BY 
 
 PATR1C
 
 MAUREEN
 
 MAUREEN 
 
 BY 
 
 PATRICK MACGILL 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE CHILDREN OF THE DEAD EMD," 
 "THE RATPIT," ETC 
 
 NEW YORK 
 ROBERT M. McBRIDE fcf CO. 
 
 1920
 
 Copyright, 1920, by 
 ROBERT M. McBuiDE & Co. 
 
 Printed in t h 
 United States of America 
 
 Published 1920
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. EAMON NA SGADDAN . . . . > . 3 
 
 II. CASSIE SHEMUS MEEHAL 41 
 
 III. MAUREEN 'MALLET ....... 65 
 
 IV. COLUMB EUAGH KEERAN 113 
 
 V. MRS. THORNTON . ., 157 
 
 VI. SEIN FEINERS . , . 213 
 
 VII. EILEEN CONROY 249 
 
 VIII. THE Two GIRLS 275 
 
 IX. THE RETURN . 295 
 
 X. POTHEEN 315 
 
 XI. THE ANCIENTS . . . K > 373
 
 THE RACHART WOR 
 
 Said Peadar Rachary Wor (God rest 
 
 Man alive and no one could best him 
 
 Cement in a bargain. In all things handy, 
 
 Thatching a haystack or mending a pandy. 
 
 His back wouldn't bend to the heaviest load, 
 
 And his -feet were as sure on the hill as the road 9 
 
 In warranty certain. When he departed 
 
 All his neighbors were broken-hearted, 
 
 And they gathered together and pondered o'er 
 
 The words and wisdom of Rachary Wor. 
 
 For thus he spoke: 
 
 " 'Twos me to discover 
 
 That we twist the same rope over and over; 
 Some do it middling, others better, 
 The rope that leaves the hand of the letter. 
 
 "What do we know and what have we thought f 
 Much, but never as much as we ought. 
 For the hand may touch what the eye can't see, 
 And the mind's perplexed by the things that be. 
 
 "This thing or that thing f Read me the riddle, 
 And in through other strings come play the fiddle t 
 We come and we go, but the end is sure 
 Kind word, act, and purpose. The three endure. 
 
 "Be good, be sure; but remember still 
 
 To a man his due and a woman her will. 
 
 Conceity the maid that's cuddled and kissed: 
 
 Ring her and then you'll spancell your wrist. 
 
 The lease with a bed is trying and long, 
 
 Like a hair in the mouth or a drunkard's song. 
 
 Bedding for one means comfort and ease, 
 
 But bedding for two and she's scratching your knees. 
 
 "Soft are her arms. A hangman's rope 
 Throttles surer when greased with soap. 
 Three things put years on a good man's life: 
 1
 
 The curl in the gob of a scolding wife, 
 The purse in the petticoat he can't fill, 
 And the nagging tongue that is never ttitt. 
 
 "Three things strong and the house is blest: 
 The table, the fire, and the hand to a guest. 
 
 "Three sounds of increase: a lowing cow, 
 The smithy sparks, the swish of a plow. 
 
 "Three are the tokens of goodly drest: 
 Elegance, comfort, and lastingness. 
 
 "Three hands and the world its best will yield: 
 The hand in the smithy, the byre, and the field. 
 
 "What's needed is needed right away; 
 Don't cut the scollops on a windy day. 
 
 "The back of my hand to her at the door 
 
 Who never adds weight to the poor man's store. 
 
 The same to him on his chair all day 
 
 That jabbers and gabs with nothing to say. 
 
 "To all: Be patient and good and kind, 
 And leave a name that will live behind." 
 
 It was thus he spoke, the Rachary Wor, 
 A man of substance and goodly store; 
 And he left his holding, his hearth, and home, 
 And they buried him deep in the graveyard loam. 
 They carried him there one Lammastide, 
 And it's seventeen years past since he died. 
 Still they pray for him now as they did of yore, 
 For the soul of the good man Rachary Wor.
 
 MAUREEN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN was a famous man in the par- 
 ish of Dungarrow. All knew him; even the tiniest 
 children as yet hardly able to articulate two consecu- 
 tive words knew Eamon na Sgaddan. If one of them hap- 
 pened when resting in its mother's arms to see a stranger 
 come down the parish road, it would turn to its mother 
 and say, "Eamon Chaddan." Of course it might not be 
 Eamon. Probably the stranger was a woman from the top 
 of the hills, a beggarman from Frosses, or a cowdrover from 
 the very heel of the barony. But to the children, especially 
 to the very young, anything strange and out of the ordi- 
 nary that moved on two feet was personified in Eamon na 
 Sgaddan. 
 
 All the good folk of the parish, the parish of Dungarrow 
 with its acres of hill and holm and its strong farmers, 
 knew him by name. When they met him on the road they 
 greeted him with, * ' Good day, Mr. Brogan ! " or, " Fit and 
 fine the day, Mr. Brogan!" or, "It's the grand weather 
 that's in it now, thank God, Mr. Brogan." Of course not 
 one had the temerity or bad breeding to call him Eamon 
 na Sgaddan to his face. Above everything else Dungar- 
 row knew its manners, especially when in the company of 
 Mr. Brogan. 
 
 Not alone did the simple people greet him with respect, 
 but the parish priest was not above addressing him as 
 
 3
 
 4 MAUREEN 
 
 "Sir." Even the doctor was once heard to say, "Beg your 
 pardon, Mr. Brogan," when he did not catch some remark 
 made to him by Eamon at the harvest fair of Stranara- 
 chary. The method of salutation used by the priest and the 
 doctor carried great weight in Dungarrow, and of course 
 the parishioners felt bound to follow the lead of the phy- 
 sicians of soul and body. 
 
 This exceptional honor given to a man of the people by 
 the people was something beyond the ordinary, but not 
 out of place when we consider the man to whom the honor 
 was given. Other people in their various ways were good 
 and worthy, but none was able to rise to the lofty pinnacle 
 on which Eamon na Sgaddan was placed. Of course all 
 the natives were hard workers, as zealous in their various 
 pursuits as Eamon na Sgaddan in his, but none rose to 
 his height. "He was born to it," the people said, not 
 meaning that he was actually by birth entitled to repute 
 and renown that descended from his forbears, but on the 
 contrary, signifying that in him Eamon had the seed of 
 greatness. 
 
 In what his greatness consisted it is perhaps difficult to 
 say. He was not a man of substance, as substance is gen- 
 erally computed in Dungarrow, in house property, in stock 
 and land. He had, of course, a little plot of ground, stuck 
 on the side of Meenaroodagh brae, looking for all the world 
 like the hind leg of a dog. Spadeland some of it was, but 
 of the poorest quality and unable to father a decent crop 
 of sgiddins. It rose up from the road towards the hills; 
 and fifty yards from the highway stood Eamon 's house, a 
 ramshackle building that let the rain through roof and wall 
 in the slightest shower. It consisted of one apartment, 
 and here dwelt Eamon na Sgaddan, his cow, a bony animal 
 called Rompy, a cat without name or tail (no one thought 
 worth while to give it the former, and the latter was cut 
 off by a scythe as the animal hunted corn-crakes through 
 the meadows), and a dog half blind, eternally busy with the 
 fleas which made its shaggy coat their dwelling-place. The 
 dog was named "Copenhagen." 
 
 The man took no care of the place, never thatched the
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 5 
 
 roof, cleaned the floor or milked the cow. In fact he 
 never did any manual labor, save cooking his breakfast in 
 the morning, dressing himself and walking down to the 
 village. Here he stopped all day, speaking to all and sun- 
 dry, listening to any and every conversation and buying 
 or borrowing newspapers when they happened to come to 
 the village. 
 
 He came back late in the evening, moving up the county 
 road with a long, swinging stride, mumbling to himself, 
 now and again stopping on his way and putting his hand 
 to his brow as if trying to recall something which had 
 slipped his mind. If a passer-by saw him then and spoke, 
 Eamon would not answer. He would stare at the speaker, 
 then at his own hand, which he would stretch out four 
 fingers extended and the thumb pressed in against the 
 palm. "Incomprehensible!" he would exclaim, to himself 
 of course, as if puzzling over something which he could 
 not fathom. The word "Incomprehensible" was a favorite 
 one with the man, but now and again he would give utter- 
 ance to words quite as long and high-sounding. ' ' Counter- 
 revolutionary" was another word which he used more than 
 once. ' ' Cosmopolitan ' ' and ' ' Entirely without precedent, ' ' 
 he had been heard to say. 
 
 What he thought of when giving utterance to these ex- 
 clamations it was impossible to tell, but one or two half- 
 baked youngsters, sciolists who prided themselves on their 
 education, insinuated that Eamon himself did not know 
 what these words meant, that he read them in a newspaper 
 and spoke them just to pretend that he was a learned man. 
 ' ' Showing off he was, the old plaisham, ' ' said these young- 
 sters. But Dungarrow would not listen. They knew Eamon 
 na Sgaddan Mr. Brogan who always wore a collar and 
 tie even when he deigned to work with a spade in the 
 field. 
 
 Ordinary people termed digging "spadework." Not so 
 Mr. Brogan. With him it was "husbandry." Turf to him 
 was "turbary;" a bowl of tea "a slight modicum of bever- 
 age." To him a drunken man was "an inebriated per- 
 son," a close-fisted neighbor "a parsimonious individual."
 
 6 MAUREEN 
 
 Thus it can be easily understood how Dungarrow with its 
 estimation for learning would not hear its Mr. Brogan 
 slighted even when he stopped for a moment on the road 
 to utter mighty words which none could understand. It 
 was Learning, and a man with the learning in his head 
 could not be looked on in the same light as ordinary men. 
 
 Dungarrow treated Eamon with courtesy and he re- 
 turned the courtesy a thousandfold. Biddy O'Donnel, 
 nicknamed "Leggy" on account of the length of her lower 
 limbs, was Miss O'Donnel to Eamon. When he met her on 
 the road he raised his hat with a graceful flourish, passed 
 it from the right hand to the left, stretched forth the hand 
 that was free and grasped that of Miss O'Donnel. But 
 the handshake was not an ordinary one. In it there was 
 something graceful and refined, something so superb that 
 the other men of the place could never copy it. When he 
 passed the hat to the left hand he grasped it tenderly 
 with thumb and fingers as if it were a child, nestling it in 
 against his breast and resting the rim on the shoulder. 
 Then, pressing his right elbow to his side, he raised his 
 forearm upwards, fingers tightly together and thumb stand- 
 ing apart like an interested spectator, turned it down at 
 the wrist and brought it towards the lady with a slow, 
 graceful motion and touched Biddy 's wrinkled hand. There 
 was something extraordinary in the whole movement. ' ' It 's 
 the quality toss that's in Mr. Brogan 's handshake," the 
 people said. 
 
 . Yes, that was the secret of the man's success and popular- 
 ity. He had the quality toss about him. This was in keep- 
 ing with his role as a public character, a picturesque symbol 
 of the heights to which a man may rise in his own arm of 
 the world. Whatever he did was noted by the people and 
 spoken of afterwards. If he figured for a moment in any 
 public function, a meeting of a local society for example, 
 the affair attained additional eminence by Eamon 's pres- 
 ence. If he spoke, the others repeated his remarks, weighed
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 7 
 
 them, analyzed them, and took stock of them from various 
 angles. 
 
 Once it happened that there was a dispute between two 
 families, the Sweeneys and the Gallaghers, concerning a 
 right of way towards the moors and upper grazing-grounds 
 of Dungarrow. It was decided to settle the dispute by 
 placing the facts of the matter before the elders of the 
 townland and acting on their judgment. Eamon na Sgad- 
 dan was also invited to attend, not because the matter was 
 any concern of his but simply on account of the pre- 
 eminence which the man enjoyed in the locality. 
 
 The case came before the gray-bearded and venerable 
 patriarchs of the place. Coy Fergus Beeragh, wise in 
 jurisprudence and famed for his ability in restoring order 
 in many a chaos of contention, was in the chair. Proceed- 
 ings opened at nine o'clock in the morning, when the Gal- 
 laghers stated their case. 
 
 The boreen, or lane, leading up through the awlth to a 
 braeface, bounden on one side by the Sweeneys' farm and 
 on the other by the land of the .Gallaghers, belonged to 
 the Gallaghers from time immemorial. It was owned by 
 Hugh Ruagh Gallagher that was great-grandfather of the 
 Gallaghers now living. All the old people of the parish 
 knew that. Breed Heila, God rest her! who died thirty 
 years ago come next Candlemas, testified and swore before 
 the parish priest of her time that Hugh Ruagh Gallagher 
 that was had the right of way of the awlth and its caisin 
 without let or hindrance through all the years of his life. 
 He was a man respected by all the neighbors in his day, 
 and if it were not fair and above-board to have the use of 
 that caisin for his animals he would not use it. 
 
 In this way did the Gallaghers put their case forward, 
 now and again interrupted by the Sweeneys, who could 
 show that the man named Hugh Ruagh Gallagher was not 
 altogether such a worthy being as his descendants made him 
 out to be ; that, in fact, he had been once guilty of sheep- 
 stealing and another time of selling a faulty horse to his 
 next-door neighbor, who was a forbear of the Sweeneys of 
 to-day.
 
 8 MAUREEN 
 
 "Speak no ill of the dead," said the Gallaghers. "They 
 can 't speak back. ' ' 
 
 An admirable precept this, but unfortunately forgotten 
 by the Gallaghers when the other party spoke of the merits 
 of the Sweeneys who had gone before. Noon came, and the 
 discussion was not at an end: at one o'clock the ancient 
 and wrinkled Coy Fergus Beeragh remarked that it was 
 dinner time, ' ' and be the look iv it, ' ' he added, ' ' we '11 never 
 make hilt or hair iv this matter." 
 
 It was then that Mr. Brogan spoke. 
 
 "Both parties, anti and pro, are spreadeagled on a Ser- 
 bonian bog," he said. "Matters can be simplified and the 
 problem eradicated if both parties, anti and pro, agree 
 to use the obstacle of contention in common." 
 
 With these words he got to his feet and, without casting 
 a glance at any one in the room, he went out sideways 
 through the door. 
 
 "That will make matters aisy if both parties, anti and 
 pro, agree," said Coy Fergus Beeragh, who, though 
 loth to allow the matter to be settled by Eamon na 
 Sgaddan, felt in need of his dinner. "Shake hands on 
 the matter," he said, "and make the right iv way 
 common property to the two iv yees, Gallaghers and 
 Sweeneys." 
 
 The parties agreed and in this way, the matter being 
 brought to a sound conclusion, added fresh laurels to Mr. 
 Brogan 's name, discretion and sound judgment. 
 
 m 
 
 In a parish like Dungarrow, beyond railway reach, where 
 every man knows his neighbor and the strength of the 
 neighbor's house in style, stock, and substance, it is a com- 
 mon thing to find people shorn of their patronymics and 
 given instead a name which signifies their vocation, place 
 of dwelling, or physical peculiarity. This, in places where 
 remnants of the ancient clan system still flourish, is in a 
 degree necessary. In a townland of twelve families where
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 9 
 
 the O'Friels, for example, predominate, it may be possible 
 to find eight Paddy O'Friels, and the locality being so 
 confined, it takes some trouble to differentiate one particu- 
 lar Paddy amongst the seven others. 
 
 Special methods are therefore adopted to meet the dif- 
 ficulty. One male is known as Paddy Paddy Beag (Paddy 
 the son of Little Paddy), another as Paddy Paddy Wor 
 (Paddy the son of Big Paddy), a third as Paddy Paddy a 
 Waura (Paddy the son of Paddy the son of Mary), etc., 
 etc. 
 
 But in no way like this did Mr. Brogan get his by-name, 
 Eamon na Sgaddan. He was not named after a vocation 
 as Paddy a Greasaid (Paddy the Shoemaker), nor after 
 the place where he lived like Paddy a Crick (Paddy of the 
 Hill), nor from a physical peculiarity like Paddy Cam 
 (Crooked Paddy). In fact, and rightly, Mr. Brogan ob- 
 tained his cognomen from his own scholarly attainments 
 when these were used in championing the food value of 
 the everyday, simple, inoffensive and humble article of diet 
 the homely sprat. 
 
 It happened one day that some neighbors, Coy Fergus 
 Beeragh amongst them, went into Mr. Brogan 's house and 
 found the worthy man, hatless, bootless and collarless, pre- 
 paring his breakfast. On the table stood a pandy of tea, 
 a paper horn of sugar, a jug of milk, a thick slice of bread 
 and butter and two duck eggs newly laid and newly boiled. 
 This in itself was a good repast for a sound, healthy man 
 with a day's work in front of him "but overmuch," the 
 neighbors said afterwards, ' ' for a man the cut iv a plucked 
 gosling with guts that would hardly fill the skin iv an eel. 
 And him a scholar, too!" 
 
 But not alone in table fare did Mr. Brogan offend the 
 susceptibilities of the peasantry, who saw there something 
 at variance with their preconceived ideas of a scholar's 
 appetite. The fireplace added still more evidence of the 
 man's eating powers. On the greeshaugh, leveled hand- 
 smooth with the back of a shovel, were a number of roast- 
 ing sprats, spluttering, hissing and turning their tails up
 
 10 MAUREEN 
 
 as if the heat was instilling the essence of resurrection into 
 the dead, diminutive things. 
 
 "Roastin' a sgaddan or two for yer breakfast, Mr. Bro- 
 gan?" asked Coy Fergus Beeragh, with a malicious chuckle. 
 He was envious of Eamon's reputation as a scholar. 
 
 "These sardines, you mean," said Eamon, catching one 
 by the tongs and placing it on the floor. ' ' Infinitesimal to 
 look at," he added, "but their food value is superb." 
 
 "They go well with duck eggs," said Coy, casting a sly 
 glance at the table. 
 
 "I never masticate eggs," said Eamon. 
 
 Coy, a man who knew things, but not a scholar, did not 
 want to profess ignorance of the word "masticate" by 
 asking Eamon what he really meant, so he chose to remain 
 silent. 
 
 "I give eggs to my canine friend, Copenhagen," said 
 Eamon, pointing to the dog which sat on its hunkers near 
 the door, scratching its shaggy coat with a paw in the hope 
 of raking out that which its teeth could not find. 
 
 "Duck eggs to a dog!" exclaimed Coy, shaking his head 
 and waving his fists in a condemnatory gesture. "It's a 
 mortal sin, Mr. Brogan. To a dog ! To that bundle iv hair 
 and maggots." 
 
 "Even dogs must get the wherewithal of life," said 
 Eamon. 
 
 "And ye put yerself on sprats when a dog ates eggs 
 like a Christian?" asked Coy. 
 
 "Necessity knows no law," said Eamon, with a superb 
 wave of his hand. "As a martyr to dyspepsia and flatu- 
 lence, I find in sardines Nature's own remedy for the ills 
 which flesh is heir to. Mr. Beeragh" he raised his voice 
 and looked at the roof "Mr. Beeragh, if the ladies of 
 this nation consumed more sardines, the medical profes- 
 sion would become bankrupt." 
 
 Afterwards it was noticed in the parish that sprats were 
 held in higher esteem by the Dungarrow housewives, and 
 from then on, Mr. Brogan, the first man to bear testimony 
 to their worth and consequence, became known to one and 
 all as Eamon na Sgaddan (Edward The Sprat).
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 11 
 
 IV 
 
 Eamon left his native townland every year about the 
 middle of May and did not return again until the following 
 October. Where he went to was a mystery known to none 
 save himself. At least, it was not known to anybody in the 
 parish of Dungarrow. In May Mr. Brogan let his land, 
 its meadow, grazing, and turbary, to the highest bidder, 
 and disappeared. "I am shortly going abroad on busi- 
 ness," he would say prior to his departure. That was all, 
 but for a week this would be sole topic of conversation in 
 the neighborhood. 
 
 "Now what can be the kind iv business that Mr. Brogan 
 does?" the people asked one another. "He's very close 
 about it, whatever it is." "There's money in it anyway," 
 they would admit, for it was well known that Mr. Brogan 
 always came back at the heel of the year with silver to 
 spare and spend. 
 
 Then he would go secretly. Probably one evening he 
 would be seen coming back from the village, mumbling to 
 himself as usual. At this time of the year he might now 
 and again take notice of a neighbor on the road, and reply 
 to a question. 
 
 "Not away on business yet, Mr. Brogan?" he might be 
 asked. 
 
 "Orders not to hand so far," he would reply, stand for 
 a moment as if considering the answer which he had given, 
 then without another word walk away. 
 
 Perhaps he had gone the next morning, vanished into 
 the unknown. 
 
 Did he go by a wheeled vehicle, drawn by horse or moved 
 by steam? Did he walk? Nobody knew, but the fact re- 
 mained that Mr. Brogan was absent from his circle for 
 the five months following. 
 
 The neighbors were of course full of curiosity as to Mr. 
 Brogan 's movements abroad. Some said that he dealt in 
 eggs, others in tea or whisky. Business did not mean ordi- 
 nary work, of course, such as using a spade on a farm or 
 a pick in a railway cutting. Other young men went away
 
 12 MAUREEN 
 
 from the locality yearly, some to navvy, others to work 
 on railways or farms. Of course that was not business; 
 it was simply ordinary labor, in which money was earned 
 by the hard sweat of the brow. But Mr. Brogan would 
 not demean himself by sinking to the ordinary common- 
 place of losing sweat to gain money. He was a being who 
 always wore a collar at home and who would wear it abroad, 
 as befitted Mr. Brogan, the quality man. 
 
 But a veil of secrecy, when worn for a long time, is apt 
 to become thin in fabric, as the strongest window-blind, 
 after years of wear, is liable to let the light through. So 
 with the blind which hid the movements of Mr. Brogan in 
 his yearly absence from Dungarrow. At the beginning the 
 people were filled with a burning curiosity. "Why does 
 he go away like this?" they asked. "There's something 
 funny in it." But the window-blind was well drawn. 
 Not a ray of light could be seen at any corner. 
 
 Then came the supposition. "He may go away on busi- 
 ness," the people said, "but he has to go every year, just 
 the same as them that goes to the harvest beyont the water. 
 He has money back with him iv course, but all who comes 
 home has money with them when it nears the heel of the 
 year. I wouldn't wonder if it is to the harvest that he 
 goes and it the harvest-time, too. And he steals away like 
 a person that's after a neighbor's turf in the dark. It's 
 not much iv a business that will call on a man to hide it 
 as he does." The fabric of the blind was wearing thin. 
 
 Then came the man young Searlas Dhu O'Friel of 
 Drimeeney who traveled by boat from Derry to Greenock 
 and who saw in that boat Mr. Brogan, carrying as luggage 
 the contents of a red woolen kerchief. In fact, Mr. Brogan 
 was going to business with a harvestman's bundle. 
 
