just as long as my father's been
dead," said Mick. Pat did not answer.

"Will ye iver come back any more?" Mick asked.

"Niver," said Pat. "I'll bury my granny the morra, an' then--then I
start."

"Well, I'll niver forget ye," said Mick. Now that it had come to
saying good-bye for ever Mick felt he could not let Pat go; it was like
parting from Jane or Patsy; he was almost crying.

"Ye'll have no call to forget me or mine," said Pat bitterly.

"'Deed, I won't," said Mick; "ye've been quare an' kind to me. I'd
like to give ye somethin' before ye go, so that ye won't forget me, but
I've nothin' but my ould watch. I wisht ye'd take it, Pat."

Pat hid his face in his hands, then he gave a sound like a groan, and
got up, and took Mick by the shoulders. "See here," he said, "ye'll
niver forget me, an' I'll niver forget you. God forgive me, I wouldn't
hurt a hair a' yer head, an' yet I'm goin' to do ye the cruel harm.
An' it's tearin' the heart out of me to do it. Mind that. But I give
my father my word I'd do it, an' it's the right thing for-by. It's
only because it's yerself that it's killin' me." And he turned back
into the cottage, and shut the door. The whole way home Mick puzzled
over what he could have meant.

The next day was Honeybird's birthday, and they were all to go to take
tea with Aunt Mary and Uncle Niel at the farm. This was one of their
greatest treats; but at the last minute Mick said he did not want to
go. All the morning, every time he remembered, tears kept coming into
his eyes--Pat was burying his old granny to-day, and then he was going
to leave Ireland for ever. It seemed a mean thing to go to a tea party
when your best friend was going away, and you would never see him
again. When he thought of how white and ill Pat had looked yesterday
Mick felt a lump in his throat. But Lull said he must go to the farm
whether he liked it or not, or Aunt Mary would be hurt.

The farm was nearly a mile from Rowallan. Half the way was by the open
road, but the other half was through the loney--a muddy lane with a bad
reputation. All sorts of tales were told about it. A murderer had
been hanged, people said, on the willow-tree that grew there, and late
at night his bones could be heard still rattling in the breeze; and
_Things_ that dare not go by the front road, for fear of passing the
figure of the Blessed Virgin on the convent chapel, came to and from
the mountains by this way. The conv