r of his class. The president of the great
carriage company had said that he was a very promising boy more than
once, and had put his hand on Mike's shoulder as he spoke. Mike and
Biddy, dressed in their best, went to the school examinations year
after year and heard their son do better than the rest, and saw him
noticed and admired. For Dan's sake no noisy men were allowed to stay
about the shop. Dan himself was forbidden to linger there, and so far
the boy had clear honest eyes, and an affectionate way with his father
that almost broke that honest heart with joy. They talked together
when they went to walk on Sundays, and there was a plan, increasingly
interesting to both, of going to old Bantry some summer--just for a
treat. Oh happy days! They must end as summer days do, in winter
weather.

There was an outside stair to the two upper stories where the Bogans
lived above their place of business, and late one evening, when the
shop shutters were being clasped together below, Biddy Bogan heard a
familiar heavy step and hastened to hold her brightest lamp in the
doorway.

"God save you," said his reverence Father Miles, who was coming up
slowly, and Biddy dropped a decent courtesy and devout blessing in
return. His reverence looked pale and tired, and seated himself
wearily in a chair by the window--while Biddy coasted round by a
bedroom door to "whist" at two wakeful daughters who were teasing each
other and chattering in bed.

"'T is long since we saw you here, sir," she said, respectfully. "'T
is warm weather indade for you to be about the town, and folks sick
an' dyin' and needing your help, sir. Mike'll be up now, your
reverence. I hear him below."

Biddy had grown into a stout mother of a family, red-faced and
bustling; there was little likeness left to the rose of Glengariff
with whom Mike had fallen in love at early mass in Bantry church. But
the change had been so gradual that Mike himself had never become
conscious of any damaging difference. She took a fresh loaf of bread
and cut some generous slices and put a piece of cheese and a knife on
the table within reach of Father Miles's hand. "I suppose 'tis waste
of time to give you more, so it is," she said to him. "Bread an'
cheese and no better will you ate I suppose, sir," and she folded her
arms across her breast and stood looking at him.

"How is the luck of the Bogans to-day?" asked the kind old man. "The
head of the school I make no doubt?" and at t