t, misty look came into Thomas O'Brien's honest eyes.

'Ay, my lad, I am thinking I know you both, though I have never set eyes
on you before. You are kindly welcome, young gentlemen, for your own and
for your father's sake.' And here he gave them a hearty grasp of the
hand. 'The Captain is always welcome, as he knows. He and me have been
friends for half a score of years--eh, Captain?'

'Good God! are those my boys, Tom?'

The interruption was so sudden and unexpected that they all started, and
Cyril turned pale. Something familiar in the voice seemed to thrill him,
like an echo from a far-off time. He turned round quickly. A tall man,
with closely-cropped hair and a gray moustache, was standing behind him,
and regarding him with dark, melancholy eyes.

'Those two can never be my boys, Tom!' he repeated, in the same
incredulous, awestruck voice.

'Ay, lad, they are your own, surely; and you had better be thanking God
for His mercy in giving you such sons than be taking the holy name on
your lips.'

But Mat did not seem to hear this mild rebuke.

'Will you shake hands with your father, Cyril?' he said, with an air of
deep dejection. 'I wish it were a cleaner hand, for your sake; but I can
give you no other.'

'Do you think I would refuse it, sir?' returned the young man, touched,
in spite of himself.

And then it was Kester's turn. But as Mat's eyes fell on the boy's worn,
sickly face his manner changed.

'Is that my little chap--the young monkey who used to ride on my
shoulder and hold on by my hair? Dear! dear! who would have believed
it?'

Kester's pale face flushed a little.

'You are looking at my crutch, sir,' he said nervously; 'but I shall
soon throw it away. I am ever so much better now, am I not, Cyril?'

'And where's my little Mollie?' continued Mat--'"the baby," as we used
to call her?'

'Let us come away,' whispered Michael in Mr. O'Brien's ear. 'They will
get on better without us.'

The tears were running down the old man's face as they turned into the
little parlour.

'It beats me, sir, it beats me utterly, to see my poor lad trying to
make friends with his own children, and looking so shamed before them.
That is a fine-looking chap, that eldest one,' he went on--'Miss Ross's
sweetheart, as I used to call him. He is the sort any girl could fancy.
And he has a look of Mat about him, too, only he is handsomer and better
set up than Mat ever was. "I believe you are my uncle, sir." Few yo