ther in his uneasy sleep.

The group of men stood by--some of them had been drinking, but they
were all awed and shocked. You would have believed every one of them
to be on the side of law and order. Mike Bogan knew that the worst had
happened. Biddy had rushed to him and fallen across the bed; for one
minute her aggravating shrieks had stopped; he began to dress himself,
but he was shaking too much; he stepped out to the kitchen and faced
the frightened crowd.

"Is my son dead, then?" asked Mike Bogan of Bantry, with a piteous
quiver of the lip, and nobody spoke. There was something glistening
and awful about his pleasant Irish face. He tottered where he stood,
he caught at a chair to steady himself. "The luck o' the Bogans is
it?" and he smiled strangely, then a fierce hardness came across his
face and changed it utterly. "Come down, come down!" he shouted, and
snatching the key of the shop went down the stairs himself with great
sure-footed leaps. What was in Mike? was he crazy with grief? They
stood out of his way and saw him fling out bottle after bottle and
shatter them against the wall. They saw him roll one cask after
another to the doorway, and out into the street in the gray light of
morning, and break through the staves with a heavy axe. Nobody dared
to restrain his fury--there was a devil in him, they were afraid of
the man in his blinded rage The odor of whiskey and gin filled the
cold air--some of them would have stolen the wasted liquor if they
could, but no man there dared to move or speak, and it was not until
the tall figure of Father Miles came along the street, and the patient
eyes that seemed always to keep vigil, and the calm voice with its
flavor of Bantry brogue, came to Mike Bogan's help, that he let
himself be taken out of the wrecked shop and away from the spilt
liquors to the shelter of his home.

A week later he was only a shadow of his sturdy self, he was lying on
his bed dreaming of Bantry Bay and the road to Glengariff--the hedge
roses were in bloom, and he was trudging along the road to see Biddy.
He was working on the old farm at home and could not put the seed
potatoes in their trench, for little Dan kept falling in and getting
in his way. "Dan's not going to be plagued with the bad craps," he
muttered to Father Miles who sat beside the bed. "Dan will be a fine
squire in Ameriky," but the priest only stroked his hand as it
twitched and lifted on the coverlet. What was Biddy doing, c