ld men can't fight for their country, they can
hold their tongues for it, an' by God they ought to be made to hold
them...."

He asked continually after Gilbert.

"He's a sergeant now, father. He's been offered a commission, but he
won't take it!..."

"Why?"

"Oh, one of his whimsy-whamsies, I suppose. He says the non-commissioned
officers are the backbone of the Army, and he prefers to be part of the
backbone. You remember Ninian Graham, father?"

"I do, rightly!..."

"He's come home to join. He's in the Engineers!"

Mr. Quinn did not make any answer to Henry. He slipped a little further
into the bed, and lay for a long while with his eyes closed, so long
that Henry thought he had fallen asleep; but, just when Henry began to
tiptoe from the room, he opened his eyes again, and suddenly they were
full of tears.

"The fine young fellows," he said. "The fine young lads!"

2

And at Christmas, he died. He had called Henry to him that morning, and
had enquired about "The Fennels," which had lately been published after
a postponement and much hesitation, and about the new book on which
Henry was now working.

"That's right," he said, when he heard that Henry was working steadily
on it. "It'll keep your mind from broodin'. How's the Ulster book
goin'?"

"'The Fennels'?"

"Ay. You had hard luck, son, in bringing out your best book at a time
like this, but never matter, never matter!..."

"I don't know how it's doing. It's too soon to tell yet. The reviews
have been good, but I don't suppose people are buying books at present!"

"You've done a good few now, Henry!"

"Five, father."

"Ay, I have the lot there on that ledge so's I can take them down easily
an' look at them. I feel proud of you, son ... proud of you!"

He began to remind Henry of things that had happened when he was a boy.
His mind became flooded with memories. "Do you mind Bridget Fallon?" he
would say, and then he would recall many incidents that were connected
with her. "Do you mind the way you wanted to go to Cambridge, an' I
wouldn't let you," and "Do you mind the time you took the woollen balls
from Mr. Maginn's house?...."

Henry remembered. Mr. Maginn, the vicar of Ballymartin, had invited
Henry to spend the afternoon with his nephew and niece and some other
children. They had played a game with balls made of coloured wool, and
while they were playing, Henry, liking the pattern of one of them, had
put it into his pocket. It had