ccomplished, he made for the town
head when he left the entry.

The small crowd grew into a big one and he was the center of a throng
as he made his way north. When he reached the town well, Maggie
McKinstry had several small children in waiting and Hughie was asked to
give them a blessing. It was a new atmosphere to him, but he bungled
through it. The more unintelligible his jabbering, the more assured were
the recipients of his power to bless. One of the boys who stoned him was
brought by his father to ask forgiveness.

"God save ye kindly," Hughie said to him. "Th' woonds ye made haave been
turned into blessin's galore!" He came in despised. He went out a saint.

It proved to be Hughie's last visit to Antrim. His going out of life was
a mystery, and as the years went by tradition accorded him an exit not
unlike that of Moses. I was amongst those the current of whose lives
were supposed to have been changed by the touch of his hand on that last
visit. Anna alone knew the secret of his alleged sainthood. She was the
author and publisher of it. That night when she left us with Hughie she
gathered together in 'Liza Conlon's a few "hand-picked" people whose
minds were as an open book to her. She told them that the beggar-man was
of an ancient line, wandering the earth in search of the Holy Grail, but
that as he wandered he was recording in a secret book the deeds of the
poor. She knew exactly how the news would travel and where. One
superstition stoned him and another canonized him.

"Dear," she said to me, many, many years afterwards. "A good thought
will thravel as fast an' as far as a bad wan if it gets th' right
start!"

CHAPTER VII

IN THE GLOW OF A PEAT FIRE

"It's a quare world," Jamie said one night as we sat in the glow of a
peat fire.

"Aye, 'deed yer right, Jamie," Anna replied as she gazed into the
smokeless flames.

He took his short black pipe out of his mouth, spat into the burning
sods and added: "I wondther if it's as quare t' everybody, Anna?"

"Ochane," she replied, "it's quare t' poor craithers who haave naither
mate, money nor marbles, nor chalk t' make th' ring."

There had been but one job that day--a pair of McGuckin's boots. They
had been half-soled and heeled and my sister had taken them home, with
orders what to bring home for supper.

The last handful of peat had been put on the fire. The cobbler's bench
had been put aside for the night and we gathered closely around the