said good-by.

"I hope you ain't goin' to feel too tired, mother's so deaf; no, I hope
you won't be tired," she said kindly, speaking as if she well knew what
tiredness was. We could hear the neglected sheep bleating on the hill
in the next moment's silence. Then she smiled at me, a smile of noble
patience, of uncomprehended sacrifice, which I can never forget. There
was all the remembrance of disappointed hopes, the hardships of winter,
the loneliness of single-handedness in her look, but I understood, and
I love to remember her worn face and her young blue eyes.

"Good-by, William," she said gently, and William said good-by, and gave
her a quick glance, but he did not turn to look back, though I did, and
waved my hand as she was putting up the bars behind us. Nor did he
speak again until we had passed through the dark woods and were on our
way homeward by the main road. The grave yearly visit had been changed
from a hope into a happy memory.

"You can see the sea from the top of her pasture hill," said William at
last.

"Can you?" I asked, with surprise.

"Yes, it's very high land; the ledges up there show very plain in clear
weather from the top of our island, and there's a high upstandin' tree
that makes a landmark for the fishin' grounds." And William gave a
happy sigh.

When we had nearly reached the Landing, my companion looked over into
the back of the wagon and saw that the piece of sailcloth was safe,
with which he had covered the dried fish. "I wish we had got some
trout," he said wistfully. "They always appease Almiry, and make her
feel 't was worth while to go."

I stole a glance at William Blackett. We had not seen a solitary
mosquito, but there was a dark stripe across his mild face, which might
have been an old scar won long ago in battle.

WHERE'S NORA?

I.

"Where's Nora?"

The speaker was a small, serious-looking old Irishman, one of those
Patricks who are almost never called Pat. He was well-dressed and
formal, and wore an air of dignified authority.

"I don't know meself where's Nora then, so I don't," answered his
companion. "The shild would n't stop for a sup o' breakfast before she
'd go out to see the town, an' nobody 's seen the l'aste smitch of her
since. I might sweep the streets wit' a broom and I could n't find
her."

"Maybe she's strayed beyand and gone losing in the strange place,"
suggested Mr. Quin, with an anxious glance. "Did n't none o' the folks