 "So the two of us are on the same boat," said Searlas 
 Dhu, when he saw Eamon. 
 
 "We are, Searlas," said Mr. Brogan, and a woe-begone 
 expression settled on his face as he spoke. "Man's in- 
 humanity to man makes countless thousands mourn, for as 
 I sat down in Ferryquay Hotel, Derry, to a slight modicum 
 of beverage, the sleep came over me and when I woke up, lo
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 13 
 
 and behold ! if my luggage wasn 't disappeared. But busi- 
 ness being pressin' I couldn't wait, so I put a few neces- 
 saries in this red abomination and here you see me." 
 
 1 'And did the thief collar your money, too?" asked the 
 inquisitive Searlas. 
 
 "Fifty pounds in gold," said Mr. Brogan, with a sigh. 
 "Fifty pounds and here I'm traveling steerage, a thing 
 I've never done before." 
 
 When Searlas Dhu came home from Scotland at the end 
 of the year, he told of his meeting with Mr. Brogan. Dun- 
 garrow lent a ready ear to the tale, and with the same 
 readiness declared it false, not so much because Mr. Brogan 
 was a Dungarrow man as because Searlas Dhu O'Friel 
 hailed from the townland of Drimeeney. Dungarrow con- 
 tains thirty-seven townlands, thirty-six and Drimeeney, 
 which happens to be an outcast arm of the parish, unloved 
 and unhonored. The devil, as is well known, tampers with 
 God's handiwork, and even Dungarrow offers an illustra- 
 tion of this fact. God made it, but the devil came in and 
 fashioned Drimeeney. The people who dwelt there, red- 
 haired crabbit folk, men who would lend you a rope to 
 hang yourself and charge your relatives interest on the 
 rope, women hard as the hob of hell who would steal a 
 mouse from a blind kitten, and children fed on the blood 
 of a black cat, and evil disposed towards the world all 
 through their lives. Lucky for Mr. Brogan and his parish 
 prestige that he was seen on the Derry boat with a har- 
 vester 's bundle by a Drimeeney man. 
 
 But alas for Eamon na Sgaddan that year! A next-door 
 neighbor of his own, a red-haired youngster named Columb 
 Buagh Keeran, out of work in Scotland and tramping the 
 country from farm to farm looking for a job, happened to 
 come across Mr. Brogan one day near Paisley, emptying 
 dung-wagons on a free coup. 
 
 "Mother of God!" said the man. "And is it yourself 
 that's in it, Eamon?" 
 
 Not Mr. Brogan, but simply "Eamon." And this from 
 a Dungarrow man! But, after all, what could he expect, 
 being discovered under such circumstances ? A Mr. Brogan
 
 14 MAUREEN 
 
 could not descend to the menial task of emptying manure 
 from a cart. It was a job for an Eamon, the menial toil 
 of an ordinary man. Mr. Brogan stared vacantly at Columb 
 Ruagh, stroked a hairy chin with calloused fingers, rubbed 
 the open neck of a red flannel shirt with his other hand 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 The secret was revealed, the blind withdrawn, and in- 
 stead of being dazzled by the glare of a mighty business 
 establishment as was anticipated, Dungarrow, in the per- 
 son of Columb Ruagh Keeran, choked in the fetor of a 
 dung-wallow. 
 
 Columb Ruagh stared at the wagon, at the dung, the 
 graip which Mr. Brogan held in his hand, then at Mr. 
 Brogan himself. He looked the man up and down, at his 
 dung-flaked boots, his draggled, bell-mouthed corduroy 
 trousers, with their knee-straps topping the calves, and 
 their suspenders fastened to the waist by nails. The red 
 flannel shirt, buttonless, showed a hairy, sallow chest, and 
 torn, a punched belly naked to the navel. In paucity of 
 paunch, inconcinnity of parts and lack of symmetry, 
 Eamon somehow had the appearance of an unfledged gos- 
 ling. 
 
 "Well, Mother iv Mercy!" said Columb Ruagh, in the 
 tone of a man suddenly confronted by a wondrous spectacle 
 which he cannot explain, "who'd have ever looked for you 
 here, Eamon. Is this where you always come to when you 
 leave home?" 
 
 "This is what I do," said Eamon, with awkward diffi- 
 dence, the tears running from his eyes. 
 
 "And us all back home thinkin' that it's away on busi- 
 ness that ye are, ' ' said Columb, in a slow, thoughtful tone, 
 as if trying to set this strange discovery in its proper per- 
 spective. "And this is what ye 're at all the time?" 
 
 "All the time," said Eamon. As he spoke his eyes lit 
 up as if something new and beneficent had occurred to 
 him. "All the time now," he added. "So much depended
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 15 
 
 in my life on the ebb and flow of the market, the rise and 
 fall of shares. To-day, Mr. Keeran, we rest on the lap of 
 luxury, to-morrow we shelter our weary bodies in the 
 workhouse ward." 
 
 "Just thought iv that, haven't ye now?" said Columb 
 cruelly, his wonder suddenly evaporating, and a crafty, 
 calculating leer settling in the corner of his eyes. * ' Goigah, 
 when ye were at home one would think that butter wouldn't 
 melt in yer mouth, and here I find ye tellin' such lies. I 
 never thought that iv ye, Eamon, never would even it to 
 ye." 
 
 "You don't take my word for what I say?" asked Eamon, 
 fixing tearful eyes on Columb Ruagh. 
 
 "Well, if ye want me to take yer word, I'll take it," 
 said the young man casually, with a sidelong glance. "I'll 
 take any man's word if it comes to that, but all the same 
 what is the good iv a word, when ye 're half starved and 
 out on the roads trampin' the causeys in from the 'shriek 
 iv day till night, with never a penny piece in yer pocket 
 or a bite iv anything to warm yer guts. Then ye come to 
 a man, a towney iv yer own on business (from what he 
 says), and all that he'll give ye is his word. Damn yer 
 word's what I say, Eamon, when there's nothin' with it." 
 
 "I've a piece in my handkerchief and a drop iv tay in 
 the bottle that's at the fut iv the slope under my coat," 
 said Eamon. 
 
 "Is the tay cold?" asked Columb, sitting on his hunkers 
 and looking at Mr. Brogan. 
 
 "It's cold," Eamon assented. 
 
 "Well, the curse iv hell on it, then," said Columb in an 
 irate voice. "It's not a skinful iv cold tay that I want, 
 Eamon. It's somethin' else and can you guess what it 
 is?" 
 
 "What is it?" asked Eamon lamely. 
 
 "Money," said Columb, springing to his feet with a 
 vigorous bound, and opening and closing his fists. Eamon, 
 affrighted, stepped back a pace. Columb was a young and 
 vigorous man, supple as a hare and strong as a bull. In 
 him vast, mysterious forces seemed to be sullenly reposing,
 
 16 MAUREEN 
 
 but ready at any moment to burst their bonds and explode 
 like a thunderstorm. " Money is what I want," he roared 
 with an evil chuckle. "I would cut the head off iv a man 
 for ashillin'!" 
 
 "God look on us !" said Eamon, with a gasp. 
 
 "Yes, that's what I'd do," said Columb, emphasizing 
 the averment. "I haven't broke bread for two days, and 
 I haven 't seen what buys it for two months. Some men are 
 damned lucky," he growled, and glowered at Eamon. 
 1 ' They can get work, and when they see their poor towneys 
 on the dead end all that they can offer them is a bottle iv 
 cold tay." 
 
 "But the times are bad for every one," said Eamon, 
 pulling his shirt front together with nerveless fingers. 
 
 "You'll tell me next, I suppose, that ye haven't a job," 
 said Columb maliciously. "What screw d'ye get on this 
 shift?" 
 
 "Twenty-one shillings a week." 
 
 "And the rest," said Columb. "Have ye anything to 
 spare?" 
 
 "Half a crown," said Eamon tentatively, feeling in his 
 trousers pockets. The shirt came open again. 
 
 ' ' No good to me, ' ' said Columb, with the air of a man giv- 
 ing a verdict beyond appeal. "And ye've a damned sight 
 more money than that. You get a bothie here to sleep in, 
 don 't ye ? " he inquired. 
 
 "I do," said Eamon. 
 
 "I've heard iv this place," said Columb. "I met men 
 that worked here. And ye pick pieces of coal from the 
 coup and make yer fire ? ' ' 
 
 "I do," Eamon acquiesced. 
 
 "And ye get pratees free and milk for next to nothing," 
 Columb proceeded. 
 
 "Well, yes," said Eamon with some hesitation as if 
 Columb 's last statement was in some measure open to con- 
 tradiction. 
 
 "So, takin' it all in all, this is a damned good job," said 
 Columb with hurried insistence as if determined to pre- 
 vent Eamon from speaking. "All ye've to buy for yerself
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 17 
 
 is maybe a loaf and a bit iv steak and a taste iv tay and 
 sugar, and ye live like a king when a towney iv yer own 
 is put hard to it, lyin' in under bridges at night and trav- 
 elin' belly boast be day. And ye offer him a half-crown, 
 and ye without chick or child to make any claim on ye 
 when ye 're at home. Be a towney, Eamon, be a towney! 
 Slide me out three pounds and let me get out on my own 
 again!" 
 
 "I can't spare it," said Eamon weakly. 
 
 "A business man," said Columb cynically. 
 
 "I'll make it ten shillin's," said Eamon. 
 
 "Three pounds," replied the inflexible Columb. 
 
 "I haven't got it" 
 
 "Give me three pounds and I'll let you down light, Mr. 
 Brogan," Columb replied. "That, and never a word will 
 they hear in Dungarrow about me meetin' you here. You'll 
 be Mr. Brogan next winter as well as last winter. Columb 
 Huagh won't give the show away." 
 
 "Say a pound and never speak about meetin' me here," 
 Mr. Brogan mumbled in a thick voice ; conflicting emotions, 
 the desire to economize, the vanity of parish prestige and 
 fear of the mighty Columb Euagh glutting his utterance. 
 
 Columb cast a swift, penetrating glance around, taking 
 stock of the country-side. Not a soul was in sight. The 
 man's lips shut tightly, as if he had come to a sudden deci- 
 sion. He stepped up to Eamon. 
 
 "Look here," he said, in a tense whisper. "I want three 
 pounds. Fork it out and let me slide. If you don't I'll 
 wring your neck off and put an end to your business. Now, 
 into your pocket and out with it ! " 
 
 White with terror, Eamon groped in the pocket of his 
 trousers, drew out a purse and emptied the contents in his 
 hand. 
 
 "Two pounds eighteen," he said in a trembling voice. 
 "That's all that I have in the world. Take it and leave 
 me my lone." 
 
 Columb caught the money and shoved it into the pocket 
 of his waistcoat. 
 
 "Well, I'll never let them know in Dungarrow how I've
 
 18 MAUREEN 
 
 met ye," he said graciously. "So slan leat, Mr. Brogan, 
 I'm off!" 
 
 Two weeks later Columb met another Dungarrow laborer 
 in Glasgow, and despite the assurance given to Mr. Bro- 
 gan, he gave this man a detailed account of the incident 
 on the free coup : how Mr. Brogan, without collar and tie, 
 dressed in a red flannel shirt and corduroy trousers, was 
 encountered busily emptying dung from a Glasgow Cor- 
 poration wagon; how Eamon wept when he was discov- 
 ered there, .and told a cock-and-bull story about a business 
 that went smash; how Eamon 's dinner consisted of a piece 
 in a red handkerchief and cold tea in a beer-bottle, etc., 
 etc. Columb Ruagh, though not having the forbearance 
 to refrain from mentioning this incident, had the grace, 
 we must admit, to add that he felt sorry for the poor man. 
 Needless to say, Columb said nothing concerning the affair 
 of the three pounds. This being a mere domestic concern 
 of interest to none save Columb Ruagh and Eamon na 
 Sgaddan, it was not considered worthy of notice. 
 
 Thereupon light in relation to the secret movements of 
 Eamon na Sgaddan filtered through to Dungarrow, and 
 finding out what the man had striven to conceal, all local 
 interest in his life evaporated. He was just an* ordinary 
 man, a plaisham, a fool, one who strove to act a part for 
 which he was not fitted and to which he was not entitled. 
 True, he had big words, but did he know what these words 
 meant? True, he settled the dispute between the Gal- 
 laghers and Sweeneys, but did not everybody in the parish 
 see from the very beginning that this was the only manner 
 of settling the right-of-way matter ? True, he wore a col- 
 lar and tie, but then any man if he had the same impu- 
 dence and face as Eamon na Sgaddan could wear a collar 
 and tie. In fact, the people with a new sense of values saw 
 that Eamon na Sgaddan was no better than themselves, 
 that, in fact, he was not as good as his neighbors. He was 
 nothing more nor less than a lazy rake, not fit to do a 
 hand's turn for himself. Mr. Brogan indeed! No Mr. 
 Brogan in future ! From now onward he would be known 
 as the simple plaisham, Eamon na Sgaddan. Wait till
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 19 
 
 he came home at the heel of the year! They would show 
 him! 
 
 VI 
 
 But before Eamon na Sgaddan came home new events 
 transpired which did a lot to change the outlook of the 
 Dungarrow people, especially of mothers who had daugh- 
 ters of marriageable age. Tague Meehal Padraig, one of 
 the oldest men in the locality, died at the age of ninety- 
 four, leaving behind him a well-stocked farm, containing 
 sixty acres or thereabout, situate in the townland of Meen- 
 aroodagh, held under the Marquis of Bristol at the low 
 half-yearly judicial rent of four pounds, seven shillings 
 and sixpence. The lands which adjoined the county road 
 leading from Greenanore to Frosses were well fenced, 
 drained and watered, and in high state of cultivation, con- 
 taining six acres of ground suitable for cropping, three 
 acres turbary, and the remainder first-class grazing-ground. 
 Tague Meehal Padraig lived all alone in his home and em- 
 ployed day laborers to do the work of the farm. Before 
 dying he made a will leaving the farm to his next of kin, 
 the neighbor across the march ditch, who was his nephew 
 Eamon na Sgaddan. 
 
 Eamon na Sgaddan returned home as usual towards the 
 end of October, attired in pomp, and wearing his collar 
 and tie, his heart filled with the hope that probably Columb 
 Kuagh did not tell the Dungarrow people what he had seen 
 abroad. The first person he met on alighting from the 
 mail-car at the village of Stranarachary (population 211, 
 public houses 7, police 8) was his neighbor the venerable 
 Coy Fergus Beeragh, the authority on by-law and popular 
 jurisprudence. 
 
 "Back to us again, Mr. Brogan," said Coy, shaking the 
 stranger's hand with both his own. "Back again to fame 
 and fortune?" 
 
 "I'm delighted to see you, Mr. Beeragh," said the re- 
 turned business man. "After long absence it delights my 
 heart to come again to the old surroundings,"
 
 20 MAUREEN 
 
 "And it'll delight ye much more when ye hear what's 
 to hear, Mr. Brogan," said Coy Fergus Beeragh, with a 
 cunning wink. "Much and away more, me laddybuck!" 
 
 Mr. Brogan winced a little. The term laddybuck was 
 one which had never been applied to him before, at least 
 not since he grew to be a man and wore the white collar. 
 
 "And what is this sensational disclosure?" he asked, the 
 ancient pride of the collared scholar giving tone and ad- 
 dress to the utterance. 
 
 "What is it that's up me sleeve, ye mane?" said Coy 
 Beeragh, giving Mr. Brogan a nudge on the ribs with his 
 elbow and again winking. "It's somethin' that doesn't 
 often occur in the parish iv Dungarrow, Mr. Brogan. The 
 last time a thing like it took place was fifty years ago and 
 me a wee boy not more than the height iv two turf with me 
 heels in the ashes and the A B C's on me legs. And it 
 was a divil iv a wee boy that I was in them days, Mr. Bro- 
 gan, a divil entirely. And it was the fast legs that I had 
 in undher me, for I could scoot across the brae-face like a 
 hare. I mind once and me so wee, when me Granny, dead 
 and gone this many a long year, God rest her, lifted the 
 birch to give me a skelp because it was up to some divilment 
 that I was, and I jouked out iv her reach and legged it 
 first one way and then another so that she couldn't lay her 
 hands on me, and me only two years ould at the time. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But about this sensational disclosure ? ' ' asked Mr. Bro- 
 gan, his curiosity at bursting-point. 
 
 "I'm comin' to that, me boy, I'm comin' to that as hard 
 as I can," said Coy Fergus Beeragh with a knowing nod. 
 "It's a great bit iv news entirely, and never was the like 
 iv it in all the barony and for the matter iv that in all the 
 four corners iv Ireland itself. Everybody's talking about 
 it and sayin' this and that about it up and down the road 
 every night iv the week for the past month. When we 
 heard it in me own house, Biddy herself thanked God for 
 it, and young Norah, me daughter, put her two hands to- 
 gether like this" Coy pressed two miry palms together, 
 pressed his beard with his fingers and looked up at the sky 
 as if saying his prayers "like this, and says: 'To every
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 21 
 
 soul its due, and the man that has come in for this stroke 
 iv luck deserves it more than any one else in the whole 
 world.' " 
 
 "But who was the fortunate individual?" Mr. Brogan 
 inquired, feeling that Coy, speaking in parenthesis and 
 allowing digression to outrun the boundaries of the matter 
 in hand, would never get to the pith of the story. 
 
 ''Who is it, ye ask, Mr. Brogan?" said Coy, catching 
 the questioner again by the hand. "Who is it that has 
 come into luck, that has come to the rainbow's butt and 
 got the crock iv gold, if there's a crock iv gold to be got 
 there, which I sadly misdoubt? I mind an old woman, 
 named Maura Fargortha, that lived on the other side iv 
 Drimin Cloghan in the days that are long gone. She was 
 called Maura Fargortha because she was so thin that she 
 was nothin' more than a bag iv bones. Some said it was 
 decline, but others said that it was nothin' more or less 
 than the hunger that was consumin' all the oil in her body 
 and her wastin'. Well, this Maura one day took the notion 
 into her head that she would set out over the hills and 
 go to the butt iv the rainbow and get the crock iv gold 
 that was hid there. I mind her settin' out on the journey 
 and me not more than three at the time, for it's the great 
 memory that I have entirely. I mind it as well as yester- 
 day and me comin' close on sixty now with three sons be 
 the wife that was, Mary Liam, God rest her, and a daugh- 
 ter, Norah, by the wife that is, Bosha Kelly. It's often 
 that the two iv them bees asking about ye now and won- 
 derin' how you were getting on and ye away across the 
 water on business. It's every night that the two iv them, 
 when down on their knees, sayin' the Paidreen, finishes up 
 with a prayer for all away from home, not forgettin' Mr. 
 Brogan, the next-door neighbor. And Norah, the vaga- 
 bone" Coy shook his head in mock depreciation "stays 
 longer on her knees sayin' a prayer for your safety than 
 she would for any one else at all, even the souls that are 
 suffering torments in the flames iv purgatory. And what 
 would ye think the age of Norah would be now, Mr. Bro- 
 gan?" asked Coy Fergus Beeragh.
 
 22 MAUREEN 
 
 ""Well, I really cannot say," said the gallant Mr. Bro- 
 gan, "but" with grandiloquent courtesy "whatever her 
 age is, she doesn't look her years." 
 
 "That's what everybody says, even Father Dan, and 
 it's often he passes the word with me when I meet him 
 on the road," said Coy with an ingratiating gesture and 
 the look of a man who has made a good stroke of diplomacy. 
 " 'Twas only yesterday that I met his reverence, and 'Coy 
 Beeragh,' says he, 'it's a long while now since I've seen 
 ye at all and it's many a time I have the mind to go up 
 to your own townland and visit ye to have a talk about 
 old times.' 
 
 " ' It 's a glad man that I 'd be to see ye in my wee house, ' 
 says I. 'And it's a good cup iv tay that Norah will be 
 able to set in front iv ye, and bread the like iv what was 
 never baked, and butter that can't be made in any house 
 in the parish, bar me own, for me daughter Norah is handy, 
 both at the churn and the fryin'-pan.' 'She's a fine girl 
 and all, that daughter iv yours, Coy,' says he. 'I saw her 
 yesterday at the funeral of Tague Meehal Padraig, God rest 
 him!'" 
 
 "Old Tague 's dead then; deceased," Mr. Brogan ex- 
 claimed, and added, ' ' God have mercy on his soul ! ' ' 
 
 ' ' He has passed away, ' ' said Coy, and disclosed the won- 
 derful secret with the same breath. "He has passed away 
 and left his holdin' to yerself, Mr. Brogan." 
 
 For a moment Mr. Brogan was silent. He stared at Coy 
 Fergus Beeragh, his mouth stupidly open and his fingers 
 twitching as if on the point of clutching at something that 
 might evade his grip. Then all at once he shook himself 
 and casually arranged his tie. 
 
 "Is it true, Mr. Beeragh?" he asked, his tones tinged 
 with a shade of feigned indifference, his mind a welter of 
 vague possibilities. 
 
 "May I fall where I stand if there's a word iv lie in 
 what I say," Mr. Beeragh answered. "The will is in the 
 hands iv the priest, and who but yerself has most right 
 to the holdin', and you the next iv kin iv Tague Meehal
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 23 
 
 Padraig ? And the right dacent man he was, too. I mind 
 once and that was many a long year back," and with 
 much wealth of detail and innate tendency to stray from 
 the straight path of the narrative into the by-lanes of irrel- 
 evancy, the old man proceeded to relate a story to which 
 Eamon na Sgaddan, engrossed in a calculation of the value 
 of the holding of his late uncle, paid not the slightest 
 heed. 
 
 Even the most worthy scholar descends at times from 
 the mount of learning to deal a little in ordinary material 
 business. But this is done almost unconsciously, as a 
 poet steps into a midden when gazing at the stars. 
 Suddenly Brogan shook himself, righted his tie and 
 looked at Coy Fergus Beeragh, who was now deep in his 
 story. 
 
 "Was the demise sudden?" asked Mr. Brogan. "The 
 demise of my worthy relative?" 
 
 "Tague Meehal Padraig, ye mane," said Coy. " 'Twas 
 sudden, God rest him ! He was a hale and hearty man at 
 the shut iv one day and gone from us the next. The two 
 boys that's hired on him went to their work in the mornin', 
 and not a hilt or hair iv smoke did they see rise from the 
 chimney at all till it was noon. Then fearin' the worst 
 they went up to the door and in, to find the poor man lyin' 
 dead on his bed with his trousers on and the cat that was 
 in the house lyin' on top iv him, and it sleepin'. Ye mind 
 the cat, one like your own, that got its tail cut off be a 
 scythe when it kept gaddin' through Sally Rourke's holm 
 after corn-crakes the harvest two years ago? It's a hard 
 life and all, when an old man dies and him not havin' 
 chick or child iv his own to look after him. It's married 
 that a man should get when he finds himself with nobody 
 at all in his house and the holdin' under his care, a big 
 handlin', not for one, but for two and more'n two. A 
 married man has the pull iv everybody because there's a 
 snug drop iv tay for him when he comes in from his work, 
 and his stockin's darned and his trousers patched and his 
 home kept tidy. A strong home he '11 have and a bed iv com-
 
 24 MAUREEN 
 
 fort, for is it not an old sayin' that a man and woman is 
 fit to make any bed warm in the coldest weather?" 
 
