newspapers, and saw few people, and that
those whom she saw had been careful to hold their peace about her close
relationship to Erris Boyne. None but the evil-minded would recall the
fact to her.

Sheila's ignorance must not be broken by himself. He had done the right
thing--he had held his peace for the girl's sake, and he would hold it
to the end. Slowly he folded up the letter, pressed it to his lips, and
put it in the pocket over his heart.

CHAPTER X. DYCK CALHOUN ENTERS THE WORLD AGAIN

"Is it near the time?" asked Michael Clones of his friend, as they stood
in front of the prison.

His companion, who was seated on a stone, wrapped in dark-green
coverings faded and worn, and looking pinched with cold in the dour
November day, said, without lifting his head:

"Seven minutes, an' he'll be out, God bless him!"

"And save him and protect him!" said Michael. "He deserved punishment
no more than I did, and it's broke him. I've seen the grey gather at his
temples, though he's only been in prison four years. He was condemned
to eight, but they've let him free, I don't know why. Perhaps it was
because of what he told the government about the French navy. I've seen
the joy of life sob itself down to the sour earth. When I took him the
news of his father's death, and told him the creditors were swallowing
what was left of Playmore, what do you think he did?"

Old Christopher Dogan smiled; his eyes twinkled with a mirth which had
more pain than gaiety. "God love you, I know what he did. He flung out
his hands, and said: 'Let it go! It's nothing to me.' Michael, have I
said true?"

Michael nodded.

"Almost his very words you've used, and he flung out his hands, as you
said.

"Aye, he'll be changed; but they've kept the clothes he had when he went
to prison, and he'll come out in them, I'm thinking--"

"Ah, no!" interrupted Michael. "That can't be, for his clothes was
stole. Only a week ago he sent to me for a suit of my own. I wouldn't
have him wear my clothes--he a gentleman! It wasn't fitting. So I sent
him a suit I bought from a shop, but he wouldn't have it. He would leave
prison a poor man, as a peasant in peasant's clothes. So he wrote to
me. Here is the letter." He drew from his pocket a sheet of paper, and
spread it out. "See-read it. Ah, well, never mind," he added, as old
Christopher shook his head. "Never mind, I'll read it to you!" Thereupon
he read the note, and added: "We'll see him of the C