it's the drinking I'm opposed to," said the
priest, turning to Bryden.

"Well, no one has drunk too much, sir," said Bryden.

"But you'll sit here drinking all night," and the priest's eyes went
towards the corner where the women had gathered, and Bryden felt that
the priest looked on the women as more dangerous than the porter.

"It's after midnight," he said, taking out his watch. By Bryden's watch
it was only half-past eleven, and while they were arguing about the
time Mrs. Scully offered Bryden's umbrella to the priest, for in his
hurry to stop the dancing the priest had gone out without his; and, as
if to show Bryden that he bore him no ill-will, the priest accepted the
loan of the umbrella, for he was thinking of the big marriage fee that
Bryden would pay him.

"I shall be badly off for the umbrella to-morrow," Bryden said, as soon
as the priest was out of the house. He was going with his father-in-law
to a fair. His father-in-law was learning him how to buy and sell
cattle. And his father-in-law was saying that the country was mending,
and that a man might become rich in Ireland if he only had a little
capital. Bryden had the capital, and Margaret had an uncle on the other
side of the lake who would leave her all he had, that would be fifty
pounds, and never in the village of Duncannon had a young couple begun
life with so much prospect of success as would James Bryden and
Margaret Dirken.

Some time after Christmas was spoken of as the best time for the
marriage; James Bryden said that he would not be able to get his money
out of America before the spring. The delay seemed to vex him, and he
seemed anxious to be married, until one day he received a letter from
America, from a man who had served in the bar with him. This friend
wrote to ask Bryden if he were coming back. The letter was no more than
a passing wish to see Bryden again. Yet Bryden stood looking at it, and
everyone wondered what could be in the letter. It seemed momentous, and
they hardly believed him when he said it was from a friend who wanted
to know if his health were better. He tried to forget the letter, and
he looked at the worn fields, divided by walls of loose stones, and a
great longing came upon him.

The smell of the Bowery slum had come across the Atlantic, and had
found him out in this western headland; and one night he awoke from a
dream in which he was hurling some drunken customer through the open
doors into the darkness. He