 "Sound philosophy," said Eamon na Sgaddan, who by 
 this time was gradually coming to realize his good fortune. 
 "Sound philosophy, Mr. Beeragh, sound philosophy. And 
 what about a drink, a slight modicum of beverage in cele- 
 bration of the event? Let's proceed to the licensed prem- 
 ises of Mr. O'Ryan." 
 
 "And wet our whistles, Mr. Brogan," Coy supplemented. 
 
 The two men went up the village street together and en- 
 tered the licensed premises of Mr. O'Ryan, where Coy 
 Beeragh called for two glasses of the best. These were 
 drunk and a second two ordered, then a third two, Coy pay- 
 ing for all. He insisted on doing this ; it was only a friendly 
 action, heaping the honors of return on Mr. Brogan. Coy 
 was glad to see Mr. Brogan, glad to be the first to tell him 
 of his good fortune, and proud to be the neighbor of a 
 man who had come into his own. 
 
 Of course he was a relation of Brogan 's, far out it was 
 true, but still a relation. If it were traced back far enough 
 it would be seen that both were of the same stock and blood, 
 far out of course, but not so far out. Brogan 's grandfather 
 married a Beeragh, and Brogan 's father, a decent man and 
 all, God rest him, often said that it was a first-class mingling 
 of blood, the Beeragh 's and the Brogan 's, as could be seen 
 to the present day by looking at Mr. Brogan, a fine man 
 and scholar, who did more to settle disputes than the law 
 of the land. From this Coy Fergus Beeragh, with the skill 
 of a peasant diplomat, launched into an account of his 
 own family, praising all the members of it in turn, not 
 forgetting his daughter Norah, who was the best hand in 
 the parish at baking a scone, sewing a shirt, and knitting 
 a stocking. 
 
 "An exceptional girl, your daughter Norah," said Mr. 
 Brogan, trying to get a word in edgeways, for all the talk- 
 ing was conducted by the old man. 
 
 "That's right, sir," said Coy with feeling. "One of 
 the best, willin* and obligin* and have another deoch, 
 Mr. Brogan."
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 25 
 
 "Delighted," said Eamon na Sgaddan. "But it's my 
 turn to pay for the modicum now. A business man of my 
 standing can't allow you to pay for it all." 
 
 Under the charm of the good news and the influence of 
 the liquor for which Coy paid, Mr. Brogan had forgotten 
 all about the meeting with Columb Ruagh on the Paisley 
 free coup. 
 
 "It's not you to pay for a drop iv this," said Coy Bee- 
 ragh, emphasis in his voice. "Some other time, Mr. Bro- 
 gan, some other time, but not now. I have money, too, 
 Mr. Brogan, and can stand a wee deoch to the best iv them. 
 Money! I have lashin's iv it. A hundred and twenty 
 gold sovereigns are in the bank for Norah the day that 
 she gets the ring on her finger. A hundred and twenty 
 gold sovereigns, which shows ye that, old as I am, I am a 
 man iv substance. ' ' 
 
 So Coy paid for the two glasses and for several which 
 followed. Not that Eamon na Sgaddan would not have 
 paid if he had been allowed the opportunity, but the old 
 man was adamant in his determination, and persistent as 
 well as prodigal in his hospitality. He drank glass for 
 glass, speaking all the time, telling one incident after an- 
 other with all the garrulity of old years, forgetting the 
 threads of many stories and drifting into others as easily 
 as a flooded stream, coming down a brae, runs into a mil- 
 lion rivulets. 
 
 At half-past seven he began speaking, his hat thrust to 
 the back of his head and one elbow leaning on the counter 
 of the public house ; at eight, the hat was farther back and 
 both hands thrust into his trousers pockets, rattling the 
 loose change which the pockets contained ; at half -past eight 
 he was sitting down, his hat pulled over his eyes and his 
 thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat; at nine he was 
 still speaking, incoherently now, of Mr. Brogan, of Tague 
 Meehal Padraig, and of the girl Norah with her dowry of 
 one hundred and twenty pounds, money down, the day 
 she got the ring. He was now lying on the floor, against 
 the wall, pipe in one hand, an empty glass in the other 
 and his hat missing.
 
 26 MAUREEN 
 
 vn 
 
 Though Coy Fergus Beeragh had succumbed to his few 
 glasses of the best, Eamon na Sgaddan, younger and 
 stronger, was more able to stand the influence of the liquor. 
 Buying a bottle of whisky, he put it in his pocket, fixed a 
 puzzled stare on the fallen Coy, muttered something about 
 the hospitable inebriate and made his way out into the 
 street and up the road to Meenaroodagh, his head filled 
 with confused thoughts of his uncle 's will, his own business 
 prospects, and last but not least, with dreams of Norah 
 Beeragh, who had one hundred and twenty pounds com- 
 ing the day she got the ring on her finger. 
 
 Mr. Brogan, it must be admitted, had a weak spot in 
 his heart for the fair sex, and he had been in love with 
 most of the girls in the parish at some time or another, 
 worshiping them from a distance, it is true, and seldom 
 bold enough to get into closer intimacy with them, save 
 when under the influence of whisky. But in matters of 
 the heart he never had much success. Given a fair field 
 and favor in matters of scholarly import, Mr. Brogan was 
 denied similar latitude when it came to the field of love. 
 Girls would speak kindly to him on the road and at the 
 market, but when it came to seeing one of them home from 
 a dance in the dark, Mr. Brogan was generally denied the 
 opportunity. In tone, outlook and sympathy, he was too 
 far removed from them; his long words formed a barrier 
 which the girls feared. They didn't understand them. So 
 why trouble about him and his words ? Anyway he was a 
 plaisham, looking over his collar like a donkey over a 
 whitewashed wall so the girls with the cruelty of their 
 sex declared. And catch a Dungarrow girl marrying a 
 plaisham even though he were a scholar. 
 
 Taking both sides of the road, Eamon na Sgaddan made 
 his way homeward, but when he came to a house by the 
 roadside, the house of Condy Heelagh, he stopped and 
 went inside. Condy was the Meenaroodagh shoemaker 
 and cobbler, a talkative man with a stoop due to long lean- 
 ing over his last, a wife, Peggy Ribbig, and five daughters
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 27 
 
 grown up and unmarried. Peggy, a born matchmaker, 
 though unsuccessful with her own brood as yet, was pleased 
 when she saw Mr. Brogan enter, and more pleased when 
 she saw him stagger from the doorway to the center of the 
 floor. Peggy Ribbig, wise in her faculty, knew that a little 
 drink often opens the gate to many possibilities. 
 
 "Mr. Heelagh, congratulations," said Eamon, when he 
 entered. "Congratulations! Congratulations! I enter 
 heir to the estates of my progenitors. And damsels fair, 
 I salute thee," he said, fixing a benign and maudlin look 
 on the five daughters of Peggy Ribbig. These girls had 
 been sitting on the floor a moment before, busy with their 
 knitting, but now, utterly self-conscious, with their do- 
 mestic circle invaded by the collared scholar, they were 
 doing up their blouses, dressing their hair and setting 
 the odds and ends of the house in order. Condy Heelagh 
 got to his feet, his pipe stuck in the corner of his cap, 
 and gripped Mr. Brogan by the hand. 
 
 "Congratulations to yerself, dacent man," he said 
 warmly. "It's not us that comes in for congratulations 
 this tide, but yerself, Mr. Brogan, that's heir to the estate 
 iv a dacent man, as the sayin' is, and we all wish ye luck 
 in yer fortune. Peggy was saying to me but yesterday 
 that if any man in the parish deserved the luck iv gettin* 
 that holdin' it was yerself, Mr. Brogan. Didn't ye now, 
 Peggy?" 
 
 "Indeed and I did that, Mr. Brogan," said the good 
 woman, getting the hand which her husband had released 
 and squeezing it tightly. Not alone did she squeeze it, 
 but report has it that she raised it to her lips and kissed 
 it. "And more than that," she added hastily, entering 
 into the business which she saw was meet for the occasion 
 the moment Eamon na Sgaddan entered the door, "I said 
 that here ye were now, a man with land and stock and 
 money to spare that would make a fine home for any woman 
 in the land, no matter who she was. But the best woman 
 you could get, Mr. Brogan, was one that would be able to 
 do the work iv the house and keep it snug and tidy. That 
 was what I said, wasn't it now, Condy?"
 
 28 MAUREEN 
 
 "Them were your words, Peggy," Condy corroborated, 
 though feeling that his good wife was heading far too 
 recklessly into the marriage question. "Them were your 
 words, but how are ye at all, Mr. Brogan?" he inquired, 
 looking at the visitor. "Ye haven't changed a bit since 
 we saw ye here six months gone. And I suppose ye've 
 been hard at work on yer business all the time since then, 
 making yer fortune beyont the water. But a man with 
 brains to get to the top all the time, and ye've got to the 
 top at home and abroad, Mr. Brogan, and good luck to 
 
 ye." 
 
 "Business first, Mr. Heelagh," said Eamon, dismissing 
 the compliment with a wave of his hand and sitting down 
 on the chair nearest him. He drew the full bottle from 
 his pocket and held it between him and the lamp that hung 
 from the roof beam, closed one eye and surveyed it with 
 the other. "Business first and then pleasure," he added, 
 holding the bottle at an oblique angle, opening the shut 
 eye, then closing both. "Business first and pleasure after- 
 wards. Have you a glass in your possession, Mr. Heelagh, 
 so that we shall partake of a small modicum of beverage ? ' ' 
 
 A glass was procured, filled to the brim and emptied by 
 Condy Heelagh. Wiping his lips he took his pipe from 
 his cap, lit it and handed it to Eamon na Sgaddan. 
 
 "It's a big farm that ye've come into now, Mr. Brogan," 
 said Condy when Eamon na Sgaddan got into the pull of 
 the pipe and puffed the white smoke towards the ceiling. 
 "And if there's not a woman to help you now, everything 
 will go to rack and ruin. It takes a woman to look after 
 the hens and ducks and feed the calves and milk the 
 cows. ' ' 
 
 "Undoubtedly," said Eamon with a sigh, his thoughts 
 taking a melancholy turn. 
 
 "True for ye, that it is," said Condy with an accom- 
 panying sigh. "And it's bad for a man to be left his lone 
 with not a one to make his bit iv breakfast in the mornin' 
 or to sew a button on his shirt or put a patch on his 
 trousers (not that ye'd ever need to wear trousers with 
 patches on them, Mr. Brogan), or try the ducks and hens
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 29 
 
 at night. It's a sin to be livin' and no woman in the house, 
 Mr. Brogan." 
 
 "It is that, and for a man iv substance, too," said Peggy 
 Ribbig, sorting her matronly hams on the hassog and tak- 
 ing up her knitting. "It's a woman ye'd make fine and 
 soncy on it, Mr. Brogan, a man like yerself, that hasn't yer 
 heart in the penny piece." 
 
 "And ye '11 be havin' a drop of this, too," said Eamon, 
 suddenly realizing that he had forgotten Peggy, and filling 
 the glass again. "It's prime stuff, Mrs. Heelagh." 
 
 "That'll do, that'll do now," said Peggy, as Mr. Brogan 
 filled the glass to the brim. "It'll be making me funny in 
 me head if I drink all that." 
 
 She took the glass, sipped it, puckered her lips and made 
 a wry face. This of course was a mere feminine formality, 
 for she drank it to the final trickle. 
 
 "It's not often I get a sup," said Peggy. "But that!" 
 
 She spoke as one who, though not a judge of whisky, had 
 still sufficient discrimination to realize that the glass filled 
 by Mr. Brogan contained special properties. 
 
 "Aye!" said Condy Heelagh, with the air of a man 
 who knows what whisky is but never tasted anything bet- 
 ter than that which he had just drunk. 
 
 The five daughters looked at Condy, at Peggy Ribbig, 
 then at Eamon, and then at one another. Finally the eyes 
 of four rested on Biddy, who was the eldest, and on the 
 face of Biddy shone a look of hope. 
 
 "Biddy, what are ye doin', not thinkin' about it?" said 
 Peggy, looking at her eldest daughter. "Put the taypot on 
 the fire, will ye, and give Mr. Brogan a drop iv tay to 
 warm himself afore he's half froze with the cold wind 
 that's coming in under the door." 
 
 "My thanks to you, Mrs. Heelagh, but it's not a modicum 
 of tea I want to-night," said Eamon, putting the bottle 
 back in his pocket and handing the pipe to Condy Heelagh. 
 "I'll proceed homewards and slumber till dawn." 
 
 He rose unsteadily to his feet and went to the door. 
 Standing there for a moment he looked back, his face twist- 
 ing in an inane and tipsy grin.
 
 30 MAUREEN 
 
 "It's a poor house without a woman, Mrs. Heelagh," 
 he hiccoughed. "But probably it's as bad when there's 
 a surplus of the sex in residence." 
 
 The household laughed uneasily. Eamon was drunk and 
 might say anything now. The shoemaker's daughters were 
 all of marrying age, but were denied good looks. 
 
 "Watch yerself goin' home, anyway," said Condy in an 
 effort to turn Eamon 's thoughts in another direction. 
 "Ye 're passin' the house iv Cassie Shemus Meehal and she 
 may come after ye with the stick." 
 
 "Not on my tracks, Mr. Heelagh," said Eamon pot- 
 valiantly, shrugging his shoulders and taking the bottle 
 from his pocket. He looked steadfastly at it for a moment, 
 then put it back again. "Not with a stick, anyway," he 
 said, as if that particular point was clear anyhow. 
 
 "He has a high opinion iv himself," whispered Biddy 
 to her sisters. "It's funny the way that drink puts the 
 notions into a man's head." 
 
 "Not with a stick," Eamon repeated. "If it's after me 
 she comes, it won't be with a stick, I'll go bail. A stick! 
 Not after me with a stick ! A stick ! A cudgel ! A wand ! 
 But not after me that could buy her and her ould mother 
 at any market. I'll go up to her very door and see what 
 she'll say to me, the same Cassie Shemus Meehal!" 
 
 "I wouldn't like to be in yer shoes, Mr. Brogan," said 
 Condy with a shrug of his shoulders. ' ' She 's a hussy, the 
 same girl, I'm tellin' ye. There's nothin' that she's not 
 up to. I've seen her set to mow a field, that one behind 
 her house, and with hobeen and gibeen it's a job that few 
 men would care to tackle. But my bould Maureen went 
 for it and done it just like a man." 
 
 "It's not a woman that she is but a man," said Peggy 
 Ribbig, drawing a snuffbox from her breast and putting 
 the snuff to her nose. 
 
 "Well, let her be whatever she is, I'm going there to see 
 her to-night," said Eamon, whose mood now took a reck- 
 less turn. "And not alone will go and see her, but I'll ask 
 her to share me house and home with me." 
 
 The faces of the listeners lengthened. Peggy Ribbig
 
 BAMON NA SGADDAN 31 
 
 dropped her snuffbox to the floor, spilling the snuff. The 
 girls looked at one another, and Hannah, the youngest and 
 not the ugliest, tittered. Condy took the pipe from his 
 mouth, spat in the bowl and pressed the wet ash in with 
 his finger. 
 
 "A stick!" laughed Mr. Brogan, opening the door and 
 edging out sideways. "A stick! A cudgel! A wand!" 
 he repeated, when nothing of him could be seen save one 
 shoulder. 
 
 He went out. An unsteady step could be heard in the 
 darkness as Eamon made his way across the street, then 
 a voice roared. 
 
 "Run after me! Not with a stick, a cudgel or a wand, 
 anyway ! ' ' 
 
 "Poor Eamon," said Condy, looking at Peggy Ribbig. 
 "It's drink in and senses out with him." 
 
 "The divil fly away with him and his capers!" said 
 Peggy angrily. "I've spilt all me snuff. Come, Hannah, 
 and pick it up, ye gawmy. Sittin' there laughin' like a 
 plaisham ! ' ' 
 
 "I'm not laughin' like a plaisham, ma, and I'm not the 
 only plaisham in the house if I am one, either," said the 
 girl tartly. 
 
 "There's no one in the house as big a plaisham as ye 
 are, Hannah," said Biddy, secretly annoyed at her own 
 hopes of a moment before, and doubly annoyed because 
 she knew that those hopes were no secret to her younger 
 sisters. 
 
 Condy looked round at the girls, coughed and spat on 
 the floor. 
 
 "Can ye not be quiet one minute, day or night?" he said 
 angrily. "Ye are always going for one another like cats 
 and dogs. Be quiet, won't yees, if ye've nothin' better 
 to do." 
 
 The house was surprised at the father's remark. He 
 was always a very meek man and never interfered in do- 
 mestic matters. 
 
 "And if ye've nothin' better to do," he went on, wrin- 
 kles of quiet cunning marshaling themselves round his
 
 32 MAUREEN 
 
 eyes, "why doesn't one iv ye go out and see Eamon home 
 across the brae? He's taken a drop too much, and maybe 
 it 's f allin ' into a sheuch that he '11 be in the dark. ' ' 
 
 "That's right," said Peggy Ribbig in a voice of ap- 
 proval. ' ' Run away out, one iv ye, and see the dacent man 
 home. Him after comin' back from foreign parts and 
 left to himself to go across the braes in the dark after 
 takin' a drop too much and it in his head!" 
 
 "Well, I'm not goin'," said Eveleen, the second daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 "Nor am I," said Anne, the third daughter. 
 
 "The poor plaisham," said the fourth daughter, Mary, 
 contempt in her voice. 
 
 ' ' Catch me goin ' outside the door a night like this, ' ' said 
 Hannah. 
 
 The field was clear for Biddy, the eldest and ugliest. 
 
 "Feeard, indeed," said Biddy, puckering up her nose 
 and looking at Hannah. "I'm not feeard, but that and 
 all I'm not goin' to see the old plaisham home because he's 
 drunk." 
 
 "Ye 're as feeard as the rest iv them," said the astute 
 Peggy, who knew that Biddy, though indifferent to the 
 terrors of the night, dreaded the jibes of her sisters. This 
 doubt cast on the girl's pluck was a goad to urge her to- 
 wards a certain course of action, and the mother's diplo- 
 macy was welcome to Biddy. She would now have an ex- 
 cuse to do what she desired. There was still hope. 
 
 "Just to show ye all that I'm not afeeard!" she said, 
 taking a shawl from the peg behind the door and wrapping 
 it round her shoulders. Then without another word she 
 went out and followed Mr. Brogan. 
 
 vm 
 
 The night was very dark, a mist lay on the holms and 
 from the near hills came the rumbling sounds of water 
 tumbling over the rocks. Here and there faint lights flick- 
 ered timidly, now dying away and again bursting out with 
 unwonted brilliancy.
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 33 
 
 "Micky Cosdhu's lamp and it always as if it is goin' 
 out with the soot on the globe ! ' ' said Biddy mechanically 
 as she ran, her bare feet pattering on the dry roadway. 
 "Peadar Fasha's light through the old blind! Leggy 
 O'Donnel's light and she so early in bed always. That's 
 Eamon's talk I hear. He's speakin' to himself. Maybe 
 it's lyin' down be the road that he is and goin' to sleep. 
 It will be a death iv cold that he's gettin', the poor plai- 
 sham. ' ' 
 
 A motherly feeling was roused in the girl. She felt her- 
 self a protector of the kinless home from foreign parts. 
 He should have some one to take care of him now, seeing 
 that he had such a holding in his charge. Of course by 
 "some one" Biddy Heelagh meant herself. 
 
 She found him sitting by the roadside, his head sunk 
 down on his white dickie, his back thrust against a bank 
 and his legs stretched out in front of him to their full 
 extent. 
 
 "It it goin' to sleep here that ye are, Mr. Brogan?" 
 Biddy asked, touching the man on the shoulder and nudg- 
 ing him gently. 
 
 "A stick, a cudgel or a wand!" mumbled Eamon na 
 Sgaddan. 
 
 "It's cold for ye lyin' here all be yerself, Mr. Brogan," 
 said Biddy. "Get up and come away home with me." 
 
 "Whose home? What home?" asked Eamon without 
 opening his eyes. "Whose home and what home? . . . 
 The estate of my progenitors. The ancestral halls and two 
 hundred pounds her portion when the ring's on her finger. 
 Mr. Heelagh. ... A stick ! A cudgel ! or a wand ! ' ' 
 
 "Get up, Mr. Brogan," said Biddy, catching the man 
 by both shoulders and firmly shaking him. He opened 
 his eyes, rubbed them and looked at Biddy. 
 
 "Damsel fair, I salute thee," he said. "My heart is 
 yours!" 
 
 "Get up, Mr. Brogan, will ye now," Biddy entreated. 
 "It's yer death iv cold that ye '11 get lyin' here on a night 
 like this." 
 
 "I arise," said Mr. Brogan, getting to his feet and
 
 34 MAUREEN 
 
 clasping Biddy Heelagh's hand with both his own. "I 
 arise, so lead the way and I follow thee, fair charmer." 
 
 What ensued is fully known in every specific item and 
 particular detail to the Dungarrow folk down to this very 
 day. Some youngsters, it appears, heard the voice of Mr. 
 Brogan from the roadside, and these rascals, crawling 
 through the fields and skirting the laneways on the heels 
 of the pair, fair Biddy and the man whom she chaperoned, 
 overheard their conversation and followed the developments 
 of the evening with interest. 
 
 In the first place Biddy urged Eamon to come back 
 with her to her own house where there was a good fire and 
 where he could sleep in comfort through the night. Mr. 
 Brogan assented, saying that it was an honor to follow in 
 the footsteps of the fair and charming towards a haven 
 of security. But when near the shoemaker's home he 
 altered his mind and said that he really wanted to go back 
 and proceed in state to the home of his progenitors. Biddy 
 was loth to allow him to return to his home, which, though 
 the house of his progenitors, had not been warmed by a fire 
 since he left it on business six months ago. Eamon was, 
 however, obdurate, and as token of his inflexibility of 
 purpose he ceased calling Biddy his Fair and Charming. 
 She dropped from her pedestal and became plain Miss 
 Heelagh. 
 
