orrow and dismay, his own interrupted
plans faded from his consideration; and in their place rose the picture
of a great white house on the lonely Irish coast; of a sick--perhaps a
dying--man; of two frightened children and a couple of faithful,
inefficient servants. With an energy he had not evinced for years he
crossed the room, stumbling over straps and parcels, and rang the bell
with imperative haste.

When a surprised maid appeared at the door he turned to her with
unwonted excitement.

"I have a telegram to send," he said; "one that must go at once."

The rest of that day, with its suddenly altered plans, its long railway
journey from Paddington to New Milford, and its stormy night crossing
from the latter point to the town of Waterford, was too beset with
haste and confusion to contain any definite recollections for Milbanke.
It was not until he had taken his seat at eight o'clock next morning in
the small and leisurely train that transports passengers from Waterford
to the seaport of Dunhaven that he found time to realise the
significance of his journey; and not until he descended from his
carriage at this latter station and was greeted by old Burke, the
Orristown retainer, that he fully appreciated the gravity of the
incident that had occasioned it.

There was no change apparent in Burke's familiar face save the gloom
that overhung his expression. But this was obvious to Milbanke at a
first glance.

"You're welcome, sir!" were his opening words; then the underlying bent
of his thoughts found vent. "'Tis a sorrowful house you'll be findin',"
he added in a subdued voice.

Milbanke glanced up sharply from the rug he was unstrapping.

"How is he?" he asked. "Not worse?"

Burke shook his head.

"'Twouldn't be wishin' for me to give you the bad word----" he began
deprecatingly.

"Then he is bad?"

The old man pursed up his lips.

"Ah, I'm in dread 'tis for his long home he's bound," he said
reluctantly. "Glory be to God an' His Holy Ways! But 'tis of thim two
poor children that I do be thinkin'."

But Milbanke's mind was occupied with his first words.

"But how is he?" he demanded. "What is the injury? Has he an efficient
doctor?"

Again Burke shook his head.

"Docthors?" he said dubiously. "Wisha, I don't put much pass on
docthors! not but what they say Docthor Gallagher from Carrigmore is a
fine hand wid the knife. But, sure, when the Almighty takes the notion
to break every bone in a man's