he other.

"Jamie!" shouted Withero in a voice that could be heard by the crowd
that followed us, "d'ye mind th' first time I seen ye wi' Anna?"

"Aye, 'deed I do!"

"Ye didn't know it was in 'er, did ye, Jamie?"

"Yer a liar, Willie; I know'd frum th' minute I clapped eyes on 'er that
she was th' finest wuman on God's futstool!"

"Ye can haave whativer benefit ov th' doubt there is, Jamie, but jist
th' same any oul throllop can be a father, but by G-- it takes a rale
wuman t' be th' mother ov a rale maan! Put that in yer pipe an' smoke
it."

"He seems t' think," said Jamie, appealing to me, "that only quality can
projuce fine childther!"

"Yer spakin' ov clothes, Jamie; I'm spakin' ov mind, an' ye wor behind
th' doore whin th' wor givin' it out, but begorra, Anna was at th' head
ov th' class, an' that's no feerie story, naither, is it, me bhoy?"

At the head of Pogue's entry, Bob Dougherty, Tommy Wilson, Sam
Manderson, Lucinda Gordon and a dozen others stopped for a "partin'
crack."

The kettle was boiling on the chain. The hearth had been swept and a new
coat of whitening applied. There was a candle burning in her sconce and
the thin yellow rays lit up the glory on her face--a glory that was
encased in a newly tallied white cap. My sister sat on one side of the
fireplace and she on the other--in her corner. I did not wonder, I did
not ask why they did not make a supreme effort to attend the lecture--I
knew. They were more supremely interested than I was. They had never
heard a member of the family or a relative speak in public, and their
last chance had passed by. There they were, in the light of a peat fire
and the tallow dip, supremely happy.

The neighbors came in for a word with Anna. They filled the space. The
stools and creepies were all occupied.

"Sit down, Willie," my father said. "Take a nice cushioned chair an' be
at home." Withero was leaning against the table. He saw and was equal to
the joke.

"Whin nature put a pilla on maan, it was intinded fur t' sit on th'
groun', Jamie!" And down he sat on the mud floor.

"It's th' proud wuman ye shud be th' night," Marget Hurll said, "an
Misther Armstrong it was that said it was proud th' town shud be t' turn
out a boy like him!"

Withero took his pipe out of his mouth and spat in the ashes--as a
preface to a few remarks.

"Aye," he grunted, "I cocked m' ears up an' dunched oul Jamie whin
Armshtrong said that. Jamie cudn't hear it, so I whispere