l-witted for business; but
customers far from markets watched eagerly for the merry blue-eyed boy who
brought fish, "still kicking," for their early breakfast,--clams, chaps,
and lobsters, whose freshness was beyond dispute. Neb's old leather wallet
began to fill up as it had never been filled before. And the dinners that
were served on the "Lady Jane," the broiled, the baked, the fried fish
dished up in rich plenty every day, shook Brother Bart's allegiance to
Irish stews, and, as he declared, "would make it aisy for a heretic to
keep the Friday fast forever."

Then, Dan had the garden to dig and weed, the cow to milk, the chickens to
feed,--altogether, the days were most busy and pleasant; and it was a
happy, if tired, boy that tumbled at night into his hammock swung beneath
the stars, while old Jeb and Neb smoked their pipes on the deck beside
him.

Three letters had come from Aunt Winnie,--a Government boat brought weekly
mail to the lighthouse on Numskull Nob. They were prim little letters,
carefully margined and written, and spelled as the good Sisters had taught
her in early youth. She took her pen in hand--so letters had always begun
in Aunt Winnie's schooldays--to write him a few lines. She was in good
health and hoped he was the same, though many were sick at the Home, and
Mrs. McGraw (whom Dan recalled as the dozing lady of his visit) had died
very sudden on Tuesday; but she had a priest at the last, and a Requiem
Mass in the chapel, with the altar in black, and everything most
beautiful. Poor Miss Flannery's cough was bad, and she wouldn't be long
here, either; but, as the good Mother says, we are blessed in having a
holy place where we can die in peace and quiet. And Aunt Winnie's own leg
was bad still, but she thanked God she could get around a bit and help the
others. And, though she might never see him again--for she would be turned
on seventy next Thursday,--she prayed for her dear boy nights, and dreamed
of him constant. And, begging God to bless him and keep him from harm, she
was his affectionate aunt, Winnie Curley.'

The other letters were very much in the same tone: some other old lady was
dying or failing fast; for, with all its twilight peace, Aunt Winnie was
in a valley of the shadow, where the light of youth and hope and cheer
that whistling, laughing Dan brought into Mulligans' attic could not
shine.

"I've got to get her home," resolved Dan, who was keen enough to read this
loss and long