 "In fact, Miss Heelagh, if I am not allowed to return 
 to the home of my progenitors," he said querulously, "I'll 
 lie down by the roadway and slumber there under the 
 canopy of heaven. ' ' 
 
 "Give in to him, Biddy, ye plaisham ye, give in to him," 
 came a whisper from the roadside at this juncture. "Give 
 in to him, Biddy, and it will be for the best." 
 
 It was the voice of Peggy Eibbig, who was secretly fol- 
 lowing the developments of the evening. 
 
 Biddy gave in ; the pair left the roadway and took their 
 way along the boreen that led to Eamon 's home. This 
 lane was very narrow, so narrow that it was almost im- 
 possible for two to move abreast without touching arms. 
 In fact, arms touched and interlocked and in this stage
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 35 
 
 of intimacy Biddy was no longer the Fair or the Charmer 
 or Miss Heelagh. She had become "My darling," and 
 "My wee love." When Peggy Eibbig, who despite her 
 age had ears that could hear grass growing, heard Mr. 
 Brogan address her daughter in such a manner, she turned 
 back with the good news to her man Condy Heelagh, the 
 cobbler. 
 
 It was at the turn of the lane, when Eamon saw a light 
 through a window-blind, that the calamity occurred. 
 
 It was an ordinary, everyday calamity, which might over- 
 take any man, be he a scholar or a plaisham. Some person 
 has said, a Dungarrow man probably, that a slate may fall 
 on any man's head. This implies that none is safe from 
 the buffs of misfortune, accidental mishaps, untoward hard- 
 ships, those wasps that sting human beings when they 
 pluck a nosegay in a field of flowers. These checks and 
 crosses wait man at every corner, infinitesimal in them- 
 selves probably, but bearing the seeds of incipient heart- 
 ache. The Dungarrow folk are conscious of the truth of 
 this, as witness their proverbs: 
 
 A thin rope breaks a giant's neck. 
 
 A lash in the eye blinds a sailor. 
 
 A doncy linch-pin takes heart from the biggest cart. 
 
 Mr. Brogan knew these sayings, and in after years when 
 Fate, like a master that thrashes an idle scholar, lashed 
 Eamon in a ditch, where counsel could not solace nor 
 wisdom avail, he regretted the lesson he did not learn. 
 Now, as he stood at the turn of the boreen, the wheel of 
 his life swung on a fatal pivot, the blind that hung on 
 the window of the house of Cassie Shemus Meehal. For a 
 moment, with his arm round the waist of Biddy Heelagh, 
 he looked at it. Then he released his grip. 
 
 "A stick, a cudgel, a wand," he muttered. "A stick, 
 a cudgel and a wand ! I must pay my compliments to Miss 
 Meehal." 
 
 He crawled over an adjoining dyke, despite the efforts 
 of Biddy to detain him. 
 
 "Farewell, darling, farewell!" he muttered, without 
 turning round. "My Fate ordains it and I go!"
 
 36 MAUREEN 
 
 Biddy, in the desperation that defies Fate, followed him, 
 clutched him by the sleeve, entreated him to come home, 
 but all to no avail. He was going to pay his compliments 
 to Miss Meehal, and his wishes were not to be gainsaid. 
 
 "Farewell, Miss Heelagh! Farewell!" he said with a 
 grandiloquent gesture and thrust her gently aside. Then 
 he made for the house of Cassie Meehal, and a moment 
 later Biddy heard him knocking on the door. 
 
 "The dirty plaisham," groaned the girl. "Eamon na 
 Sgaddan! Business man! A collar on his neck when he 
 is here at home, and a red shirt with a graip on a dung- 
 cart when he's beyont the water! May the seven curses 
 iv the divil be after him all his life, the omadhaun ! Him 
 and his white collar and tie!" 
 
 So the young rascals who lay in the shadows of the lane- 
 way declared, which may be true. But the story which 
 went up and down the parish of how she cried herself to 
 sleep that night can hardly be vouched for. If she cried 
 she would do so quietly, for Biddy was a very close girl, 
 who did not wear her heart on her sleeve. If she cried 
 quietly those who listened at the window that night would 
 certainly not know the manner in which Biddy expressed 
 the anguish of her soul. 
 
 And Mr. Brogan! Suffice to say that Eveleen Meehal, 
 Cassie 's mother, old and skinny and deaf, opened the door 
 and let him in. Eveleen 's daughter, Cassie, could be 
 seen shaking his hand as he crossed the threshold. Then 
 the door closed on Mr. Brogan, the only man who had en- 
 tered that house since Shemus Meehal died two years before. 
 Cassie had no use for men. She was a man herself if 
 one can judge a human being by force of character and 
 strength of body. It was said that she was as strong as a 
 creel-rest. Whether this was so or not is a matter of doubt, 
 but the woman before and after her marriage could carry 
 a creel of turf which few full-grown men would care to 
 shoulder. She would also take her place with the best of 
 them at cutting a meadow or setting a ridge of potatoes. 
 
 But she was a very handsome girl and had more than 
 one offer for her hand. These offers she refused in a
 
 EAMON NA SGADDAN 37 
 
 manner peculiarly her own. "Want to marry me, do ye?" 
 she was known to say to a claimant. "It's a man that 
 I'm wantin' when I take it into me head to marry," she 
 added, "and not somethin' that ye can hang over a crook 
 like a wet rag!" 
 
 But she did not chase Mr. Brogan away with a cudgel 
 that night. In fact, he did not leave her house till the 
 next morning. A week later there was a marriage in the 
 parish church of Dungarrow. The happy pair were Mr. 
 Brogan and Gassie Shemus Meehal.
 
 FIBHIN' 
 
 Now, vfho would ye be at the dark iv night 
 That comes to the door and raps that way, 
 And fright'nin' me be the fire me lone, 
 And him at his work on Gweebarra Bay, 
 
 Fishin' t 
 
 Him at his work and me in the house, 
 With a league iv water between us two 
 Cold and black on me childre dead, 
 And drowned were the two iv them, Micky and Hugh, 
 
 Fishin'. 
 
 It's work for the two iv us; him at the turf 
 When the weather is warm, or else the kelp, 
 And it's knittm' for me when he bees out 
 At night on the sea with no one to help, 
 
 Fishin'. 
 
 'Twos yerself be the door, was itf All the time! 
 And there's fear in yer eyes and yer face is white 
 Himself it is! Drowned! Oh! Mother iv God! 
 Look down upon me from above this night! 
 
 Fishin'. 
 
 39
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 CASSEE SHEMUS MEEHAIJ 
 
 ALL-HALLOWS EVE of the year in which Mr. Bro- 
 gan married Cassie Shemus Meehal saw many events 
 of note and import take place in the parish of Dun- 
 garrow. The year in itself was one of strange incidents 
 and peculiar happenings, so remote from the ordinary 
 tenor of things that many old people said it was a sign 
 of the coming end of the world. 
 
 It was on the Candlemas Day of that year that Hudagh. 
 Nelly Wor died while letting ropes for the thatching of a 
 neighbor 's house. He was just winding the last rope round 
 a cloo when he sat back in his chair and said : ' ' It 's the 
 sickness that has got its hold on me. Run for the priest.'* 
 
 The boy with the trahook dropped it, ran to the priest 
 and told him that the sickness was on Hudagh Nelly. The 
 priest, an old man (he died a fortnight after this event) 
 with white hair and a stoop in his back, got on his horse 
 and arrived just in time to pour the Holy Oil on Hudagh 
 before the old man passed away. His death was peaceful, 
 his age a hundred and two, and despite his years the best 
 letter of ropes, hay or straw, in the parish. The year in 
 which Hudagh Nelly Wor died is even to this day fixed 
 as a local date amongst the elderly people of the parish. 
 
 Six months following this occurrence another death took 
 place in the parish, in the townland of Drimeeney, the 
 rugous strip of country bordering the sea and an assembly- 
 ground for burdock, bocken and byssus, the first occupying 
 the level fields, the second sheltering in the lanes, and the 
 
 41
 
 42 MAUREEN 
 
 third spreading its silky filaments on the rocks of Gweenora 
 Bay. 
 
 It was in this bay that death overtook Searlas Dhu 
 O'Friel, the young man who once met Eamon na Sgaddan 
 on the Deny boat. Full of tricks and capers, with folly 
 in his feet and head, and an eye for the girls, his untimely 
 end (he dropped from a coracle when fishing in Gweenora 
 Bay) was considered in some measure meet for the boy. 
 "We knew that he would come to a bad end," said the wise- 
 acres. "We always said it and now lookit!" 
 
 Again this year had its Big Flood and Big Wind. The 
 former was one of the most violent known in the parish. 
 It rained for fifteen hours without ease or respite; the 
 countryside became a lake, and as it was the harvest-time 
 with trampcocks in the holms, stooks of corn on the stubble 
 land and potatoes doing well on the braes, the flood was 
 a calamity to the natives. Corn and hay was carried away 
 in the river from Crinnan to Stranarachary, where it stuck 
 in the eye of the village bridge. Here the water, impeded 
 in its flow, rose to the street, flooding shops and houses, 
 and causing great damage. 
 
 Neddy Tight Fist (every man has his nickname in Dun- 
 garrow) lost meal, flour and groceries to the extent of fifty 
 pounds; the draper, Fergus Famine Guts, lost even more 
 heavily, for the river rose so quickly that it was impos- 
 sible to get bales of cloth, dainty articles of linen ware, 
 shirts, petticoats, aprons, blouses and stockings out of the 
 way of the waters before they topped counters and lower 
 shelves and settled themselves in ground floor and base- 
 ment. In the village twenty cows were drowned; pigs, 
 sows and litters of suckers were carried away by the river. 
 Even up towards Crinnan where the water ran from the 
 hills the losses were severe. Sheep were washed away by 
 the roaring brooks, cattle drowned, and crops on the braes 
 carried away. For a fortnight afterwards on the river 
 banks where the river Owenaruddagh made its way to the 
 sea the stock and substance of the parish people and the 
 people of Stranarachary could be seen rotting on the silty 
 broughs.
 
 CASSIE SHEMUS MEEHAL 43 
 
 Then when the river had sunk to its normal level came 
 the Big Wind. It arose one night when the people had 
 gone to bed. Their hay and corn, what remained, was 
 drawn up to the high land safe from further incursions of 
 the river. The cornfields were then all cut down and 
 every farm had its lines of sheaves, rows of stooks, and 
 fat-girthed, pompous stacks that gave testimony to the sea- 
 son 's yield. 
 
 The wind rose suddenly, whirled down from the hills, 
 overthrowing all the stooks, upending the cornstacks and 
 trampcocks, playing havoc with the thatched homes, and 
 stripping two out of every three clean to the rafters. The 
 National School in the townland of Meenaroodagh was shed 
 of its slates, trees were dragged root-clear from the ground, 
 cans and buckets, creels and baskets were carried away 
 by the storm, some of them lost for ever, and others, when 
 found, not worth the trouble of picking up. Never was 
 such a gale known in the parish, and the memory of it is 
 fresh even to this very day. 
 
 On the morning following, Liam Logan found that all 
 his hay, the result of three days' heavy mowing, was gone. 
 Not a strand was left; the brae on which it had lain was 
 as bare as the sole of a foot that leaves the wash-tub. Andy 
 Boyle's house was set on fire and burned to the ground; 
 his two cows, one newly calved and one coming, perishing 
 in the flames. 
 
 "It is an ill wind that blows good for nobody," it is 
 said, and even this wind justified the proverb. Teague 
 Doherty, a man of money and owner of a well-stocked 
 farm that lay in a little valley or pocket that ran down 
 from the braes of Arlishmore, gained good from the wind, 
 for the hay that was blown from the face of other farms 
 had to fall somewhere, and most of it fell in the groin 
 of Arlishmore and became the property of Teague 
 Doherty. 
 
 Of course to people who do not live in Dungarrow these 
 incidents are not of great concern. That a cow is drowned, 
 a trampcock carried away by a flood, a house burned to 
 the ground, that a man dies calmly at the age of five-score-
 
 44 MAUREEN 
 
 and-two or unshriven at the age of twenty-one, are not 
 matters to excite much comment beyond the parish bound- 
 aries. Things of greater moment happen farther afield 
 every hour of the day and seldom call for newspaper space. 
 But in Dungarrow it is a different matter. Trifling things, 
 such as those recorded here, make the life of the peasantry 
 and even add spice to the drab routine of their daily 
 lives. 
 
 A new blind on a window is even noticed in Dungarrow. 
 One house had a red blind in the window, and without be- 
 ing removed it kept an honored position there for twenty- 
 five years. "When it wore a little and rents showed in the 
 fabric it was sewn together. When a hole appeared, it 
 was patched up with cloth of the same color, a strip from 
 a bawna brockagh petticoat or a square from a woolen 
 cross-over. There were three girls in the house, comely 
 wenches, and when these grew up the boys of the place got 
 into the habit of choosing the house as a place for a night 's 
 raking. A favorite trick of these young fellows was to 
 slyly cut a little piece from the blind so that on the night 
 following they would have a peephole to look in from the 
 outside. The woman of the house on noticing the aperture 
 always repaired the blind. It could go to rack and ruin 
 seemingly for all that the young girls cared. In fact it 
 was rumored that they themselves often lent a hand in 
 the snipping of the fabric. 
 
 In the course of time two of the girls got married. They 
 made good matches. One girl remained, the youngest, 
 with her father and mother and the torn blind. One day 
 she got a man who came and lived in her house and had 
 the farm signed over to him. On the day after the wed- 
 ding the blind was taken down and a new one substituted, 
 this little repair in household decoration requiring as pre- 
 liminaries three marriages and the signing over of a farm. 
 The new blind was a white one. It took the dust easily 
 and lasted for a mere eighteen months. This blind was 
 taken down on the year of which we speak, the Year of 
 the Big Flood, the Big Wind, the death of Hudagh Nelly 
 Wor and Searlas Dhu O'Friel. But none of these is the
 
 CASSIE SHEMUS MEEHAL 45 
 
 important event, the one which is to be spoken of in de- 
 tail and without which thie story would never be written. 
 
 ii 
 
 It was the Eve of Hallowmass; with the boys of Dun- 
 garrow cutting cabbage-heads and throwing them against 
 their neighbors' doors and the girls of the barony on the 
 look-out for future husbands, for on Hall'eve night such 
 a privilege is granted to young maidens, who perform 
 various rites sanctified by ancient custom and proved in- 
 fallible by modern experience. 
 
 Some went alone into darkened rooms, looked into mir- 
 rors and saw the reflection of a wraith, the fetch of a future 
 krasband looking over their shoulders. Others stuck knives 
 into cornstacks, went round the heap seven times with their 
 eyes shut and then found themselves assisted by a strange 
 figure to pull out the knife. This figure was of course 
 their man to be. Others threw cloos of yarn down into 
 limekilns, holding one end of the thread in their hands. 
 Then they drew the yarn out and at the end of it came 
 their future husband. 
 
 But these were merely minor affairs save where the 
 younger girls were concerned. And a few of the older, 
 probably, if facts are to be given; for Leggy O'Donnel, 
 who had a figure like a crooked nail and a rusty face, 
 wrinkled and blood-threaded, was seen more than once 
 standing on the lip of a limekiln unwinding her cloo, or 
 doing the circuit of a corn-stack with a knife stuck haft- 
 deep in the pile. 
 
 Nevertheless, the great events of the night were the 
 dances, assemblies and arnals. The homes of the most close- 
 fisted and near-going families were open that night, and 
 all who came were welcome. Dungarrow from the top to 
 bottom had scarcely a home that did not boast its full 
 Hallowe'en table and open bottle. It was a night of merry- 
 making and match-making, of drinking, quarreling and 
 capers of the most hilarious kind. In the assemblies of 
 the young dances were held, dreams of a year's standing
 
 46 MAUREEN 
 
 were recounted and interpretations sought for. Future 
 events and contingencies were foretold by the aid of chiro- 
 mancy, moles, cards, the color of hair, the cracking of nuts, 
 the dripping of molten lead into water through the eye 
 of a key. 
 
 It was also said that if a person went round the rath on 
 the knowe behind Columb Keeran's house seven times con- 
 trary to the course of the sun a door would open in the 
 knowe and he would be admitted into the Land of Tir 
 Nan Og. This feat had to be performed alone, but nobody 
 ever tried it. The young and frolicsome were frightened, 
 the old and sedate would never be tempted to try such a 
 childish diversion. 
 
 Now there were some among the inhabitants of Dungar- 
 row who never took part in these Hall'eve customs, old 
 people most of them, with the fun gone from their blood 
 and their thoughts on the next world when not on the grope 
 for the goods of this. Then there were some girls who 
 had grown past marrying age, the white hairs of prim 
 prudery appearing on their heads. Some men, too, bach- 
 elors creeping over middle age, had no liking for such en- 
 tertainments, and on Hallowe'en these stayed in their 
 homes and did not go out beyond the doorstep. 
 
 There was one woman who always stayed in her home 
 on Hallowe'en night and that was Cassie, the wife of Eamon 
 na Sgaddan. By virtue of marriage and beneficence of 
 death (her mother had just died), she was the mistress 
 of the best holding in the townland. Taking it hill and 
 holm, meadow and moor, the farm covered some five-score 
 acres, nine of which were first-class spadeland. She had 
 money by, and her house was one of the most comfortable 
 in the parish. So outside report had it, but poor Mr. Bro- 
 gan knew otherwise. For him, the master, there was 
 neither comfort, content nor happiness. Married, the two- 
 month husband was kept in his place, for his wife, mighty 
 of bone and muscle, domineering and overbearing, saw that 
 he did whatever she ordered him to do. Even the neigh- 
 bors, though not knowing the interior life of this house- 
 hold, felt that Eamon was not master. They called him
 
 CASSIE SHEMUS MEEHAL 47 
 
 Cassie Shemus Meehal's man, but the woman was never 
 known as Mr. Brogan's wife. To the Dungarrow folk this 
 designation was altogether unconsonant. They would as 
 soon think of speaking of the tail's dog or the horn's cow. 
 
 He was now sitting in his chair by the fireside, his black 
 clay pipe in his mouth, his hat thrust well back on his 
 head and his mind brooding dreamily on the days that 
 were gone, of the time when he could go from house to 
 house as he desired, sit awhile at any table and enter into 
 the discussion and talk of the evening. 
 
 At the present moment the woman who had married 
 him was out in the byre milking the cows, and when he 
 listened he could hear the swish of milk in the gugeen. A 
 cat sat by the fire washing its whiskers; the dog Copen- 
 hagen, under the bed, could be heard gnawing a bone. 
 
 There was the sound of a step outside and the woman 
 of the house entered, her hair awry and falling down in 
 strands from under the kerchief which she wore, her blouse 
 open at the neck and her sleeves thrust up to the elbows. 
 She placed the pail of milk which she carried on the 
 ground, and with arm akimbo she fixed a stern look on 
 her husband. 
 
 "Haven't done a hand's turn since I went out, I'll go 
 bail," she said in a loud, strident voice. "Sitting there 
 with one arm as long as the other and the whole house goin' 
 to rack and ruin with nobody to do a hand's turn barrin' 
 meself . ' ' 
 
 Eamon na Sgaddan sprang to his feet, lifted a besom 
 from the floor and started brushing the ashes back from 
 the hearth into the fireplace. 
 
 "And what are ye at, now!" said the woman. "Who 
 wants ye to start foolin' about with the besom and fillin' 
 the milk with ashes? That wasn't what I told ye to do, 
 was it?" 
 
 "In the interests of hygiene," began Eamon, then 
 stopped short as he saw the look of stern reproof which 
 his wife fixed on him. 
 
 "How many times have I to tell ye to stop from talkin* 
 them long words," she cried. "Ye were a fool and the
 
 48 MAUREEN 
 
 talk iv the parish before I had the bad luck to marry ye, 
 and now ye are ten times worse. No wonder the people 
 call ye a plaisham. I'm sick and tired iv ye; that's what 
 I am, Eamon na Sgaddan. Look at the way ye look at me 
 now, yer two eyes stickin' out iv yer head and yer mouth 
 hangin' open like a dead fish!" 
 
 With these words Cassie went to the dresser, turned up 
 a crock that lay top down on a shelf and brushed it over 
 with a towel. Taking a strainer from the peg she emptied 
 the milk through it into the crock, while Eamon put some 
 turf on the fire, piling them up in a nice bulky heap against 
 the back of the fireplace. Cassie placed the lid on the 
 crock and turned to Eamon, fixing a stern look of disap- 
 proval on the man. When he had finished the job she 
 came forward with a swoop as the hawk dips on its prey, 
 caught the tongs and lifted off practically all the turf that 
 Eamon had piled on. 
 
 "Now, for what were you putting all them on?" she 
 asked, when she had undone her husband's job. 
 
 "To give some heat to the edifice, the house I mean," 
 Eamon stammered. 
 
 The woman gave a grunt as if no words could really ex- 
 press what she thought of the man; then going to the 
 peg in the wall she took down a striped shawl and tied it 
 round her head. 
 
 "I'm goin' out," said she, in her usual stentorian tones, 
 as if Eamon were in some way responsible for this excep- 
 tional move on her part. "So see and put on the pratees 
 in an hour's time that we can have a bit a supper afore 
 we go to bed." 
 
 "But where are ye goin'?" asked Eamon, for this was 
 the first night since the marriage that his wife had shown 
 any desire to leave her home. 
 
 "Ask no questions and ye '11 hear no lies," said the 
 woman. "But I might tell ye that it was Sally Rourke 
 that came into the byre when I was strippin' the bastes 
 and told me somethin' that I'd like to hear more about." 
 
 "Sally Rourke!" Eamon exclaimed. "Then it must be 
 a stupendous matter since Sally Rourke came to speak
 
 CASSIE SHEMUS MEEHAL 49 
 
 about it and not a word passing betwixt her and you for 
 God knows how long. What was it at all?" 
 
 "What it was," said the woman tersely, and without 
 another word she tightened the shawl round her shoulders 
 and went outside. For a moment he could hear the clatter 
 of her heavy boots on the street ; then the sounds died away 
 and Eamon na Sgaddan was left to himself, his empty 
 house and his ruined fire. 
 
 ' ' Well, it 's a lot better to let her have her own way when 
 she's like that," said Eamon na Sgaddan, priding himself 
 on the forbearance which necessity demanded and common 
 sense ordained. Cassie had married Eamon for his land 
 and substance, not for himself. This she often told him, 
 when lamenting the Fate that gave into her hand such an 
 encumbrance as Eamon na Sgaddan with the hundred-acre 
 farm of land. 
 
 "Just give her her own way and she'll cool," he said, 
 lighting his pipe and remaking the fire. Then he placed 
 the teapot on the hob, filled it with water and waited for 
 it to boil. 
 
