quick

now."

Johnny told her then-as such stories are told-how his father had driven him out of

VOL. CLXXVIII.-NO. MLXXX.

his sight, how he was not going to put up with the like of that, how his mother was for not giving him the money, but how at last she gave in to give it. But as he told his story, Johnny felt less and less comfortable, and he paused with a lame ending. Then at last the girl spoke.

"And you went off that way and left him! Johnny, I never thought you would do the like of that."

Johnny's face reddened, and his blue eyes swelled.

"I may be going from here the same way, he said, "for all the fair play you give me. What use would there be in waiting to see him, and me. with my mind made up? Was it looking a quarrel you would want to see me? You know yourself he wouldn't give me leave to go-nor think I had a right to go. Here's the whole of it, Mary-I'm a man grown, and he makes a child of me."

As he spoke, the girl began to realise that this was an issue more complicated than her first swift condemnation made it.

"Don't be angry, now, Johnny," she said. "Maybe I was too quick. But no matter what you say, it was a hard thing to leave your own father, and not a word to bid him good-bye. There's not a better man in Ireland than Robert, and I would like badly to see him vexed. Many's the good turn he done me, and me a wee herd down by yonder, that another man wouldn't give a thought to."

"Ay," said the boy reflect

2 N

ively, "you and him was still the one kind. He would be bringing you wee books and ballants, and histories of Ireland,—an’ he would be leathering me for scheming school." "Indeed, an' many's the time I wondered at you, Johnny, that you would scheme, and me envying you the whole time that could get learning. I doubt, Johnny, wee Robert and Katie will be to quit school now. An' that won't please Robert.-Ach, Johnny, sure the harm's not done yet. If you rue now, there's no one but themselves will know you rued-no one else in the world but me."

"'Deed is there," he answered. "Every one that saw me on the road, and the bundle with me. An' if there wasn't itself, Mary, I wouldn't rue. Why would I? Many's the

time an' the hundred times I heard Robert saying, and you heard him, that this country was no good. Why would I stay in it, then?"

66

'Sure, you're not the one that should go, any way, Johnny," the girl answered eagerly. "'Tis to you the farm will come. If them that has something to look to goes, who'll there be left in the country? For the younger ones now, when they're growed, I wouldn't think that bad of them going. But, sure, you'll have all."

"All!" he repeated contemptuously. "All the slavery on my own showlders. And maybe in twenty years or in thirty I'll be able to call a pound my own. What use is

I'm telling you

that to me? now, Mary, there's nothing but the bite of meat that isn't grudged me. Robert gave me all sorts this day when he seen me smoking — wasting good money on that dirty stuff, says he."

Mary's eyes were sad now, and pleading, as she had a vision of the numberless small things that built the barrier between father and son.

"Ach! never heed the like of that," she said. "Robert's bark is worse nor his bite. He's a good man all out, and he thinks the world of you, Johnny."

"Does he, troth?" said the boy. "That's news, then. I might get fair play from my mother, but I'll get none from him. He's a good man, Mary, and I'm not saying against, but there's many a man not so good that it would fit me better to live with. An' I'm not that bad either," he said. eagerly. "I'll send them money the same as I did before,-all I can save, only whatever I put by to buy some wee thing for yourself, Mary."

The girl broke down now and sobbed.

me.

"Johnny dear, sure, I know you're not bad. There's not many as good. Too good you always were to But, Johnny dear, don't be buying me things. If the like of that came round to your mother, what would she think?"

"Let her think," said Johnny stoutly, with his arm round the crying girl.

"No, but Johnny, it's bad enough; she hates the picture

of me; don't be making it worse. And don't be writing to me or asking me to write; sure, all's known at the post office, and it would put a talk out on me. And go now, Johnny dear, for I wouldn't

for the world you would be seen with me this day of all days. Ach, what a fool I Go now,

am to be crying. and God go with you! No, 'deed, I won't forget you, Johnny."

