family o' your own--here's the Blessed
Virgin pushin' ye into one, ready-made. 'Twill be the makin' o' ye, 'twill
make ye rale human, an' ye'll have no more time for star-gazin' an' such
foolishness. Ye can find out what people are in the world for, instead
keepin' yerself so outside o' things. Sure, yes, man, yes, I'll tell Moira
ye said good-by to her, an'--yes, I give ye my word, and promise true and
true, I'll lave ye now if she moves away or if any harm comes to her."

IV

His grizzled hair was turned quite white when his sister kissed him
good-by, fresh tears in her eyes, scarcely dry from the excitement of her
youngest daughter's wedding. She had a moment of divination like his, and
said sadly, "There's no use trying to thank ye, Timmy, words can't do it.
If ye'd been anybody else, I cud ha' said ye got ye'r pay for all these
long, hard years in the love the childer bear ye. That's the pay folks get
for workin' an' livin' for others--but ye're not folks. Is't that ye're
the seventh son? Is't that ye've second sight? Is't that--_what_ is't that
makes ye so far away? An' what _is_ ye'r pay, Tim? Now that it's over and
the children all safe and grown up, ye look yerself like a child that's
done its lesson an' run out to play. Is't all just work or play with ye?
Can't ye niver just _live_?"

In truth her brother's eagerness to be away was scarcely concealed at all
from the grateful, wistful Irish eyes about him. He was breathless with
haste to be off. The long trip to New England was a never-ending nightmare
of delay to him, and although he had planned for years to walk up the
hill, his trembling old legs dragged in a slow progress maddening to his
impatience. A farmer, driving by, offered him a lift, which he accepted
gratefully, sitting strained far forward on the high seat. At a turn of
the road he looked back and saw that he had passed the cluster of pines
where Moira had laughed at him, and where he had felt so thick about him
the thronging rush of his newly awakened perceptions of the finer meaning
of things, the gay, sweet crowd of gentle little people.

He stopped the farmer and, leaping down from the high seat, he took his
pipes under his arm and fairly ran up the little path. His rheumatic knee
creaked a little, but the color came up hard in his tired old face as the
twilight of the pines and their pungent, welcoming breath fell about him.
He cast him down and buried his face in the rust-red d