all, and Con's ould caubeen, and everythin' else to Heaven the way he
sez."

"I dunno if you've any call to be talkin' that fashion," said the Widdy
M'Gurk, disapprovingly, "as if you could be walkin' permisc-yis into
Heaven widout wid your lave or by your lave. Maybe it isn't there any of
us'ill be bringin' our news."

"Might you know of e'er a better place then, ma'am?" said Con.

"Heard you ever the like of that?" said Ody Rafferty's aunt, not
unwillingly scandalised, "I should suppose nobody, unless it was a born
haythen, 'ud know of any place better than Heaven."

"That's where she is then," said Con, stroking his feather. "For the
best place ever was is none too good for her, God knows well."

"And thrue for you, man," said the Widdy M'Gurk. "But she's one thing,
and we're another. It's not settin' ourselves up we should be to have
the same chances."

"Ah, well, sure maybe we're none of us too outrageous altogether," said
Mrs. Kilfoyle, looking hopefully round at her company. "And if they can
put up wid us at all at all, they will. We'll get there yet, plase God.
And anyway I'll be takin' good care of your feather, Con. Ay will I so;
same as if it was dropped out of an angel's wing."

"So good-night to you kindly, ma'am," said he. "I'll be steppin' back to
Laraghmena. I on'y looked in on you to bring you that, and give you news
of Theresa. And I question will I ever set fut agin in Lisconnel."

He did not, however, leave it quite immediately. A little later, when
Brian Kilfoyle was escorting Norah Finnegan home, they saw him sitting
on the bank near the O'Driscolls' roofless cabin. Its mud walls were
fast crumbling into ruin. Already the little window-square had lost its
straight outline, and would soon be as shapeless as any hole burrowed in
a bank. Con sat with his back turned to it until the dusk had muffled up
everything in dimness, and then he stole an armful of turf-sods from the
nearest stack, and groped his way in through the deserted door. The
shadows within were folded so heavily that he could scarcely more than
guess where the hearth had been. One of Con's peculiarities was a
strange horror of a fireless hearth. At the sight of its hoarily
sprinkled blackness he always felt as if he were standing on the verge
of some frightful revelation; a vague reminiscence, no doubt, from the
scene of his life's tragedy, all distinct memory of which had been
blurred away by his illness. Now he piled and cru