en? the fireside is rather a
pleasant place this bitter March day.'

'As you like,' returned Mat indifferently; 'for myself, I prefer to
stand;' and as he spoke he propped his tall figure against the wooden
mantelpiece, and, half shielding his face with one arm, looked down into
the blaze.

In this attitude Michael could only see his side-face, and he was
startled at the strong likeness to Cyril--the profile was nearly as
finely cut; and it was only when he turned his full face that the
resemblance ceased to be so striking. Cyril had the same dark eyes and
low, broad forehead; but his beautifully-formed mouth and chin were very
different from his father's, which expressed far too clearly a weak,
irresolute character. But he was a handsome man, and, in spite of his
shabby coat, there was something almost distinguished in his appearance.
Anyone seeing the man for the first time would have guessed he had a
story; very probably, looking at his broad chest and closely-cropped
gray hair and black moustache, they would have taken him for a soldier,
as Michael did.

Somehow, he found it a little difficult to begin the conversation; he
hoped Matthew O'Brien would speak again; but he seemed disinclined to
break the silence that had grown up between them.

'You are not much like your brother, Mr. O'Brien.'

'No, sir; Tom and I are not much alike, and more's the pity. Tom has
been an honest man all his life.'

Michael was about to reply that that was not saying much in his favour;
but he felt that under the circumstances this would be awkward, so he
held his peace.

'There aren't many men to beat Tom,' continued Mat. 'Few folk would be
so stanch to their own flesh and blood when only disgrace would come of
it; but Tom is too fine-hearted to trample on a fellow when he is down
and other folk are crying "Fie! for shame!" on him. Would you believe
it, sir,' stretching out a sinewy thin hand as he spoke, 'that that
brother of mine never said an unkind word to me in my life; and when I
came back to him that night, feeling none too sure of my welcome, it was
just a grip of the hand and "Come in, my lad," as though I were the
young chap I used to be coming home to spend my holiday with him and
Susan.'

'I think your brother one of the best men living, Mr. O'Brien.'

'And so he is, sir; and so he is; but you have not come all this way to
talk about Tom;' and here he paused, and again the shielding hand went
over his eyes, and M