 "Just a little modicum of beverage before she comes 
 back, and that will be some consolation," he said. "A 
 collation of tea on Hall'eve night! And where is she 
 proceeding to, now? It's the first time that she has left 
 the abode since we were married. I wonder what she's up 
 to ? But I must be patient with her ! Aye, I must be pa- 
 tient!" 
 
 in 
 
 At that moment Cassie was crossing the braes towards 
 the roadway where a light gleamed from the window of 
 Condy Heelagh's. For the past three years she had not 
 entered the house of the cobbler, not since the time the 
 cobbler's wife, Peggy Ribbig, had accused her of taking 
 possession of some duck eggs which were found in a nest 
 in the boundary ditch between the two farms. The nest 
 was under a holly bush and the number of eggs which it 
 contained was thirteen. Both claimed to have ducks which
 
 50 MAUREEN 
 
 laid out, and both claimed that the ducks which laid out 
 deposited the eggs in this nest under the holly bush. Two 
 might have come to an understanding, even two Dungar- 
 row women, but at a critical period when the argument 
 reached its height, a third party came in, also a claimant 
 for these eggs. 
 
 This was the woman, Sally Rourke, who vowed that she 
 saw the duck there every day, laying its egg, that the duck 
 did not belong to either of the two original disputants, 
 that it in fact belonged to herself, Sally Rourke. She 
 allowed the eggs to remain there, for she knew that the 
 duck would soon clock and bring out a fine ailian of duck- 
 lings. The matter, however, was very soon settled by 
 Cassie Shemus Meehal. 
 
 "I've got the eggs," she said. "They are mine and 
 they'll remain mine. Findin's keepin'." 
 
 Saying this, she turned her back on the two women and 
 went home, the eggs in her apron. Since that day none 
 of the three women had spoken to one another. But now 
 
 But now something had occurred, something which was 
 going to help a little towards the establishment of better 
 feeling and greater fraternity amongst the people of Mee- 
 naroodagh. On one subject calling for counsel and con- 
 sultation, they could come together, discuss it, pass ver- 
 dicts on it, probe the why and wherefore of this strange 
 occurrence, become critics and judges on the matter. It 
 was a way that suddenly opened towards brotherly friend- 
 ship and peace, an excuse for renewing old relations. 
 
 When the priest did the stations of the cross round the 
 country, old quarrels were generally settled by the various 
 families. But not so between the Meehals, the Heelaghs 
 and the Rourkes. The stations instead of healing these old 
 sores seemed to set a seal on eternal rancor. That the 
 warring factions did not speak to one another for a year 
 was in itself no sign of the eternity of their hate. Give 
 them an opportunity and they might make friends. But 
 when the stations came and passed and concord not es- 
 tablished, it was a sign that relations were irrevocably 
 severed. But now
 
 CASSIE SHEMUS MEEHAL 51 
 
 Cassie walked with a great swinging stride, her blouse 
 open at the neck although the night was very cold. But 
 the woman gave no heed to the weather. Her one thought 
 was to take old Peggy Bibbig into a corner of the home 
 and have a heart to heart talk with the ancient mother, 
 despite the old feud, which even now was almost forgot- 
 ten. Something more vital and more absorbing filled Cas- 
 sie 's mind. She could be big with Peggy now. Though 
 the two of them had not spoken for such a long time, they 
 would now hold converse and become friends. Cassie 's 
 whole being was filled with joy, and such was her exhilara- 
 tion that on the last lap of the journey she ran like a hare 
 towards the open door of the cobbler's home. 
 
 She went in without knocking,, as is customary in Dun- 
 garrow. Old Peggy was sitting in the corner beside the 
 kitchen bed knitting a stocking. At her feet a cat was 
 lying asleep. The cobbler himself was not in, neither were 
 the young girls, the three of them. Two had been recently 
 married, Hannah and Mary, to men rich in stock and store, 
 both natives of the townland of Meenarood, which was 
 next but one to Meenaroodagh. The other girls were now 
 probably out on their ceilidh at the house of some neigh- 
 bor. 
 
 Peggy Ribbig put back the net which covered her white 
 hair, allowing one tuft to fall down her brow, and rubbed 
 her eyes as if they were playing her false when she caught 
 sight of the visitor. 
 
 " Cassie Shemus Meehal!" she exclaimed, catching both 
 hands of the visitor. "A hundred thousand welcomes to 
 ye! Sit down be the fire and have a warm to yer shins. 
 I'm glad to see you, Cassie! Glad to see ye." 
 
 "Thank ye, Peggy," said Cassie, and sat down. "It 
 must be bitter lonely for ye in here all on yer own." 
 
 "It's that, Cassie, that, indeed!" said the old woman, 
 taking a snuff-box from her breast, opening it and handing 
 it to the visitor. "But what can one do and one old? 
 Himself is down in the town getting a bag iv leather, and 
 the girshas are out and at the dance up at Myles Doherty's. 
 A big dance it is, surely, from what they tell me, and
 
 52 MAUREEN 
 
 lashin's iv potheen at it from the hills. And himself, how 
 is he at all?" she inquired. 
 
 "Rightly," said Cassie Shemus Meehal, her thoughts 
 running for a moment to Eamon na Sgaddan sitting at 
 home by the fire. "A bit tired he is, for he has worked 
 that hard the day up on the hills after the sheep and them 
 running away everywhere." 
 
 "You'll make him work whether he wants to or not, the 
 poor plaisham," thought Peggy Ribbig. "And didn't that 
 gray heifer iv yours die with the muirill the other day?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Seven days, come the morrow, she died," said Cassie. 
 
 "And such a fine bit iv a baste, too," said Peggy sym- 
 pathetically. 
 
 "Ay, indeed! A soncy promising animal and puttin' 
 on beef all the time by our way iv thinkin'," said Cassie 
 with a sigh for the result which belied a promise. 
 "Now when did we get it?" she said in a low voice 
 as if soliloquizing. "Wasn't it sometime about Candlemas 
 last, the time the dance was in Neddy Og's? Wasn't there 
 a dance in Neddy Og 's last Candlemas night ? ' ' 
 
 "There was that, indeed," said Peggy. "All the girls 
 in the house here were at it and most iv the boys were 
 tight, too. They went on with it till the very screech iv 
 dawn. ' ' 
 
 "And almost every one in the place was at it," said 
 Cassie. "I could hear them singing all the night and not 
 a wink iv sleep could I get at all, what with the girls coming 
 home laughin' and the boys fighting about them on the 
 road in the dark." 
 
 "That's boys, always, the vagabonds," said Peggy with 
 a tolerant sniff. "They* will gad about and have their fling 
 with the blood warm in them and the legs supple." 
 
 "Some iv them were not very supple iv leg at Neddy 
 Og's dance," said Cassie. "There was more'n one iv them 
 that went under the table with what they'd taken. So I 
 heard say at Mass next day. I was comin' up the road 
 after the last Gospel, for what with the calves to put out
 
 CASSIE SHEMUS MEEHAL 53 
 
 and the old brannat cow comin' and it fed on linseed 
 three times a day I couldn't stay to the sermon. Who was 
 it that was with me up the road I cannot call to mind now, 
 but whoever it was was speakin' about the dance the night 
 afore, and the drinkin' and the skiftin' and one thing and 
 another. ' ' 
 
 "There never '11 be a stop put to drinkin' and skiftin','' 
 said Peggy Ribbig, pulling the greeshaugh from the heart 
 of the fire with the tongs and placing the teapot on it. 
 "It always was the way and always will be till the end." 
 
 "Don't be troublin' about making any tay for me, 
 Peggy," said Cassie with a smile. "It was only just 
 afore I came out that I had a drop iv tay. My heart's 
 burned out iv me with the drinkin' iv tay hour in, hour 
 out, all through the day." 
 
 "Just a wee deoch, and the night so cold and it Hair- 
 eve," Peggy cajoled, again taking the snuff-box from her 
 breast and handing it to Cassie. "It won't be so long 
 till it's ready and such a heat in under it. But it was a 
 great night and all Candlemas last," she continued, "for 
 I mind it well and it comin' near the morn with the noise 
 and the whisperin' outside and the girls comin' in and 
 laughin' to themselves and doin' it quiet so that me and 
 himself wouldn't hear it and us two lyin' here and him- 
 self sleepin' and snorin' with all his might. He's one for 
 the snorin', Condy Heelagh." 
 
 "And ye've no knowin' at all iv who was it that left 
 the dance with Kathleen O'Malley that night, Peggy?" 
 asked Cassie, speaking in a whisper, and looking over her 
 shoulder as if afraid that some one was behind her listen- 
 ing. 
 
 "Well, I don't know who went home with her that 
 night," Peggy replied, but so promptly that Cassie felt 
 that the old woman did know. Peggy, although advanced 
 in years, was a perfect store of local gossip. Always in- 
 terested in her daughters' talk, she knew everything of 
 the current events of the locality. "She's the girl for 
 the boys, the same Kathleen O'Malley," said the old woman,
 
 54 MAUREEN 
 
 a certain asperity in her voice. "And it's with one boy 
 or another that she always is, whenever she comes out to 
 a dance or on her ceilidh." 
 
 "Well, she was like that at one time, I suppose," said 
 Cassie, bending down her head till her lips almost touched 
 Peggy's ears. "At one time, mind ye, but she'll not be 
 goin' out with the boys again." 
 
 "Has the sickness got hold of her, then?" asked Peggy, 
 sitting up on her hassock and looking at Cassie. 
 
 "Somethin' worse nor that," said Cassie, again looking 
 over her shoulder. 
 
 "She's not dead, God rest her!" exclaimed Peggy. 
 
 "Worse nor that, even," said Cassie. "She's took to 
 her bed, and Sally Rourke has gone up to see her. She's 
 in the fashion." 
 
 Peggy gave a long-drawn "Ah" with a world of mean- 
 ing in its depths, got to her feet, went to the door with 
 slow, noiseless steps as if afraid of being overheard. She 
 shut the door quietly, drew the bolt and came back noise- 
 lessly to her hassock. For a minute she remained seated, 
 lost in thought, her expression solemn as that of a peni- 
 tent before entering the confessional. She got to her feet 
 again, glided to the tea-box on the hob, drew out three 
 fingers of tea and placed it quietly on the water in the 
 black delf teapot. Again she sank on the hassock, rested 
 her elbows on her knees and looked at Cassie Shemus 
 Meehal. 
 
 "Ah and indeed !" she whined, as if she had known from 
 the beginning that this calamity might have occurred to 
 Kathleen Malley if the girl was not very cautious. 
 
 "Indeed that!" said Cassie in a matter-of-fact voice as 
 if surprised that such a calamity had not occurred before. 
 
 "But ye 're sure iv it, are ye?" asked Peggy, a little 
 disconcerted as the thought that the.f act of to-morrow might 
 disprove the statement of to-night crossed her mind. ' ' Talk 
 goes round and I've seen her the other day and it didn't 
 look like it. And thin on it, too, she looked from my way 
 iv thinkin', Cassie Shemus Meehal. 'Twas down to Mass 
 she was goin', and a high head she carried."
 
 CASSIE SHEMUS MEEHAL 55 
 
 "I'm sure iv it," said Cassie, shaking her head as if in 
 condemnation of the woman who dared to look like other 
 people when going to her devotions. ' ' 'Twas Sally Kourke 
 that came in to the byre and me gettin' the strippin's from 
 the brannat cow! 'Glory to God! and is it yerself that 
 I'm seein',' says I. 'Yerself Sally Rourke.' 'It's me,* 
 says she, and then she told me where she was off to. And 
 her comin' out iv her way, too, to let me know, for the 
 journey would be shorter to the Malleys' from her house 
 through Gubby Rattagh. And Sally short of wind, too, 
 and gettin' stiff in the joints with rheumatics." 
 
 "And not so long since she had her last bad turn," 
 Peggy Ribbig added. 
 
 "That's true," said Cassie. "But then she's a hardy 
 woman and as supple as a two-year-old when she gets rid 
 iv the pains. At Neddy Og's dance she was as ready as 
 any iv the young ones to foot a six-hand reel or an Alaman 
 and her comin' close on sixty or more. And maybe it was 
 then and the boys filled with drink," Cassie continued, 
 as if the dance at Neddy Og's had given her further ideas 
 on the all-absorbing topic. "Now and I wonder who was 
 it that went home with her that night. It's just nine 
 months since then." 
 
 " Tis that," said the old woman, making tally of the 
 months on the fingers of one hand and gazing solemnly at 
 the finger which she did not need twice. "But was any- 
 body goin ' with her at the time ? She was so concaity and 
 full iv pride that it wasn't every one that she would let 
 ravel her yarn." 
 
 With these words Peggy got to her feet, went to the 
 door, opened it and looked out. 
 
 "I don't hear himself comin' up the road at all, as 
 yet," she called to Cassie over her shoulder. "And there's 
 a light in Malley's house, down in the room where the bed 
 is," she went on. "And I can hear the fiddle goin' up 
 at Myles Doherty's. They're having a night iv it. And 
 there's a light in Connel Logan's house, too, with poor 
 old Nancy in there all on her lone. Her boys are all 
 out at the dancin', for I could hear them talkin' and
 
 56 MAUREEN 
 
 singin* when they went by here a couple iv hours gone." 
 
 Peggy came back to the fire, lifted the teapot and blew 
 the ashes from the stroup. She placed it on a clean space 
 of the hob and poured some milk and sugar into two 
 earthenware bowls. 
 
 "They're more homely, these bowls," she said, handing 
 one to Cassie. "Some ones is up to cups and saucers and 
 what not, but for me it's always the bowl that can hold a 
 good bellyful. Cups and saucers are right enough for 
 them that likes them, but give me the bowl and I don't 
 want nothin ' iv these new-fangled quality poothers ! ' ' 
 
 So saying she poured the tea into the bowls and handed 
 one to Cassie Shemus Meehal. 
 
 "And ould Nancy Logan is all on her lone in the house 
 up there?" asked Cassie. 
 
 "She is that," said Peggy, swallowing in a mouthful 
 of tea with one mighty gulp. "And poor soul, it's lonely 
 for her all on her own be night with the boys out ! ' ' 
 
 IV 
 
 This feeling of hearty sympathy sounded strange to 
 Cassie Shemus Meehal, who was well aware that Peggy 
 Ribbig and Nancy Logan had not spoken a civil word for 
 the past seven months. Relations had been strained be- 
 tween the two families, the Heelaghs and the Logans, over 
 a matter of turf. The previous year was a very wet one, 
 and few families managed to get all their peat dried. The 
 Logans early at the cutting managed to lay a certain stock 
 aside, but the Heelaghs, not so lucky, found themselves 
 at the heel of harvest with the winter in front, without a 
 dry clod of turf in their possession. A hearth without 
 ashes is like a marriage-bed without a woman as they say 
 in Dungarrow, so Condy, knowing this from many a hard 
 winter's experience, did his best to keep a smoking chimney 
 through the cold weather. The chimney smoked and the 
 Logan's turf disappeared mysteriously. Nancy was wroth, 
 and one day meeting Peggy Ribbig on the road she spoke 
 about the loss of the turf.
 
 57 
 
 "They're goin'," she said. "A creel one night and t\vo 
 creels another, and none iv the boys can tell who's takiu' 
 them. Ye yerself haven 't any notion iv who 's takiii ' them, 
 Peggy Ribbig?" 
 
 "Oh, I know nothin' about them at all," said Peggy, 
 shaking her head. "I'm never about to see what's hap- 
 penin ' to the property iv my neighbors. ' ' 
 
 "No, I suppose ye 're not then," said Nancy warmly. 
 "It's about the house ye '11 be all day and sittin' be the 
 fire knittin' stockin's and maybe makin' a drop iv tay on 
 the greeshaugh, like a good, dacent woman." 
 
 There was something in Nancy's speech, in the emphasis 
 placed on fire and greeshaugh, that annoyed Peggy Kibbig. 
 
 "Well, Nancy, if I make tay, it's my own tay and me 
 after payin' hard money for it," said Peggy, aggressively, 
 tilting against the latent imputation. 
 
 "And on yer own fire, too," said Nancy sweetly. 
 
 "If I was wantin' fire I wouldn't come to you beggin* 
 for it, Nancy Logan," said Peggy sharply, fumbling at 
 her cross-over with her fingers. 
 
 "No, ye wouldn't come beggin' for it, Peggy Ribbig," 
 Nancy replied, her voice oily but ready to flare when a 
 match was applied. "If ye came at all it wouldn't be 
 beggin', I'll admit. Indeed, it's yerself that wouldn't 
 come at all. But it might be some one else, and even him 
 if he came wouldn't come beggin'. Give every dog fair 
 play! That's me always, Peggy Ribbig." 
 
 "And me as well, Nancy Logan," etc., etc. 
 
 "When the discussion came to an end the women went 
 to their respective homes, vowing eternal vengeance on 
 one another, Peggy on Nancy because l ' Nancy was a woman 
 full as an egg iv bad spite, talkin' iv turf to ones with 
 hardly a clod to burn;" Nancy on Peggy because the lat- 
 ter "had the consate to keep her head so high and her with 
 no turf in her house bar what her man stole from his 
 neighbors. ' ' 
 
 Nancy, however, despite her vagaries of temper, was a 
 good-hearted woman, and when she came home and saw 
 her son Liam sitting down in front of a good fire eating
 
 58 MAUREEN 
 
 his dinner, she thought of Peggy Ribbig in her cold house 
 with nothing to warm her and her ones save stolen turf 
 which the cobbler thieved in the night. "Liam," she said 
 to the boy, "get yer creel on yer shoulders and fill it as 
 full as ye can with turf and take it down to Condy Hee- 
 lagh." 
 
 Liam did so, but when he entered Condy Heelagh's 
 house Peggy looked at him with lips curled in an expres- 
 sion of disdain and her whole face dark with a look of 
 sullen anger. 
 
 "Take it back to yer place," she said hotly, as Liam 
 placed his creel on a chair. 
 
 "But it's so cold and the turf so bad," Liam remon- 
 strated. 
 
 Peggy threw a crushing glance at the young man, 
 shrugged her shoulders so that a stray tuft of hair which 
 hung from the fringe of her net shook convulsively. A 
 stray lock of hair seemed always out of bounds on Peggy's 
 head, thus earning for her the nickname "Ribbig." 1 
 
 "I would starve to the bone afore I'd warm meself be 
 yer mother's charity," said Peggy. "Take the turf back 
 to her and tell her that ye came to a house that's not held 
 be beggars." 
 
 Liam lifted the creel, put it on his shoulders and de- 
 parted. Since that day the two women, Peggy and Nancy, 
 had not spoken a word to one another. 
 
 Now, however, Peggy was quite prepared to call on 
 Nancy Logan. This surprised Cassie Shemus Meehal, but 
 on recollecting her own haste to get into touch with Peggy 
 when she heard the news her astonishment abated. Bear- 
 ing report of such a startling event as the plight and mis- 
 hap of Kathleen O 'Malley was sufficient excuse for paying 
 the visit. 
 
 "Indeed, and it's a friendly thing to go and see the 
 poor woman on a night like this," said Cassie. "And it 
 Hall 'eve, too, and her all her lone." 
 
 "Then another sup iv tay, Cassie Shemus, and the two 
 
 i Ribbig: the tuft of wool left on a shorn sheep, used as a mark of 
 Identification.
 
 CASSIE SHEMUS MEEHAL 59 
 
 iv us will go together and see poor Nancy," said Peggy 
 Eibbig. 
 
 Together they went to Nancy Logan's, the two women 
 conceiving for Nancy that ephemeral friendship born of 
 scandal. Entering her home they were surprised to find 
 the place crowded. It looked as if the Hall 'eve merry- 
 making was in full swing there, what with laughing, chat- 
 tering and shaking of heads and hands. Nancy was sit- 
 ting by the fire, a cloud over her head, her crossover a-glit- 
 ter with needles and pins and looking like a diamond-beaded 
 stole. She was talking in whispers to a neighbor woman, 
 Maldy Kennedy, but when she raised her head and observed 
 Peggy Ribbig and Cassie Shemus Meehal enter the door, 
 she jumped to her feet and ran to meet them. 
 
 "Welcome, both iv ye," she said, catching the hands of 
 both women in her own and shaking them as if trying 
 to wrench them from the shoulders. "Welcome, both iv 
 ye, ' ' then in the same breath, ' ' and did ye hear about it ? " 
 
 "Indeed aye, we've heard about it," said Peggy Kibbig, 
 shaking her head. 
 
 "Aye, and I heard about it hours ago," said Cassie 
 Shemus Meehal, a little perturbed because she was not the 
 first to tell Nancy Logan the news, nevertheless seeking 
 some consolation in the fact that she knew of it hours 
 ago. 
 
 "Now, come the two iv yees and sit down be the fire here, 
 with Maldy Kennedy and meself, till I make a drop iv tay 
 for us all," said Nancy. "Everybody's heard about it, 
 and they've all come in here just to have a talk. So sit 
 down be the fire and have a shin-heat, and I '11 put the tay- 
 pot on the greeshaugh ! ' ' 
 
 The four women sat down by the fire, their heads to- 
 gether and the teapot resting on the ashes. They spoke 
 in whispers, while the men, feeling that they were some- 
 how in the way, stole out quietly. When they came to 
 the road, they stopped, lit their pipes and with one accord 
 fixed their eyes on the light that shone in the house of 
 Kathleen O'Malley. 
 
 The men were old. Seldom of late had they left their
 
 60 MAUREEN 
 
 homes, for on their dry bones the winter cold was hard. 
 But on this night an ancient instinct, the craving to know, 
 to see and find out, had drawn them from their chimney- 
 corners, these age-worn men, time-bitten, skin-dried and 
 wrinkled^ with toothless gums and drooling noses. When 
 they spoke their thin voices squeaked from great depths 
 like the gaggle of geese in a thick undergrowth. 
 
 "Aye, aye, indeed," said one, scratching his lichen-gray 
 beard with the shank of his pipe. "Nothin' can help her 
 now." 
 
 "God help her," said another, with a thick shade of 
 pity crawling across his features. "But it's young blood. 
 . . . And it's long since I put eyes on her," he sighed, 
 as if for an opportunity lost. 
 
 "And will it be made right for her?" asked a third, 
 holding the pipe with gnarled fingers to the slack lips that 
 lacked power and purchase. 
 
 "Aye, and will it?" asked the others huskily. 
 
