ed Kathleen. "And if we
might have a cup of tea----."

"Not for me," Sylvia whispered; "I couldn't drink tea in a place like
this."

"To be sure," cried Mrs. Sheridan, not hearing Sylvia's comment.
"Michael will be pleased to see you. Doesn't he call you 'Pretty Miss
Kathie'? But you will excuse the liberty in a boy. He is recovering, the
doctor says, which himself was here to-day, and the car stuck out there
in the mud, and the doctor swearing! Michael could hear him in his bed,
which it wasn't good for the boy to hear. But the doctor is too kind,
for sure, to mean any harm, even to the car, and Michael and me
pretended not to hear him, nor to know that he was angry. The Lord will
overlook the words he used to the car and the council that should be
taking care of the roads."

Kathleen hitched her own and Sylvia's horse to the fence, and entered a
small, but wonderfully clean, room, that served as a kitchen and general
sitting-room for the family. Here they found Michael, a boy of four,
the baby of a family of nine. The other children had gone, as a troop,
to the State school at Swynford. There they would remain all day, to
return and assist at the milking, such of them as were capable.

Kathleen sat down beside the boy, and began to entertain him. In a few
minutes the two were laughing together, as became old friends. Kathleen
had brought sundry gifts with her, among them a sovereign, which she
slipped under his pillow, to be discovered after she had gone.

Sylvia sat rigidly on her chair, absorbing the scene with her apparently
sleepy eyes; while Mrs. Sheridan bustled about, talking unceasingly, as
she spread a clean table cloth and prepared the tea for her guests.

"Did you ever hear such a rain? And the wind! The Lord preserve us; it
was praying Michael and me was, the others fast asleep, that the cottage
might not be blown away, and us in it. It was like the night himself
died. I was sitting here beside him, watching to see him flicker out. He
died as peaceful as a child--just one smile for me, and he was gone. An'
me alone in the house with him. Mrs. Smith that would have been beside
me--she's dead herself now, God rest her soul, for she was a good
neighbour--the rain and wind prevented her and many another. And there I
sat beside him, as I sat beside Michael, listening to the rain beating
on the window and roof, and the trees groaning as if in mortal anguish,
and the house creaking, and outside the river an