Sheila. "I don't know ye," he
said whisperingly, for his voice seemed suddenly to fail. "I don't know
ye," he repeated, "but you look all right."

"Well, I'm Sheila Llyn," the girl said, taking her hand from the old
man's shoulder.

"I'm Sheila Llyn, and I'm all right in a way, perhaps."

The troubled, piercing eyes glanced from one to the other.

"No relation?"

"No--never met till a half-hour ago," remarked Dyck.

The old man drew himself to a sitting posture, then swayed slightly. The
hands of the girl and Dyck went out behind his back. As they touched his
back, their fingers met, and Dyck's covered the girl's. Their eyes met,
too, and the story told by Dyck in that moment was the beginning of a
lifetime of experience, comedy, and tragedy.

He thought her fingers were wonderfully soft, warm, and full of life;
and she thought that his was the hand of a master-of a master in the
field of human effort. That is, if she thought at all, for Dyck's warm,
powerful touch almost hypnotized her.

The old peasant understood, however. He was standing on his feet now.
He was pale and uncertain. He lifted up his bag, and threw it over his
shoulder.

"Well, I'm not needing you any more, thank God!" he said.

"So Heaven's blessing on ye, and I bid ye good-bye. You've been kind to
me, and I won't forget either of ye. If ever I can do ye a good turn,
I'll do it."

"No, we're not going to leave you until you're inside your home," said
Dyck.

The old man looked at Sheila in meditation. He knew her name and her
history. Behind the girl's life was a long prospect of mystery. Llyn was
her mother's maiden name. Sheila had never known her father. Never to
her knowledge had she seen him, because when she was yet an infant her
mother had divorced him by Act of Parliament, against the wishes of her
church, and had resumed her maiden name.

Sheila's father's name was Erris Boyne, and he had been debauched,
drunken, and faithless; so at a time of unendurable hurt his wife had
freed herself. Then, under her maiden name, she had brought up her
daughter without any knowledge of her father; had made her believe he
was dead; had hidden her tragedy with a skilful hand.

Only now, when Sheila was released from a governess, had she moved out
of the little wild area of the County Limerick where she lived; only
now had she come to visit an uncle whose hospitality she had for so
many years denied herself. Sheila was two years old when her