 "Not if the man's one iv some that I know," said Coy 
 Fergus Beeragh, who happened to be one of the party. 
 "I mind once, twenty-seven years ago the Christmas 
 comin' " 
 
 Back in the house vacated by these men, the teapot splut- 
 tered, and over it the heads nodded, tearing at the tit-bit 
 of scandal as hooded crows scrape some festering carcass 
 on the mountain side. Nancy, solicitous about the welfare 
 of her uninvited guests, kept one eye on the teapot and 
 two ears open to the conversation. Maldy Kennedy, 
 shocked by the news, condemned the girl Kathleen ; Cassie 
 Shemus Meehal, grave-greedy, called for more, more, the 
 occasion and the man ; and Peggy Ribbig, astute in analysis, 
 picked stray bones from the carcass, touched them, tasted 
 them, smelt them in the hope that by flimsy clews she could 
 trace an ascertained effect back to the antecedent cause 
 which was at present wrapped in mystery.
 
 CASSIE SHEMUS MEEHAL 61 
 
 "Now who could it be at all and when and where did 
 it happen?" said Nancy, one eye on the teapot, the wrin- 
 kles of contemplation gathering on her brow. 
 
 "I'd give a lot to know," said Cassie Shemus Meehal, 
 curiosity with its itch willing to pay any money for a 
 salve. 
 
 "If we only could know somethin'!" said Peggy with 
 the air of one who really desired to know a little, but was 
 not quite prepared to pay for it. 
 
 "It's not often that things iv that like takes place in 
 this parish," said Nancy. "And if it does it's not like 
 it should be. It's gettin' into the ways iv places out and 
 beyond it, that it is." 
 
 * ' True, true, ' ' said Maldy, shaking her head in condemna- 
 tion of the parish that for once failed to garrison its vir- 
 tues. 
 
 "There was that dance in Condy Og's last Candlemas 
 night, ' ' said Peggy Ribbig, picking up a bone the possibil- 
 ities of which she had already exhausted. "Nearly every 
 one was there, and there's many a young vagabond goin' 
 the rounds now that I wouldn't put it past." 
 
 "Neither would meself," said Nancy with an emphatic 
 nod at the teapot. "Some iv them quiet ones!" 
 
 "The ones that ye'd think butter wouldn't melt in their 
 mouth," said Maldy. "And more often than not they're 
 the ones that cannot be trusted." 
 
 "That's a true word," said Cassie Shemus Meehal. 
 "When Sally Bourke told me about it ye could knock 
 me down flat with a feather, but that and all, I put the 
 question to Sally and asked her if she had any idea at all 
 iv who the man could be. That Sally couldn't say, but 
 says she: 'I'll stake me word on it that it's one iv the 
 quiet ones.' She took the words from me mouth, for that 
 was what I thought meself as soon as I heard the news. 
 Them quiet ones!" 
 
 "It's them that can't be trusted," said Peggy Kibbig. 
 "I don't say all, mind ye, for it's manys a good, simple 
 and modest man that's hereabouts, but some!"
 
 62 MAUREEN 
 
 "If it was in Drimeeney itself," said Maldy, implying 
 that the parish would not fall into total disrepute if the 
 affair took place in Drimeeney, the outcast townland. 
 
 "It isn't Drimeeney townland, that's certain," said 
 Cassie, sitting upright as if a new light on the riddle had 
 been suddenly vouchsafed her. ' ' But if it isn 't Drimeeney 
 townland it may have been a Drimeeney man. ' ' 
 
 "Who?" asked three insatiate voices in unison. 
 
 "One that's dead," said Cassie. 
 
 "God rest him!" ejaculated three involuntary voices, 
 and three pair of eyes looked in fright at the open door. 
 
 "A Drimeeney man!" said Cassie, as a fencer follows 
 up a clever move and thrusts at a discomfited opponent. 
 "A Drimeeney man, Searlas Dhu O'Friel!" 
 
 "But can it be him?" asked Peggy Ribbig, shaking 
 an incredulous head. She was not a little annoyed that 
 Cassie should have scored such a victory. "It may be true, 
 but is it?" 
 
 "That's it. Is it?" said Nancy. 
 
 "It may be him more than any one," said Maldy. "But 
 when you're not certain, you don't know and that's all 
 about it." 
 
 "Well, I'd give a white sixpence to know who he is," 
 said Nancy with a nod from which might be inferred that 
 though she was not particularly interested in the man in 
 the case she would still go as far as speculating a sixpence 
 to ferret out this detail. 
 
 At eleven o 'clock that night the old heads were still nod- 
 ding round Nancy Logan's fire, speaking in whispers, and 
 at that hour Kathleen O'Malley was delivered of a daugh- 
 ter.
 
 THE WEE MAN 
 
 At night when I am sit tin' in the corner iv the house, 
 And oh! so close and quiet that I couldn't scare a mouse, 
 It's mawmy up and looks at me and says: "It's now to bed 
 Or else 'twill be the Fellow with the Wee Red Head!" 
 
 And sure he's all for capers and up to any trick 
 It's him that blows the rushlight out and wets the candle-wick, 
 And things that's worse than that he'll do if it's not me in bed. 
 I'm feared iv him, the Fellow with the Wee Red Head I 
 
 It's him that lets the down-drops m and salts the stirabout. 
 And him to shove the kitchen-door and give ye such a clout. 
 Some say the wind is doin' it, but don't I know instead 
 It always is the Fellow with the Wee Red Head! 
 
 There lives a man across the ditch. He's only skin and "bone; 
 It's poor he looks, but that and all, he's money iv his own, 
 Bags iv it and crocks iv it, but my! afore he's dead 
 He'll lose it to the Fellow with the Wee Red Head! 
 
 It's comin' down the chimley brace when maw puts out the light, 
 And round the house and round the house he's goin' all the night- 
 It's me to get upon my knees and pray and then to bed 
 And not annoy the Fellow with the Wee Red Head!
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY, the daughter of Kathleen, 
 had reached the age of seventeen. She was a very 
 handsome girl, well formed, of graceful carriage, 
 and in nature sensitive and passionate. She was in no 
 way like the run of ordinary colleens; on her there was a 
 stamp of something distinctive, something that looked to 
 horizons out and beyond the common run. Her face had 
 something in it above the ordinary. 
 
 Her brow was open and white as milk; her eyebrows, 
 strongly arched, gave her a certain commanding look modi- 
 fied by large, dark, tender eyes, frank and childish, tell- 
 ing of artless sincerity and innate purity of disposition. 
 Her nose was straight, with sensitive nostrils that quivered 
 when anything excited her. Her lips, full and red, opened 
 to show two perfect rows of teeth and closed tightly when 
 she was annoyed, showing determination that was not 
 stubbornness and certainty of purpose that was not ob- 
 stinacy. Her hair, not yet rolled into coils which tell of 
 years, hung down over her shoulders, long wavy brown 
 hair, a mystery of sheen and shade, glossy on the surface 
 and dark in its depths. She was wonderfully beautiful, a 
 spirit of grace and harmony. 
 
 No skillful sorting of dress, no affected arrangement of 
 cloth or contour went to add to her charms. She was a 
 child of nature, of the hills and the valleys. Maureen's 
 was a terrible simplicity, fatal in its power, overpowering 
 in its very artlessness. 
 
 At the chapel-gate on Sundays the young men of the 
 
 65
 
 66 MAUREEN 
 
 parish waited to see her come out from her devotions. 
 When the old women saw this with their sidelong glance 
 of suspicion they shook their heads and said: "She'll 
 never come to a good end ! She 's like her mother, bold and 
 forward ! ' ' The young girls looked on Maureen with envy. 
 If she did not exist they might attract the attention which 
 was bestowed on her. They spoke of her slightingly, mali- 
 ciously. "Who is she, anyway, to hold her head as high?" 
 they said. "But it's like one iv her sort to be like that." 
 
 She went to school when she was quite little and became 
 one of the most apt pupils under the village schoolmaster. 
 Her education was, of course, somewhat desultory. The 
 master, Mick Gallagher, an old man, age-doaty, and rather 
 indulgent, taught her very little, beyond arithmetic, read- 
 ing and writing. These arts, the three R's, Maureen soon 
 mastered ; and having time to spare when her lessons were 
 ended at the school, her natural perception and apprehen- 
 sion led her to books set apart for children of riper years. 
 While in the third standard she knew the lessons of the 
 older scholars, studying them with greater discrimination 
 than did those for whom they were intended. 
 
 In fact, the girl, following the bent of her own mind, 
 acquired knowledge far in advance of her years, and with 
 a power of imagination and love of reading she read into 
 cold print something which the writer probably felt but 
 which even the village pedagogue hardly understood. 
 
 At twelve, she had read practically every book in the 
 school, knew most of Moore's melodies by heart, and with 
 a memory of uncommon tenacity stored with much ill- 
 arranged and miscellaneous knowledge, she left school and 
 went home to her mother. 
 
 Fond of her books at school, the craze for reading fol- 
 lowed her to the home fireside where in the evenings she 
 could be seen, her hair down over her brows, with a dog- 
 eared volume in her hand, reading of fairies and ancient 
 princesses who once lived in Ireland in the days that were 
 when the country flowed with milk and honey, when war- 
 riors with long lances and swords of gold rode through
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 67 
 
 the dark passes, coining to rescue beautiful princesses im- 
 prisoned in the dark cooms of Sliav a Tuagh and the sea- 
 drenched caves of Magherawor. 
 
 Stories such as these delighted the young girl. With 
 her vivid imagination she pictured herself at times as the 
 unhappy princess weeping for the troubles heaped upon 
 her head and waiting for the knight to come and rescue 
 her from her bondage. Or again she was Kitty the Ashy 
 Pet, servant to a harsh mistress, waiting for the bonnie 
 Bull of Norraway to come and carry her away on his horns 
 to some grand castle where he would place her and then 
 turn himself into the fairy prince that he really had been 
 before the curse of a cruel witch changed him into a bull. 
 
 There was nothing to mar Maureen's delight as she sat 
 at her mother 's knee beside the hearth and read these tales 
 with the wind whistling over the chimney-top and the 
 sparks flying up against the soot, lighting the dark back- 
 ground just as her own fancies illumined the gloom of her 
 existence. 
 
 On Sundays Maureen loved to wander into the spinney 
 which clustered round the brook that ran by her door. 
 Here, while other girls played tig or jackstones on the 
 roadway, Maureen would clamber up over the rocks, tear- 
 ing her clothes and her naked shins in the scramble, hear- 
 ing the soft pitter-patter of the falling water, the restless 
 movement of the swaying hazel-branches and the chirping 
 and singing of the birds. Sounds with no apparent origin 
 reached her ears when she stood still in a hazel nook or 
 broom hollow: the chirping and twittering of insect life, 
 the sharp squeal of a hidden stoat or the rustling movement 
 of a scurrying rabbit in the undergrowth. As she listened 
 she was filled with the sense of a dim, delicious awe, as at 
 the presence of a world full of mystery which she did not 
 understand and the secrets of which she could never fathom. 
 Probably she would stay there all day, while her mother 
 was down in the town, but at night, full of stories of great 
 adventure, she would run to meet the tired woman. 
 
 "Oh, maw, I saw a rabbit the day and it looked out at
 
 68 MAUREEN 
 
 me from its hole with its two big eyes so feeard," Maureen 
 would say. "And I climbed up a tree and looked into the 
 nest of the cushy doo!" 
 
 "And every rag on yer body is torn off iv ye," the 
 mother would say in a tone of gentle remonstrance, as she 
 caught the little mite in her arms and lifted her from the 
 ground. "Ye 're the one for runnin' about all wild like no 
 girsha else in the parish. Eileen Conroy never tears her 
 clothes like you, Maureen. But come into the house and 
 I'll make ye a drop iv tay. Ye '11 be tired and hungry, 
 me wee love iv all the world." 
 
 Eileen Conroy, to whom the mother referred, and who 
 had been Maureen's friend since the beginning of things, 
 was always neat and tidy. No accidents ever happened to 
 Eileen 's clothes ; when they wore out, they wore out peace- 
 ably like a man or woman who lives to ripe years and falls 
 asleep quietly at the end. She never had a rent or tear 
 in her dress. It simply wore thin in places, and was 
 patched. "When fringe, flounce or frill showed the slight- 
 est trace of wear they were sewn neatly, tucked together, 
 and at the end of a year her dress with its repair and 
 renovation looked almost as good as new. 
 
 "She's a rare good girsha for managing" said her 
 mother many a time as she spoke to the neighbors of 
 Eileen's merits. "Give her a needle and a bit of rag and 
 she'll mend anything till it looks as good as new. The 
 man that will have her when she grows up and thinks iv 
 marryin' will never have his bottom out through his trous- 
 ers. And the way she keeps her books," the mother would 
 add. "At the heel of the year they're as good and new 
 as the day she bought them. ' ' 
 
 But Maureen O'Malley's books never called for similar 
 appreciation. At the end of a season they were always 
 thumb-soiled and stained, dog's-eared and sooty, not fit 
 in any way to compare with Eileen Conroy 's satchel-orna- 
 ments. While Maureen read her books over and over until 
 the mind retained every word that the soot of the smoky 
 cabin had blotted out, Eileen Conroy 's books, like precious 
 stones, were objects of display at school and secret treasure
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 69 
 
 at home to be guarded like the gold of a miser. Eileen 
 carried her books in her satchel, while Maureen O'Malley 
 carried hers in her head. 
 
 But despite difference in disposition the two girls were 
 great friends. Old Betty Conroy was averse to this com- 
 panionship at the start, reminding Eileen times without 
 number that "the girsha of her up there" (Kathleen 
 O'Malley) "is not fit company for any children that has 
 decent parents to look after them." But Eileen, who had 
 a will of her own, vowed that if she were not allowed to 
 speak to Maureen O'Malley just the same as to any other 
 person she would not go to school. 
 
 "Well, whatever ye like," said the mother with a help- 
 less gesture. "Go with that girl if ye like, but mind that 
 I've warned ye against her." 
 
 Old Betty was a placid soul whose only method of cor- 
 recting her one child was by warning her against an an- 
 ticipated evil and hinting at the trouble which would 
 await her if the advice was not followed. 
 
 But though Maureen had a friend in Eileen at school, 
 .the other children, even the youngest toddler, seemed to 
 sense that Maureen possessed a characteristic peculiar to 
 herself. There was a something, probably beyond the scope 
 of their infantile discrimination as yet, which made a dif- 
 ference between themselves and her. Mothers at home told 
 their children not to play with that Malley girl, that no 
 good would come of it if they did. 
 
 "Maw," said Maureen one day when she came in from 
 school and hung her satchel on the nail stuck in the wall 
 near the door, "nobody wants to be big with me in the 
 school. What's the reason?" 
 
 The mother's face fell. 
 
 "Musha! I don't know," she said in a trembling voice. 
 "Do they say anything to ye at all?" 
 
 ' ' It was the day that they made a ring round me, ' ' said 
 the girl. "And them dancin' and shoutin' that I have no 
 da." 
 
 "Ah! God have mercy on them, the divils!" said the 
 mother angrily.
 
 70 MAUREEN 
 
 "But da's dead," said the girl. "He's dead, and I told 
 them that." 
 
 "And what did they say then?" asked the mother. 
 
 ' ' They said that it was a lie and them singing and laugh- 
 ing and makin' caurs at me all the time," said the little 
 girl. 
 
 "Don't give any heed to what they say," said the mother. 
 "Them children is up to all kinds iv capers, but it's for 
 you to pass them by as if you don't see them, and they'll 
 soon leave you your lone. Now sit down and have your 
 dinner, for it's getting cold already." 
 
 But despite the words of the mother, Maureen, who was 
 always searching out reasons for everything, kept think- 
 ing over the remarks made by the children at school, and 
 these made her feel uneasy and shy. In the beginning 
 reproach and obloquy needed the vehicle of words to carry 
 them to the victim. These hints, sneers and stings amazed 
 the girl. Why were they directed at her? She had never 
 done anybody harm. 
 
 After a while the direct word was disbanded and in its 
 place came the sly hint, the sidelong look, the meaning 
 nudge, curl of the lip and raising of the eyebrow, and 
 Maureen, growing in years and sensing the indignity of 
 being the child of an unmarried mother, felt her position 
 keenly. In fact, she never knew amusement or content 
 now save when doing her lessons in her own home in com- 
 pany of her mother, or when herding cows on the brae-face 
 in the company of Cathal Cassidy, a neighboring boy of 
 her own years, or Eileen Conroy, her girl friend. 
 
 But now at the age of seventeen and long away from 
 school she did no herding, for the simple reason that the 
 stock of the farm had dwindled down until not one re- 
 mained. The last was an old cow, saw-boned and lazy, 
 out of which age had driven all instincts of roving and 
 which could not cross a fence that rose higher than its 
 hoof. This poor animal by a miracle gave milk of a kind 
 belying the aspect of the pinched, puckered and rucked 
 udder from the base of which projected four miserable
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 71 
 
 teats no bigger than warts. In her fifteenth year the ani- 
 mal that had mothered thirteen young, twins thrice, lay 
 on the street in front of her byre and died. 
 
 When this happened and the house had no money to ex- 
 pend in restocking the byre, Kathleen 'Malley mortgaged 
 her farm. The letting took place prior to the European 
 war, and great difficulty was found in disposing of the 
 place. However, Columb Ruagh Keeran, with an eye 
 for land, came forward and got the farm for twenty pounds 
 and stocked it with sheep and young cattle, year-old heifers 
 and bullocks. 
 
 Then happened the war, carrying its effects, beneficent 
 or otherwise, into every nook, corner and recess of the 
 habitable world. Stock rose in price in Dungarrow, and 
 Columb Ruagh Keeran found himself a prosperous man. 
 Nine months after the outbreak of war, Kathleen 'Malley 
 died. 
 
 It was a bright clear day, the cloudless sky seemed as 
 if it had been newly cleaned for a momentous occasion, 
 when Kathleen 'Malley was carried shoulder-high down 
 the road from her own townland to the little graveyard 
 of Stranarachary, the mourners following at rear. Imme- 
 diately behind the coffin was Maureen, her head sunk down 
 on her breast and her eyes fixed on the dry road as if 
 seeking there for something which she had lost. 
 
 The parish priest, Father Dan, waited outside the door 
 of the church. He was a tall, aged man, whose seventy 
 years had done very little to hurt a great body or dim the 
 sparkle of his clear eyes. He was a man beloved by his 
 parishioners, a good priest and a worthy shepherd of his 
 flock. 
 
 When the service in the cburch was at an end, the coffin 
 was borne out and placed on the lip of the grave. From 
 near at hand came the clink of money as the mourners 
 deposited their offerings on the flat surface of a tombstone.
 
 72 MAUREEN 
 
 When the offerings were collected, and the names of those 
 who paid called out, the priest came and stood beside the 
 coffin. 
 
 "Say a prayer for her that is gone," said Father Dan, 
 a stray ray of sunshine lighting his face as he spoke and 
 giving him a venerable and saintly appearance. In fact, 
 according to his parishioners' estimate, Father Dan was a 
 saint already. "Say a prayer for her that's gone that she 
 may be released from her sins. You are all listening to 
 the clay falling on her coffin, but the dead woman doesn't 
 hear that. She is now in front of the great Throne of God, 
 standin' there in fear and trembling, waiting for the voice 
 of the Maker of all. And just think of it, cara yeelish, 
 think of it as if you yourselves were there and waitin' for 
 ye knew not what, and a voice reached yer ears and that 
 voice was carryin' a message to the Great God, interceding 
 for yer soul. Prayer is mighty, it is the comfort of the 
 weary-laden, the solace of the heavy-burdened, it is the 
 pleading that will reach the heart of God. Pray when 
 you are young, pray when you are old ; pray for the living 
 and particularly for the dead that they be released from 
 their sins. One of us has gone to-day, another will go to- 
 morrow or the day after. All of us will die sooner or later, 
 and we'll die easy if we prepare for it now by prayer that 
 is sincere, charity that's not high-handed and humility 
 that is a pattern of the humility of the Lord and Savior 
 Jesus Christ. Prayer is, maybe, the greatest of all these, 
 prayer that isn't a penance but an act of love and thanks 
 to God. If ye don't feel like prayin' don't pray, for God 
 won't listen to words when there's no heart behind them. 
 Prayer of that kind is only a waste of time, no good at all, 
 just like a job that ye don 't put yer back into. If ye can 't 
 say a long prayer say a short one, and put yer back into 
 it. Be like the birds iv heaven. When they sing they feel 
 like a song and they make a good job of it. You'd never 
 say that a lark, or a cushy doo, or a robin hasn't heart in 
 it when they sing. They have. Then mean it. And God 
 will pay more heed to the song of a bird than he'll pay 
 to the prayer of people that sit by the back seat of the
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 73 
 
 chapel, yawning and wonderin' when the service will be 
 over and finished. I 've seen that even here in Dungarrow ! 
 
 "And high-handed charity," he went on. "That's as 
 bad as anything else and worse. It's everywhere, charity 
 of that kind. It drops a guinea on the collection-plate in 
 church with such a rattle that one would think that the 
 chapel had fallen down, it gives the poor man a penny 
 and a blow on the back of the neck to make him not forget 
 it. It sees the sins of others, and prays for the sinners at 
 times, but the prayer will be a proud one, a cold one, as 
 much as to say : * I 'm a respectable person, and you should 
 be glad that I go on my knees for your sake, and even God 
 will pay more heed to me than to any one else ! ' Ah ! caret 
 yeelish, we want more humility. We're gettin' so proud, 
 and even I meself am a sinner in this respect. God gave 
 me strength and a good pair of strong legs to go anywhere, 
 but I now and again get into a car and go along like a 
 gentleman of money while all the time I am nobody bar 
 the poor parish priest of Dungarrow. 
 
 "And I'm not the only sinner in the place. There are 
 others. Purse-proud, conceited people who always are 
 thinking about the number of their stock and about their 
 holdings. After all, a very wee holdin' will do the best 
 of them when they finish their scrapin' and savin', and 
 layin' by of treasure that the rust and moth consume. Ah, 
 cara yeelish, lay not store here in this earth, but in the 
 heaven above in the courts iv Everlasting Glory, where 
 we'll all meet one day when God sees fit to call us to him. 
 Now, cara yeelish, down on yer knees and say a prayer, 
 from the heart, mind you, for her that's gone and for our- 
 selves and for all that's in the world. Mind ye, the Son 
 of God will listen to Dungarrow from the graveside 
 just in the same way as he listens to it from the 
 chapel." 
 
 Homely tenets such as these, born of parable that had 
 its root in local incident and custom, endeared Father Dan 
 to the people. They felt that he was one of themselves and 
 they were ready to do anything he desired. As one of 
 themselves, a native of the parish, he knew his people.
 
 74 MAUREEN 
 
 m 
 
 In his youth, the youngest boy of a family of twelve, 
 studious and with a leaning towards the clerical calling, 
 he did not see the way to vocation clear until he was seven- 
 teen. 
 