That year, as it chanced, came in fine, and Robert Corscadden got his harvest in without loss a girl of fifteen, and a little boy of twelve, not much taller than the sheaves he lifted, were the labourers who helped him. But however hard they laboured, there were still haycocks standing out in the fields when the corn was ripe for cutting. It vexed the soul of Robert to see the work thus through other, and not done in orderly sequence as he liked to have it. But still the work

was done. Money came, too, from the boy in Scotland, and letters to his mother. Robert did not complain, felt no right to complain; but he brooded.

So it went on for a year, and a second year. There was no word of Johnny's returning. Robert's strength, spent daily in doing the work of two hired labourers, failed noticeably; the little boy, tasked beyond his years, was stunted in growth. Then a letter came to Robert with a proposal.

A son of the big house, near by Robert's farm, was going out to ranche in Texas. He wanted to take a trustworthy hand with him. Would Robert allow Johnny to go?

Robert read the letter when

he came home for his noon-day dinner; and he handed it to Annie without a word. She also read it; her face was full of doubt, touched with fear restraining a desire.

"Johnny will be mad for going, Robert," she said. "Robert, will you let him go?" There was. a halfchecked eagerness in her tone.

"Let him!" he repeated. "How would I stop him? and, God's truth, Annie, he would be mad not to go."

"Ah, but, Robert," she cried nervously, "sure you know the sort of Johnny. If you were against it he might think bad of staying, but not a one of him would go. An', Robert, I never thought he would come back nor you neither, for all we never let on to one another. Still an' all, I know rightly

"Ah, whisht, woman," said Robert, almost roughly. "Do you think I would stand in my own son's road?"

"An' you'll write to him?" the woman cried.

"To be sure I will." "An' what will you write?" "I'll tell him if he's for going we'll scrape together all we can and fit him out the best way lies in us. It's little

enough to do for him, after all he's done for us.'

"Ah, Robert," she cried, laying her hand on his arm, "you were always too good." Then she hesitated a minute. "Is it for sending him money you would be?"

"What else would I do?" he asked, again with a roughness. "Surely, now, you might ask him to come home, Robert. You wouldn't want him to go away across the sea and not say 'Goodbye' to us.'

Annie put her hand on his arm again. "Ah now, Robert, don't you know he takes after He's proud you? the way you are yourself. Not a foot he'd come if he's not asked." "Write you and ask him then," Robert said.

"He wouldn't come for my asking. Sure, Robert, I know 'twas he was in the wrong. But he's young, and 'tis easier for them that have sense to give in nor for the young. Write to him, Robert-do, now —and bid him come and see us before he goes, if he's for going." That was how Johnny came home.

He had grown in the two years' absence, physically and mentally-an able-bodied, wellset-up, straightforward-looking young fellow. But something of boyish awkwardness was to be seen as he approached the house where his arrival was heralded by the children. His

mother ran out to meet him.

"An' is that yourself,

Johnny?" she cried, hugging him. Then, holding him at arm's length, "Dear oh, I would hardly know you, you're grown that grand and stout. Run over, Charlie" (she turned to a child), "and tell your father that Johnny's come. He's over in the barn thrashing, Johnny

always the old way, for ever working. Here's old John " (as the old grandfather came hobbling to the door of the cottage adjoining). "John, here's Johnny back to us. And so the welcome ran on volubly, till in a minute Robert appeared, wiping his forehead. He came up to his son with a face full of kind welcome. "Well, Johnny, and how's every inch of you? A good Man, shake of the hand now. but I'm glad to see you. Come in now to the house. If this isn't the grand chance you're getting! I tell you now, we may all be thankful to Master Harry.'

At last the son found words. "Indeed, then, Robert, I know well, only the respect the family had for yourself, I would never get the offer.

66

Ah, nonsense, man," said his father. "He knows the sort of you well. And, not to be saying it before you, he might go far before he would get better. Sit down now and take a cup of tay-we're still the one way, always the tay."

And so with kindly greetings all stiffness wore off, and Johnny began to talk freely, and to expand over the prospects that were before himhow he might easily buy a beast or two, and they could run