v I told ye that, may
the saints forgive me----"

"Is it true?"

"Ah, what was I afther sayin', Misther----"

"Never mind what you said or left unsaid! I want to ask you another
question. Who was Eileen Fane?"

Soane bounded to his feet, his blue eyes ablaze:

"Holy Mother o' God! What have I said!"

"Was Eileen Fane your wife?"

"Did I say her blessed name!" shouted Soane. "Sorra the sup I tuk that
loosed the tongue o' me this cursed day! 'Twas the dommed whishkey
inside o' me that told ye that--not me--not Larry Soane! Wurra the day
I said it! An' listen, now, f'r the love o' God! Take pride to
yourself, sorr, for all the goodness ye done to Dulcie.

"An' av I go, and I come no more to vex her, I thank God 'tis in a
gintleman's hands the child do be----" He choked; his marred hands
dropped by his side, and he stared dumbly at Barres for a moment.
Then:

"Av I come no more, will ye guard her?"

"Yes."

"Will ye do fair by her, Misther Barres?"

"Yes."

"Call God to hear ye say ut!"

"So--help me--God."

Soane dropped on to the bed and took his battered face and curly head
between his hands.

"I'll say no more," he said thickly. "Nor you nor she shall know no
more. An' av ye have guessed it out, kape it locked in. I'll say no
more.... I was good to her--in me own way. But ye cud see--anny wan
with half a cock-eye cud see.... I was--honest--with her mother....
She made the bargain.... I tuk me pay an' held me tongue.... 'Tis
whishkey talks, not me.... I tuk me pay an' I kept to the bargain....
Wan year.... Then--she was dead of it--like a flower, sorr--like the
rose ye pull an' lave lyin' in the sun.... Like that, sorr--in a
year.... An' I done me best be Dulcie.... I done me best. An' held to
the bargain.... An' done me best be Dulcie--little Dulcie--the wee
baby that had come at last--_her_ baby--Dulcie Fane!..."

XIX

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

A single shaded lamp illuminated the studio, making the shapes of
things vague where outline and colour were lost in the golden dusk.
Dulcie, alone at the piano, accompanied her own voice with soft,
scarcely heard harmonies, as she hummed, one after another, old
melodies she had learned from the Sisters so long ago--"The Harp,"
"Shandon Bells," "The Exile," "Shannon Water"--songs of that sort and
period:

"_The Bells of Shandon,
Then sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the River Lee._"

Thessalie sat by the open window and Westmo