s, but I pulled myself together and said firmly:
"Roscoe, these are fancies. Stop it, man. You are moody. Come, let us
walk, and talk of other things."

"No, we will not walk," he said, "but let us sit there on the coping
and be quiet--quiet in that roar between the hills." Suddenly he swung
round, caught me by the shoulders and held me gently so.

"I have a pain at my heart, Marmion, as if I'd heard my death sentence;
such as a soldier feels who knows that Death looks out at him from iron
eyes. You smile: I suppose you think I am mad."

I saw that it was best to let him speak his mind. So I answered: "Not
mad, my friend. Say on what you like. Tell me all you feel. Only, for
God's sake be brave, and don't give up until there's occasion. I am sure
you exaggerate your danger, whatever it is."

"Listen for a minute," said he: "I had a brother Edward, as good a lad
as ever was; a boisterous, healthy fellow. We had an old nurse in our
family who came from Irish hills, faithful and kind to us both. There
came a change over Edward. He appeared not to take the same interest in
his sports. One day he came to me, looking a bit pale, and said: 'Galt,
I think I should like to study for the Church.' I laughed at it, yet
it troubled me in a way, for I saw he was not well. I told Martha,
the nurse. She shook her head sadly, and said: 'Edward is not for the
Church, but you, my lad. He is for heaven.'

"'For heaven, Martha?' laughed I.

"'In truth for heaven,' she replied, 'and that soon. The look of his eye
is doom. I've seen it since I swaddled him, and he will go suddenly.'

"I was angry, and I said to her,--though she thought she spoke the
truth,--'This is only Irish croaking. We'll have the banshee next.'

"She got up from her chair and answered me solemnly: 'Galt Roscoe, I
HAVE heard the banshee wail, and sorrow falls upon your home. And don't
you be so hard with me that have loved you, and who suffers for the lad
that often and often lay upon my breast. Don't be so hard; for your day
of trouble comes too. You, not he, will be priest at the altar. Death
will come to him like a swift and easy sleep; but you will feel its
hand upon your heart and know its hate for many a day, and bear the slow
pangs of it until your life is all crushed, and you go from the world
alone, Love crying after you and not able to save you, not even the love
of woman--weaker than death.... And, in my grave, when that day comes
beside a great mountai