eaghan. Poor, old, faithful,
plodding Jake,--how I tried, at first, to extract the thorn from his
flesh--the accursed drink! I talked to him, I scolded him, I
threatened him, but,--poor Jake,--he and his whisky are one, and
nothing but death will ever separate them."

Suddenly his face lit up and his eyes seemed to catch fire.

"And who are we to judge?" he said, as if denying some inward question.
"What right have we to think for a moment that this inherent weakness
shall deprive Jake Meaghan of eternal happiness? He is honest; he does
good in his own little sphere; he harms no one but himself, for he
hasn't a dependent in the world. He fills a niche in God's plan; he is
still God's child, no matter how erring he may be. He is some mother's
son. George,--I am fully persuaded that my God, and your God, will not
be hard on old Jake when his time comes; and, do you know, sometimes I
think that time is not very far off."

We sat silent for a while, then the minister spoke again:

"Tell me, George,--have you met any of your neighbours yet?"

"Only two," I said, "Jake, and Rita Clark."

He raised his white, bushy eyebrows.

"So you have met Rita! She's a strange child; harboured in a strange
home."

He sighed at some passing thought.

"It's a queer world,--or rather, it's a good world with queer people in
it. One would expect to find love and harmony in the home every time
away up here, but it does not always follow. Old Margaret Clark is the
gentlest, dearest, most patient soul living. Andrew Clark is a good
man in every way but one,--but in that one he is the Rock of Gibraltar
itself, or, to go nearer the place of his birth, Ailsa Craig, that old
milestone that stands defiantly between Scotland and Ireland. Andrew
Clark is immovable. He is hard, relentless, fanatical in his ideas of
right and wrong; cruel to himself and to the woman he vowed to love and
cherish. Oh!--he sears my heart every time I think of him. Yet, he is
living up to his idea of what is right."

The white-haired old gentleman,--bearer of the burdens of his
fellows,--did not confide in me as to the nature of Andrew Clark's
trouble, and it was not for me to probe.

"As for Rita," he pursued, "poor, little Rita!--she is no relative of
either Margaret or Andrew Clark. She is a child of the sea. Hers is a
pitiful story, and I betray no confidences in telling you of it, for it
is common property.

"Fourteen years ago a launch put