 At that time all his elder brothers were away in other 
 countries working at various jobs, and Dan McCabe was 
 also on the way there with his bundle and reaping-hook 
 on his shoulder when his opportunity came. Just after 
 his departure from his father 's house a letter arrived from 
 America, and this letter contained fifty pounds with the 
 behest to the father to throw Dan into college and make a 
 priest of him. The father was overjoyed. It was his life- 
 long dream to have a priest in the family. 
 
 Putting his letter in his pocket he saddled his horse 
 and rode after his son, who now, tramping the road with 
 four hours' start, was on the way to the Derry boat. When 
 he overtook him, waving the letter as if it were a reprieve 
 from the hangman's rope, 
 
 "Dan," he said, and the tears rolled from the father's 
 cheeks, "throw yer hook and yer bundle into the sheuch 
 and come back with me. Fifty pounds in this letter from 
 the boys, God bless them ! and they want ye to go into col- 
 lege. Corduroy's not for the clergy, Dan, neither is the 
 hook. Throw yer bundle into the sheuch and up in the 
 pillion at me back with ye and we'll go home together." 
 
 The two men went back on the horse, Dan carrying his 
 hook and bundle until he met a poor woman to whom he 
 handed them. She thanked the youngster with tears in 
 her eyes, wished him Godspeed, the best of everything in 
 this life and the next. 
 
 "And I wanted ye to throw them into the sheuch," said 
 the father. "And if ye did what I said ye'd never get 
 that blessing." 
 
 When Father McCabe was ordained he came back to his 
 native parish and took up his work as a healer of souls. 
 He was then a young man, fond of a gun on the moors and 
 a fly in the streams, an ordinary young priest, a man who
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 75 
 
 could give a learned sermon in which he took pardonable 
 pride, but which never reached the heart of his congrega- 
 tion. 
 
 It was in the summer of 1889, the zenith of the Land 
 League troubles, and when feeling ran high through the 
 country, that an incident occurred which had a great effect 
 in altering the outlook of the man, in opening his eyes to 
 a world in which he lived but did not see. 
 
 Father Dan was out on the moors one day with his gun, 
 his gamebag full and his stomach empty. Regarding this 
 condition of body the man was pleased. Hunger was such 
 a sauce for the meal which his servant would have ready 
 when he got back to his snug cottage. Shooting was a 
 splendid pastime; it braced the body, livened the blood 
 and strengthened the physical side of the man. Father 
 Dan was a fine healthy animal, and though forty years old 
 his age weighed lightly on his shoulders. Now, however, 
 at five o'clock in the afternoon, having been wandering 
 on the hills since nine in the morning, he felt very weary. 
 
 "It's time to get home," he said. "Nancy will be 
 waitin' to give me supper. Ah! but what's that?" 
 
 It was a moorhen in a clump of heather that the priest 
 sighted. Raising his gun to his shoulder he fired, missed 
 the moorhen, but hit a sheep which was lying behind a 
 clump of furze. The poor animal got to its feet, ran a 
 few paceSj staggered and dropped dead. Just at the same 
 moment a man rose from the ground. After a day's hard 
 work, this man, Phelim Donnely, was lying down resting 
 on the heather. On hearing the shot he got to his feet 
 and noticed that one of his sheep stock, a ram, had been 
 shot by the priest. Furious with rage, the man rushed 
 up and shook his fist in the priest's face. 
 
 "Is that all that ye've to do, Father Dan?" he yelled. 
 "Gaddin' about and bio win' the brains out iv the stock iv 
 dacent men. It's a shame and a disgrace and the breed 
 iv that ram too. One iv the best, the best in the parish!" 
 
 "But, my good man, don't take it so much to heart," 
 said the priest coldly, for he was rather offended at being 
 addressed in such a manner by one of the peasantry.
 
 76 MAUREEN 
 
 "Money will tide ye over this time and ye can get as good 
 a sheep at the next fair." 
 
 " Twas a ram and not a sheep," Phelim corrected sul- 
 lenly. "And another iv the same breed never carried its 
 wool to a Dungarrow fair." 
 
 "Well, don't make a song about it," said the priest. 
 "Tell me how much it's worth to ye and let me get home." 
 With these words he put his hand in his pocket and rattled 
 the change which it contained. 
 
 "Yes, rattle yer money and say it's all right," roared 
 Phelim, who did not like Father Dan. "Rattle yer gold, 
 that ye've taken from us in offerin's and stipends and 
 plate-money! Some priests will do the best that they can 
 for the poor people, like Father McFadden iv Gweedore, 
 that 's now in prison because he stood up for the poor. But 
 nothin' iv that for yerself, Father Dan. It's the quality 
 for ye, and the shootin' and the fishin' and all the people 
 in the country starvin' with not a bite to put in their 
 mouths maybe and yerself with the good fire when there's 
 hardly a dry turf in the parish. An' now ye blow the 
 head off iv me ram and . . . and ye should be shamed iv 
 yerself. God forgive me for talkin' t'ye like this, Father 
 Dan, but it's me ram and the only one I've got, bar two 
 sheep, and the rent due and no sparin's come the next har- 
 vest fair. And herself in the bed at home with the sick- 
 ness on her and a cough that's like the decline." 
 
 The words of the angry man cut the heart of the priest, 
 and froze the very marrow of his being. Like Paul on the 
 road to Damascus he had his vision and suddenly realized 
 that the easy time, the soft bed and the full meals were 
 not in keeping with his vocation, that he was a mean and 
 vile parasite living on the sweat of the poor parishioners. 
 He saw, as in a nightmare, Phelim 's wife lying in her 
 poor bed with the sickness on her and a cough that is like 
 the decline, while here was he, a strong man, hale and 
 healthy, roving through the hills cultivating an appetite 
 for his dinner. The incongruity of his position, the shep- 
 herd feeding while the flock starved, struck him like a 
 violent blow. He was judged and found wanting, and there
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 77 
 
 the Judge stood opposite him, Phelim Donnely, in rags and 
 tatters, hatless and shoeless, vindicating a just censure and 
 apologizing for it in the same breath. 
 
 Taking his gamebag from his shoulder the priest handed 
 it to Phelim Donnely. 
 
 "Forgive me, Phelim, and take this bag with ye," he 
 said impetuously. "Give your wife and weans a good 
 meal. I'll come round and see you to-night before bed- 
 time. I'll pay for the ram, and, Phelim Donnely," he 
 added, "ye've done more for me this evening than ye know. 
 Ye've made me see things, Phelim Donnely. Ye've taught 
 yer priest his duty and from now on I'm going to see to 
 it. ... And this gun," he added, "take it. And maybe 
 it's a rabbit or a hare that ye can shoot when ye 're doin' 
 nothin' else in the evenin'. And a rabbit or hare makes 
 a fine meal for a sick person." 
 
 He handed the fowling-piece to Phelim, and without 
 another word he walked down the hills toward his own 
 home. Phelim, utterly aghast, stared after the priest, be- 
 lieving that the man had suddenly gone mad. 
 
 Then began a new life for the priest. He got to know 
 his poor, went about the country always on foot, visiting 
 the needy, and that meant every one, for the richest in 
 his parish depended on the whim of a season and the tem- 
 per of a sky. A wet spring on the bogland meant a fireless 
 hearth in winter ; a bad summer meant bad crops, ruin and 
 starvation. From these hardships none was immune: not 
 even the priest who now cultivated a garden of his own 
 and with his own hands planted his potatoes and corn. 
 
 "Think iv yerself workin' like one iv us," said a peasant 
 to him one day as Father Dan, with his sleeves thrust up 
 and his shirt-collar unbuttoned, was setting a ridge of 
 potatoes. 
 
 "Well, it's not every one that has the chance to learn 
 a trade like the Carpenter of Nazareth," said the priest. 
 
 On another occasion when a woman, who met him coming 
 in from the hill with a creel of turf, remarked that it was 
 too heavy a load to put on his shoulders, the priest looked 
 at her.
 
 78 MAUEEEN 
 
 "Sally Rourke," he said with the slightest trace of 
 humor kindling his eye, " there was once a Man who car- 
 ried a heavier load to save the sinners of the world, not 
 like me to keep Himself warm and comfortable when the 
 journey comes to an end." 
 
 As he grew older and his hair became whiter, a look of 
 sanctity developed on his face. The peasantry would not 
 be surprised to come to Mass one Sunday and find a halo 
 round his head, such as could be seen on the head of Saint 
 Joseph over the sacristy-door. To all he was a saint, and 
 they knew that when he died he would go straight up to 
 heaven. 
 
 He counseled the erring, consoled the suffering, spoke 
 words of cheer and faith to the weary. He would often 
 rise early in the morning, don his heaviest boots and tramp 
 miles across the hills to the most outlying habitations in 
 his parish, to show the dwellers that their parish priest 
 had not forgotten them. 
 
 "It's a poor house for yer Reverence to come into," the 
 woman of the house would say as she wiped a chair with 
 her apron and handed it to him. "It's like a byre." 
 
 "Indeed and it's not, good woman," he would reply. 
 "But if it is, it's just the same sort of place that saw the 
 birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. ' ' 
 
 He went out on these visits with his pockets filled with 
 gingerbread and pennies. When he met little barefooted 
 boys and girls he would give them from the stock in his 
 pocket. As he grew older and became a little absent- 
 minded, the youngsters preyed on his generosity. Some- 
 times' on one journey he would meet a little rascal three 
 times. This youngster on getting a penny at Meenarood 
 would scoot across the braes and confront the old man 
 again at Meenaroodagh. Here, the priest, forgetting that 
 he had met the boy before, would give a second penny. In 
 this way many a young profiteer took advantage of Father 
 Dan's generosity. 
 
 Another stratagem in which the wily youth delighted 
 was this: In the highly walled and strongly fenced gar- 
 den adjoining his home a number of apple-trees grew.
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 79 
 
 The old man took great delight in his garden ; in his spare 
 time he pruned the trees, clipped the hedgerows and tended 
 the flowers. When the apples ripened he gave them to the 
 parishioners. Even this did not save the garden from the 
 depredations of youthful malefactors. Long before the 
 fruit ripened they came in the early mornings, crawled 
 over the wall and stole the apples. Father Dan became 
 aware of this and one morning he got up from his bed and 
 stole quietly into the garden. Here he found every tree 
 with its thief, every branch with its bag, into which the 
 youngsters were piling the green, uneatable apples. For 
 a moment he looked on, then one youngster saw him and 
 with a shriek he dropped from the tree and ran to the wall 
 and clambered over it. The others followed. Only one 
 was left, a bare-legged, curly-headed boy who had climbed 
 up too far and found it difficult to get down. He was 
 terror-stricken at the sight of the white-haired priest. 
 Father Dan was also scared lest the boy in his fright 
 should jump to the ground and break his neck. 
 
 "Easy, my boy, easy," he called. "One branch at a 
 time or ye '11 tear all yer clothes, and what will yer mother 
 say to ye when ye go home ? ' ' 
 
 The youngster reached the ground blubbering. Father 
 Dan caught him by the hand. 
 
 "Now don't cry," he said. "Just wipe yer eyes and be 
 a man. Which bag is yours? This one? Well, take it 
 away home with ye, and the apples that are in it! Now 
 ye 're cryin' yet. What's wrong with you?" 
 
 "I'm feeard," blubbered the rascal. 
 
 "Well, here's a penny for ye," said the good-hearted 
 priest. "And run away home. And I '11 not tell yer mother 
 on you. But tell the other boys that green apples are 
 bad, that they're full of poison, and in addition to that 
 tell them that whoever eats green apples will go to hell 
 when they die." 
 
 This the boy told to his chums and showed them the 
 penny which was his simply because he was last in the 
 race. The children took the lesson to heart and for weeks 
 following, Father Dan found many children on his apple-
 
 80 MAUREEN 
 
 trees, who crawled down weeping and vowed that they 
 cried because they were afraid of him. So by subterfuge 
 and stratagem such as this Father Dan was relieved of 
 many of his pennies. 
 
 He was arbiter in disputes relating to land, march 
 ditches, boundaries, trespass, right of way, letting of graz- 
 ing-grounds, bog-rents, diversion of water-courses and 
 rights of common property. The priest did everything; 
 settled quarrels, brought the peasants' worries in front of 
 the avaricious landlord, pleaded on their behalf, cleared 
 the muddy waters where lawyers catch their best fish, 
 gave judgment on this and that and was obeyed. His word 
 was law in his parish. Between man and man he was an 
 arbiter of peace, a bond of union and hope between man 
 and God. 
 
 IV 
 
 The old, white-haired priest lifted the collection from 
 the tombstone, wrapped it in a woolen muffler and put it 
 in his pocket. Then he looked round at the assembled 
 parishioners, at the two men filling in the newly made 
 grave, at the women with frilled caps and white clouds 
 who were kneeling here and there on the greensward, 
 praying for relatives who lay below. Peggy Ribbig was 
 there, barefooted and bent, telling the beads, holding them 
 in one hand and drawing them through, one by one, with 
 the thumb and forefinger of the other, looking for all the 
 world as if she were breaking a crumb of bread and drop- 
 ping it to an imaginary clutch of chickens. She was pray- 
 ing for her father and mother, both dead for close on thirty 
 years. Now and then she bent lower to the ground, twisted 
 her neck round ever so slightly and stole a surreptitious 
 glance at the parish priest. "Just the same as myself," 
 she thought. "And the two iv us will both be under the 
 clay one day and not very long till that, God help us." 
 
 Probably Father Dan had similar thoughts himself, but 
 being a good and worthy man gave himself very little 
 trouble about the future. One day he would die, soon
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 81 
 
 probably, but why should he trouble about such a little 
 matter as this? "It's all the same," he thought. "When 
 God wills it we go, and not before. If we're wanted we'll 
 be taken, and it's our duty to prepare always for that mo- 
 ment." 
 
 He waited at the gate till Maureen O'Malley, who knelt 
 over the grave long after the others departed, came towards 
 him, her head bent and the tears running from her eyes. 
 When she reached the priest she stopped, her whole frame 
 shaking with sobs. For a moment the old man looked at 
 the girl, then he stretched out his hand and laid it on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Now wipe yer eyes, dear child," he said with feeling. 
 "There is nothing to weep for. This day to your mother 
 is the greatest day of all. She is where we will all be one 
 day. Fortified by the rites of the church, she died a good 
 and holy death. You have your own life to think of now, 
 and when you pray for the saint that's dead, remember 
 to pray for yourself that your own end may be as peace- 
 ful, when it comes to the time, as your mother's was." 
 
 Maureen looked at him, taking her hands away from her 
 eyes and uncovering her face. He could see her features 
 swollen with weeping, the tears marking their course on 
 the maiden's cheeks. 
 
 "I don't want to live any longer," she said in a voice 
 of anguish, and covered her face again. "There's nothin' 
 now for me, nothin' in all the wide world." 
 
 "There's much for ye yet," said Father Dan in a low, 
 solemn tone. "You have your own young life in front iv 
 you, and that's everything. Death will be, and people must 
 go when they're called on. The day or the morrow and 
 it's all the same. God calls us, Maureen my child, when 
 the season comes. Pray for the dead and for yourself too, 
 and God bless you, my child, God bless ye!" 
 
 The old man held his hand over the girl in benediction 
 and a tear rolled from his eye. For a moment he stood 
 thus, then dropping his arm he put his hand in his pocket 
 and drew out the muffler in which the offerings were rolled. 
 With the muffler he wiped his eyes.
 
 82 MAUREEN 
 
 "Yes, Maureen my child," he said, in a matter-of-fact 
 voice which was apparently the preliminary to a question. 
 "Yes, Maureen, and how are you off on it?" 
 
 "Poorly, father," said the girl. 
 
 "With not a penny?" interrogated the priest. 
 
 "Not a penny," Maureen replied. 
 
 "Now I'm goin' to ask you a couple iv questions, Mau- 
 reen," said the priest. "The first is: what's your age?" 
 
 "Seventeen past," said the girl. 
 
 "And have you a boy at all?" he went on, interlocking 
 his fingers and twirling his thumbs over the money-muf- 
 fler which lay in the cup of his hands. His thick stick 
 was stuck under his arm, and he fixed his grave eyes on 
 the girl. 
 
 "No, father," said Maureen. 
 
 "Well, I suppose it's too early for that yet," said the 
 old man. "And what do you intend to do with yourself 
 now?" 
 
 "God knows," said Maureen, with a helpless down-throw 
 of both hands. "Maybe it's beyont the mountains that 
 I'll be goin'." 
 
 "Away from the parish?" asked the priest. 
 
 "I hate the parish," said the girl impetuously. "I want 
 to get away from it and them that's in it." 
 
 "Away from us all?" said the old man. 
 
 "Yes, father," Maureen replied. "I've money to make 
 to pay for the coffin and the bread and tea at the wake and 
 other things as well. And I can't have it ever said that I 
 let my mother die and me not paying what it took to bury 
 her, God rest her." 
 
 "God rest her!" repeated the priest. "And you've in 
 mind to sell the farm?" 
 
 "No, father," said the girl. "Maybe I'll come back 
 again, but anyway I '11 keep it, as 'twill be always something 
 to put me in mind of her that's gone." 
 
 "Poor child," said the priest with a sigh. "Here," he 
 went on, handing the muffler and its contents to the girl. 
 ' ' Take this and it will help you a little to make ends meet, 
 and if you're of the same mind to go away the morrow,
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 83 
 
 let me have another talk with you and the two iv us will 
 see what can be done." 
 
 "Thank ye, father, but I don't want it," said Maureen, 
 thrusting back the money which the priest had offered her. 
 "I've two strong hands, and I'll be able to work for my 
 livin ' beyont the mountains, and I '11 be able, as well, to put 
 money by. There's wages to be made over there now and 
 the war on." 
 
 The man fixed a look on the girl, a grave, commanding 
 glance quite out of keeping with the sympathy of a moment 
 before. 
 
 "You know who I am and what I am, Maureen," he 
 said. "You know that I'm yer parish priest, and God 
 saw fit to place me over you and guide your feet in the way 
 they should go. I've asked you to keep that trifle money 
 and you've refused. It's for your own good that I'm doin' 
 it. Now I order you to take it" he shoved the muffler 
 into her hand again ' ' and God bless you, Maureen O 'Mai- 
 ley, and look over you all the days iv your life." 
 
 His voice broke and his lips quivered with emotion. He 
 looked at her for a moment, then, waving his hand to the 
 girl, bidding good-by, he walked away. 
 
 That evening Maureen O'Malley paid Paddy Keefe, the 
 local grocer, for the bread, tea and sugar supplied for the 
 wake, and Hughie Neddy Fury, the carpenter, for the 
 coffin in which the dead was buried ; and now fronting the 
 world all on her own, she had nothing to aid her in the 
 great struggle save her strong hands and the indomitable 
 spirit with which Nature had filled her being. 
 
 It was the day following the funeral of her mother, and 
 Maureen O'Malley was returning from the shop of Paddy 
 Keefe, where she had been purchasing some provisions. 
 
 On the road she met Columb R-uagh Keeran, his coat off, 
 his red shirt open at the neck. In his mouth he held a 
 little clay pipe, the bowl empty and turned down. A bag 
 which he carried on his back he placed down on the road
 
 84 MAUREEN 
 
 on meeting the girl. Something was moving inside it, a 
 sucker probably, for the day was the one on which the 
 monthly fair of Stranarachary was held, and Columb 
 Ruagh, who had a potheen-distillery up on the hills, fed 
 pigs on vat-sediment and the dregs of still singlings. 
 
 "Well, good day to ye, Maureen O'Malley," he said to 
 the girl, fixing a sharp, penetrating look on her and spit- 
 ting through his teeth on the ground. "I was just goin' 
 up to see ye, but now that we meet here we can have a 
 talk. It's about the bit iv business that me and yer mother 
 had before she died, God rest her." 
 
 "About the mortgage?" Maureen inquired in a whis- 
 per, amazed that any one should talk to her of business so 
 soon after her mother's death. 
 
 "That's it," said Columb Ruagh in a slow, quiet voice. 
 "It's only a wee thing in itself, but the Lord knows when 
 I'll be comin' down this way again and me with so much 
 work to do up there be the Crinnan cross-roads and havin' 
 no one at all to help me. ' ' 
 
 "That's true," Maureen assented sadly. "Me and yer- 
 self are just in the same boat almost. Not one iv us has 
 anybody to help us." 
 
 "But I'm far worse off than yerself, Maureen," said 
 Columb, with a condescending smirk. Convinced that all 
 mankind was like himself not over-honest he always was 
 on the look-out for the snare in a neighbor's action. "I'm 
 an old man as it is," he said, "and I'll soon be past work, 
 but as for yerself, Maureen, ye are a young girsha with 
 the men on the run after ye, and it'll be soon that ye '11 
 be gettin' a man to take care iv ye and set up a grand house 
 with clelf on the dresser and a taypot there and it full iv 
 money." 
 
 "Well, it's not in me to be thinkin' iv gettin' married on 
 a man as yet and my mother only buried yesterday," said 
 the girl, wondering what Columb was driving at. Never 
 was he known to speak kindly to anybody save when try- 
 ing to get something to his own advantage. 
 
 "It was sorry that I was to hear about yer mother's 
 death, God rest her, and I didn't know it till late last night
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 85 
 
 so that I had no time to come to the funeral," said the 
 man, lying as Maureen knew. He did not come to the 
 funeral simply because he grudged paying offerings. " It 's 
 for yer poor mother, God rest her, that I always had the 
 highest notion. She was one iv the Glen people that I 
 could trust above any one else, and, Maureen O'Malley, 
 didn't I show it when I loaned her money on the land? 
 Twenty gold pounds it was, and the farm, as ye know yer- 
 self, is not much security for that sum iv money. Twenty 
 pounds in gold takes a lot iv scraping and saving when 
 all is said and done." 
 
 "That's true," Maureen assented. "But with the war 
 on and the stock goin' up in price, ye didn't stand to lose 
 much, Columb Ruagh." 
 
 "Well, if I make a wee bit, and it is a wee bit, 'twas 
 all chance from the start," said Columb, changing his un- 
 lighted pipe from one corner of the mouth to the other. 
 "One never knows what is goin' to happen with stock. 
 Maybe it's the staggers, the muirill, or the red water that 
 they're goin' to take and then it's good-by to all that ye've 
 spent on them." 
 
 Maureen fixed a pitiful glance on the man. What he 
 was saying did not particularly interest her. A feeling of 
 emptiness, apathy and indifference filled her breast. The 
 keen edge of anguish had become blunt and she was now 
 looking into a black void where nothing tangible existed, 
 not a gleam of comfort or ray of hope. The man standing 
 in front of her seemed to be clothed in a thick vapor; the 
 bag on the ground became lost to view. Her eyes filled 
 with tears. 
 
 "Now, don't be cryin'," said Columb, shrugging his 
 shoulders. "People have to go when their time comes, 
 and them that's left has to live and make the best of it. I 
 knew yer mother, and a good woman she was, hard at a 
 bargain. And mind ye I respected her for that. Always 
 for me the person that drives a hard bargain, that won't 
 take a baste without warranty or a butt iv butter without 
 puttin' the auger through it. Them for me always, for 
 I 'm a man like that, Maureen 'Malley. But now that yer
 
 86 MAUREEN 
 
 mother is gone all the cryin' in the wide world won't take 
 her back again, and them that's left have to fend for them- 
 selves. Now, Maureen O 'Malley, what d 'ye say to it ? " 
 
 He took his pipe from his mouth, hit the empty bowl 
 against his palm and put it back in his mouth again. 
 Screwing down his eyebrows he fixed a calculating glance 
 on the girl. Maureen, with feet bare, her toes half buried 
 in the dust of the roadway, and her shawl wrapped tightly 
 around her shoulders, sobbed with her bosom shaking and 
 her whole body quivering with the violence of her anguish. 
 She had no friend in all the world now, none. This one 
 thought burned into her heart like a red-hot iron, sharp 
 as a knife and as painful. 
 
 "Well, what d'ye say to it, Maureen O 'Malley?" asked 
 Columb again. "It's for yer own good, mind, so what 
 do ye say to it?" 
 
 "To what?" asked the girl mechanically, then added in 
 a tone of protest, "I don't know what to think about any- 
 thing now, Columb Ruagh. Come the morrow or the day 
 after, and maybe I'll be able to talk to ye." 
 
 "But, just a minute," said Columb coaxingly. "It's 
 just a wee bit iv business between the two iv us. About 
 the mortgage. Just listen. When yer mother, God rest 
 her! went bare, twelve months ago, she came and told me 
 that she wanted to mortgage her bit iv land. She asked 
 so much and I offered her so much, a good tidy sum, and 
 me a poor man. She took it, money down and the farm 
 was mine till she could pay me back the good round sum 
 that I gave her. Listen, Maureen. The farm is mine now. 
 I've the good will iv it till I'm paid back what's owing 
 me. Now ye can't pay back the money, Maureen 'Mal- 
 ley." 
 
 "That I cannot," said the girl. 
 
 "Then listen," said the man, beaming as if in anticipa- 
 tion of a good bargain. " It 's a plan that I '11 put afore ye, 
 and ye '11 be the gainer iv it and not me. The times are 
 hard, no man in the place can be got to do a day's work 
 for either love or money now. Ye, yerself, can't do the 
 work iv the bit iv farm, Maureen, can ye?"
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 87 
 
 "No, Columb. I'm afeeard that I can't," said the girl 
 with a sigh. "If I get the men to work I can't pay them 
 afore the heel iv the year, and then maybe the crops will 
 be bad." 
 
 "That's true," said Columb, in a tone sympathetically 
 cruel. "The seasons may be bad, and then ye haven't the 
 stock to put on and make a bit be the grazing. It 's a farm 
 for stock and not for crops. Pratees are no good on it, 
 for they get the worms and the dry rot. So what are ye 
 to do? Sell it?" 
 
 "That I won't," said the girl emphatically. "If I sell 
 it I'll have nothin' left at all." 
 
 "And as it is there's not much left anyway," said the 
 man hurriedly. "What would be the best thing for ye 
 to do, Maureen O'Malley, would be to sell some iv the 
 holdin ', that corner up near me at the Crinnan cross-roads, 
 and let the rest. Listen, Maureen, ' ' he took a step nearer 
 to the girl "there's one way and the best in the world 
 that I'll put afore ye. I'll buy that piece iv waste land 
 that's no good for anything bar the feedin' iv hares and 
 moorhens, up be the Crinnan cross-roads. I'll give ye 
 twenty gold pounds for it, the money that ye 're owin' me 
 for the loan that's on the farm down here. Then all is 
 square and above-board. I keep that plot iv land and ye 
 have yer farm free. I wouldn't do that for anybody else 
 in the parish, Maureen. So now say the word, Maureen, 
 and we'll call it a bargain." He spoke in a hurried whis- 
 per and looked round as if afraid that some one was listen- 
 ing. 
 
 "Then it's yers, Columb Kuagh," the girl blindly ac- 
 quiesced, scarcely knowing what she said. "Ye can have 
 it, for I don't see what's the use iv me keepin' it and it 
 no good at all. I'm sick and tired iv the place, anyway. 
 I'll maybe be goin' away on the twelfth to the hirin'-fair 
 iv Strabane and get me hand in on a farm. The girls 
 that's down at the butt iv the parish go way there every 
 twelfth iv May and I may as well go as stay here, Columb 
 Ruagh." 
 
 "Indeed, and ye could do worse," said the man, his
 
 88 MAUREEN 
 
 eye lighting up as if he saw another opportunity of profit- 
 ing by the girl's helplessness. "Ye could do worse and 
 far and away worse. There 's many a snug openin ' beyont 
 the mountains now with the wages goin' up by leaps and 
 bounds. Mark that, Maureen, goin' up and be leaps and 
 bounds." He spoke slowly, watching the effects of his 
 words on the girl 's face. ' ' By leaps and bounds, ' ' he went 
 on. "And all found into the bargain and the hours short 
 as well. All because iv the war abroad, too. It has done 
 the country a power iv good, at least for them that's full 
 iv stock. They can get any price for beasts now. And 
 wages is well up beyont the mountains." 
 
 "So I've been told," said the girl. 
 
 "And told the truth," said Columb Ruagh. "Ye can 
 get a power iv money over there now. But what will ye 
 do with the farm when ye 're away? Ye can't go on payin' 
 the rent and let it go idle without a baste on it at all, not 
 a baste iv yer own, but the baste iv the neighbors and them 
 not payin' ye a penny piece for the feed iv the cattle." 
 
 " I '11 let it maybe, ' ' said the girl with a sigh. She spoke 
 mechanically, unable to see anything clearly. Of busi- 
 ness dealing, the sale or letting of land, she knew nothing. 
 
 "If ye 're goin' to do that, give me the first chance," 
 said Columb in an eager voice. "I'll take the farm for a 
 year from now and see to the fencing and the drainin' 
 and everything about the place. But it won't pay me, 
 I'm afraid, Maureen, it won't pay. But seein' that yer 
 mother, God rest her, and me were such good friends, I'll 
 take it and pay the rent that's owin', and at the end iv 
 the year if there's any profit made out iv the business I'll 
 not forget yerself, Maureen. Say that that's a bargain, 
 Maureen. It's as much as any man and more than most 
 men would do for ye, Maureen. It's a bargain, isn't it?" 
 
 She looked up at him, a smile, sad and grateful, showing 
 in her tear-wet eyes. Columb looked at her, and some- 
 thing strange and novel suddenly permeated his being. 
 What it was he could not determine, but for a moment the 
 girl's look seemed to smother the man's business instinct. 
 There was a moment's awkward silence.
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 89 
 
 ""We'll call it a bargain, Columb Ruagh," said Maureen. 
 "I'll be goin' to Strabane come the fair and maybe at the 
 end of six months I will come back again, or maybe at the 
 end iv a year. But I don't know," she added. "I hate 
 this place and I don't want to set me feet in it again." 
 
 When he left her Columb pondered on his interview, re- 
 calling more than once the look which the girl fixed on him 
 before accepting his offer for the farm. When he had cov- 
 ered five hundred yards of his journey, he placed his bag 
 on the ground, and looked down the road at the girl on 
 her way towards her lonely home. ' ' Old Columb 's a fool, ' ' 
 he mumbled, as if reproving himself for something which 
 he had done. 
 
 A little further along the road he placed his burden down 
 again and looked back. In the distance he could see Mau- 
 reen O'Malley making her way up the brae towards her 
 home. Now and again she stopped and with head bent 
 looked at the ground. As he watched her he could almost 
 feel with his eyes the girl's soft cheeks and little hands. 
 
 "And the size iv her wee hands," he whispered to him- 
 self, as if these, though small, had made some great im- 
 pression on his mind. Then as in a temper he lifted the 
 bag which held the live thing and swung it over his shoul- 
 der with a jerk. 
 
 "Columb, ye 're a fool!" he apostrophized himself. 
 "Columb, ye 're an old fool, but for all that as supple on 
 yer legs as the best iv them yet ! ' ' 
 
 VI 
 
 It was the afternoon of the following day. Maureen 
 sat under the sycamore tree that grew outside the door of 
 her home, her head thrown back and resting on the tree 
 trunk. In one hand she held a stocking, the heel turned 
 and the needles stuck in the leg. That night she was going 
 to finish the stocking, and on the same night she was going 
 away from Dungarrow. 
 
 "For good!" she said. "Never will I set my feet here 
 again."
 
 90 MAUBEEN 
 
 She looked round her, at the rising hills and the fires of 
 the peat-workers wafting their smoke into the air. The 
 holms near the roadway were turning green and the river* 
 Owenaruddagh, running seawards, gleamed like a thread 
 of silver amidst the green of the fields. A warm air per- 
 vaded the countryside, and the universal silence magnified 
 the tranquillity of the scene. Not a soul moved. All the 
 people seemed to slumber. Even the hills in their hazy 
 atmosphere nodded drowsily. Cows, white, brown and 
 speckled, stood still, lazily wagging their tails, others were 
 lying down, probably asleep. 
 
 Maureen's soul was filled with strange thoughts, none 
 standing out clearly, one driving another away in slow, 
 gradual order. But under it all was a voiceless feeling 
 of protest and resentment. Thoughts of wrong, burning 
 like red-hot cinders in her mind, died out only to be suc- 
 ceeded by others, like sparks from the raddled rakings of 
 a fire. She was filled with a sense of the injustice of 
 things, the cruelty of her lot and the shadow which had 
 always clouded her life. 
 
 She looked down at the houses, prim and proper in their 
 brown thatch and limewashed raiments. There dwelt the 
 good, honest people, the worthy and God-fearing, who had 
 always shut their doors in her face. Farther along was 
 the school, nicely slated with its rose-trees lined against 
 the walls. Here Maureen had been educated and here she 
 spent the most miserable years of her life. 
 
 Now it would all come to an end. She would leave the 
 place, go away, for there was nothing further calling on 
 her to remain. Her piece of land was let out on mortgage. 
 This mortgage she was unable to pay off. In fact she had 
 not got a penny piece in the world. She was penniless. 
 
 Of business she knew nothing. A helpless victim in 
 the hands of any near-going neighbor, she was altogether 
 at a loose end in practical matters. Although eager to go 
 away and leave the parish, for good, as she vowed, she did 
 not want to sell her farm. "It was my mother's and I don't 
 want to lose it," she thought. But as to her purpose in 
 keeping it she was quite vague.
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 91 
 
 In a dim way she fancied that even if she went away 
 she had left something behind her to which she might re- 
 turn one day. It was a moment of thoughts without coher- 
 ence, actions without motive; fragmentary ideas came and 
 went in her mind like flocks of birds that career and toss 
 against a black sky, form into ragged groups, twisting 
 and scurrying, then vanishing, leaving nothing but the 
 black sky and the breath 'of the storm which it threatens. 
 And that darkness, that obscure void against which the 
 birds careered was the future into which Maureen was 
 looking. 
 
 A twig creaking near her woke the girl from her gloomy 
 reverie. She looked round to see a young man crossing 
 the near dyke, his shirt open in front, his cap thrust well 
 back on his head and his face flushed and warm as if a 
 hurried journey had added fresh color to a ruddy, healthy 
 face. The newcomer was a tall, well-built youth of twenty 
 with magnificent shoulders, brown hair that curled over 
 his brow and fell almost to his gray, kindly eyes. These 
 eyes spoke of something good, something trustworthy. In 
 the whole expression there was an air of frankness and 
 artless good nature. He was a boy whom one might trust 
 at first sight, and one who did so would never regret the 
 reliance that took the face for token. 
 
 Cathal Cassidy was, to all who knew him, the soul of 
 probity and honor, whose word to those who knew him 
 was warranty in any market. He was a hard worker with 
 a hand in many undertakings; a fisherman when the her- 
 ring-shoals came in to Gweenora Bay; a carter, who with 
 pony and cart took the butter of the mountain people to 
 market, their corn to the mills, their woolen webs to the 
 cloth-markets where Donegal tweeds were sold to the buy- 
 ers from far-off towns. 
 
 In this way Cathal Cassidy came to know his own corner 
 of the world as few knew it. He traversed its mountains 
 on the quest of straying sheep, fished in its crooked rivers, 
 carted over its rugged mountainy roads, danced at its 
 festivals and bought and sold at its fairs. Every fold of 
 the ground, lift of a brae, dip of a glen, every hill, holm
 
 92 MAUREEN 
 
 and hollow of his own and neighboring baronies were known 
 to him. He knew Tirconnail as a painter knows every 
 color on his painting. ' ' Cathal Cassidy, if he had blinkers 
 on him and went through the length and breadth of the 
 country, could tell every one townland by its smell," said 
 the people. 
 
 Maureen O'Malley got to her feet as Cathal crossed 
 the ditch, her lips quivering as if she wanted to utter 
 some greeting to the man. She looked at him, then dropped 
 her eyes and said nothing. For five days she had not seen 
 Cathal, her friend. He had been away on business at 
 the other side of Sliab League and when there had not 
 heard of the death of Kathleen O'Malley. Now that he 
 was back his mother told him of the sad happening, and 
 without waiting for bit or sup he came to condole with 
 the girl in her calamity. 
 
 He had seen her on the morning of his departure, a 
 healthy, and as far as could be ascertained from outward 
 appearance, a happy girl. Now she was changed. Her 
 eyes were clouded, her lips drawn and her cheeks hollow. 
 The anguish of pain showed in her eyes, lent its sad cast 
 to the mobile lips and gave a tone of despair to her droop- 
 ing shoulders. The gay laugh and careless gesture of a 
 week ago were the girl's no longer. 
 
 ' ' Good day to ye, Cathal Cassidy, ' ' she said in a scarcely 
 audible voice. 
 
 "I just heard it," said the young man. "Heard it 
 just a minute ago when I came back from behind Sliab 
 League. Ah, poor Maureen, I'm sorry for ye." 
 
 He caught her hands as he spoke and pressed them in 
 his own. 
 
 "One trouble after another," she sobbed. "I don't 
 want to live any more and her gone, God rest her." 
 
 "God rest her," said Cathal, awed by the girl's grief. 
 "And where did ye stop last night and the night afore, 
 Maureen ? " he asked. 
 
 "In yer Granny's," said the girl, choking with sup- 
 pressed tears. "I was sittin* in the house and she came 
 up and took me away with her. I went just like a baby.
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 93 
 
 I didn't know what I was doin'. 'Twas black night and 
 day, Cathal Cassidy. But ones have to die, Cathal, haven't 
 they? And she's in Heaven now." 
 
 "She's in Heaven," Cathal repeated. "And much bet- 
 ter off than we are. She was a good woman, yer mother," 
 he said fervently. 
 
 "The best in all the world," sobbed Maureen in inex- 
 pressible anguish. "Oh, what did I do, Cathal, that she'd 
 be taken away from me like this ? ' ' 
 
 "It's the end for all iv us," said Cathal, knowing that 
 he should say something, but feeling when he spoke that 
 his words of consolation were futile and stupid. "Poor, 
 poor Maureen." 
 
 She rubbed the tears from her eyes and looked up at 
 the young man. 
 
 "I'm goin' away," she said shyly, as if telling him of 
 something which she knew he would not approve. 
 
 "Away! Where?" 
 
 "To Strabane. To the hiring-f air, " said the girl, her 
 lips closing in a sort of passionate determination. 
 
 "To the hiring-f air. What for, Maureen?" 
 
 "I'm tired and sick iv being here," said the girl. 
 " 'Twas bad enough with me mother livin' and now with 
 no one at all to care there's nothin' to keep me." 
 
 "But, Maureen, ye can't have it in yer head to go and 
 leave us all," said Cathal in a grave tone of voice. "I 
 know more than one that'd be sorry if ye go, Maureen. 
 I'd be sorry, Maureen, so sorry that I wouldn't know 
 what I'd be doin' and me goin' from place to place through 
 the country and coming back here maybe at night or in 
 the early mornin ' with not a light in yer home and thinkin ' 
 that ye were so far away and me not knowing what ye'd 
 be doin'. But ye 're not goin', Maureen, tell me that ye 're 
 not." 
 
 "I'm goin'," she said, "beyont the mountains to the 
 hirin'-fair." 
 
 "No! Don't, Maureen," Cathal besought her, catching 
 her hands and holding them between his own. "It's silly! 
 It's mad, Maureen. The work that ye '11 have to do there,
 
 94 MAUREEN 
 
 with no friends at all and gettin' up early in the morning 
 and the hard word from dawn to dusk. Ye don't under- 
 stand." 
 
 "Maybe I don't," said the girl. "But that and all, 
 I'm going. I'm tired to death iv the place and them that's 
 in it, all except yerself, Cathal, and Eileen Conroy. The 
 way that people look at me, and me knowin' all the time 
 that they're thinking bad about me, is enough to chase a 
 strong man away let alone me. . . . Don't, Cathal Gas- 
 sidy, there's a lot iv people lookin* out at ye havin' hold 
 iv me be the hand like this." 
 
 "Well, let them look!" said Cathal, regaining the hand 
 which Maureen had drawn away. "What do I care what 
 they think!" 
 
 "But I do," said the girl. "They'll cast the bad eye on 
 ye when they know that ye 're comin ' so close to me. When 
 I was weer than I am now, they wouldn't let the other 
 children play with me afraid that I'd do them some harm. 
 Now that I'm big, they'll say worse." 
 
 ' ' But listen, ' ' said Cathal, releasing her hands and fixing 
 his eyes on the girl. "Listen, and don't have it in yer head 
 to go away like this. Listen, Maureen, I don't want ye 
 to go away. I want ye to stay here, and if ye 're lonely up 
 in this house, come down and stay with my mother. She 
 has nothin' . . . She . . . Maureen, I'll tell ye what to 
 do. I'll work yer farm for ye. I'll set the pratees and 
 the corn and cut the hay. Only don't go away. If ye do 
 ye '11 niver know what '11 take place there and ye so far 
 from yer friends." 
 
 "I have no friends," said Maureen with a bitter smile. 
 
 "But I'm yer friend," said Cathal. "I was yer friend 
 always. Ye mind when the two iv us herded the cows and 
 put the shilisthree boats on the brooks for the fairies and 
 made whips and crosses from the green rushes. Ye mind 
 it, Maureen?" 
 
 "I do, sure," said the girl. "Ye were always good and 
 kind, Cathal, when ye were very wee and now too. Ye 
 were always the same, Cathal, one iv the very best. I
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 95 
 
 could trust ye in everything always. I know ye 're one 
 iv the kindest hearts in all the world." 
 
 "But ye 're goin'," he said in a voice of reproach, as 
 if her good opinion of his moral qualities was some reason 
 why she should not go. "Ye say this one minute and 
 that the next. But what does it matter what ye say about 
 goin' away? It's the death of yer mother, God rest her! 
 that has upset ye. Maureen ! Maureen ! Ye 're a silly 
 child. ' ' The young man hardly knew what he was saying. 
 
 The girl, despite her previous behest, reached out her 
 hand and caught his, squeezed it tightly, her eyes filling 
 with tears. 
 
 "Tell me, Cathal, how long would it take me to walk 
 to Strabane?" she asked in a choking voice. 
 
 ' ' How long ! A good while, ' ' he answered. ' ' Five miles 
 to Dunkeeran, and seven miles from there to Greenanore 
 . . . Kilgarrow . . . Drimaroor . . . Cloghan . . . Stranorlar. 
 Forty miles. But ye 're not thinkin' iv it, Maureen?" 
 
 "I'm going," she said in a steady voice. "I've made up 
 me mind." 
 
 "But, Maureen, ye can't go," said Cathal frantically. 
 " I won 't let ye. My mother's away to the market. When 
 she comes back I'll tell her to come up here and take ye 
 back with her to our house. Then she'll speak to ye and 
 show ye yer foolishness, Maureen. Just think iv it. Goin' 
 away like this and ye've never been beyont Stranarachary 
 in all yer life. Ye 're silly, Maureen, silly as a wee wane 
 iv two. Maureen, ye can't go!" 
 
 "There's nothin' for me to stay here for," said the 
 girl. "Maybe I will come back again, and even if I don't 
 there'll maybe be better times beyont the mountains. No- 
 body '11 know me there and that's somethin'. It's every- 
 thing, Cathal Cassidy." Her breast heaved convulsively. 
 Almost unaware of what she was doing she placed one 
 trembling hand on Cathal 's arm and clung to him as an 
 ivy clings to its support. 
 
 "Now go away and leave me, Cathal," she said with a 
 sob, clutching his sleeve with nervous fingers. "You were
 
 96 MAUREEN 
 
 very good to me, but go away. Every one's lookin' out in 
 the place and they'll be sayin' things. Good-by t'ye, 
 Cathal. Good-by." 
 
 She pulled herself away with an effort, her head droop- 
 ing and her loose tresses falling down over her shoulders. 
 Filled with emotion which he could neither explain nor 
 subdue the man took a step after her and placed his hand 
 on her shoulder. A feeling of mastery took possession 
 of him and something rose in his throat almost choking 
 him. 
 
 "You can't go," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I'll 
 not let ye go away like this." 
 
 "But I don't want to stay," said the girl, turning round 
 slowly and looking at him. "Ye don't know me, Cathal. 
 I've made up me mind and nothin' bar death 'ill prevent 
 me. If I haven 't a name iv me own I 've a will iv me own 
 and pride. I'm not goin' to stay here with every one's 
 hand against me." 
 
 "But they're not against ye," said Cathal. "My granny 
 would do the last thing in the world for ye and so would 
 me mother. Ye know that yerself, Maureen." 
 
 "Maybe now they would, when I'm in misery iv me 
 own," said the girl. "But after a week or two weeks 
 they'd change. They can't help it, but they'd look on me 
 as one that's not like other people. And I can't bear it, 
 Cathal Cassidy." 
 
 "Do ye think that I'd be like the others, that I'd 
 change?" asked the young man, with his hand still on 
 the girl's shoulder, pressing it tightly as if he feared that 
 she would suddenly run away and leave him. 
 
 "I know that ye'd always be the same to me, Cathal," 
 she said. "You're so good and so kind and decent. But 
 ye 're not like the rest iv the people. If they were all like 
 you, . . . But I'm goin'." 
 
 A look, haggard and feverish, overspread her face, as if 
 something beyond her control urged her to take a step 
 which she dreaded, but which she could not gainsay. She 
 turned her eyes on Cathal ; a moan of anguish escaped her 
 as if she were in bodily pain. A pang of grief smote the
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 97 
 
 man, and a blind, insane feeling filled his being. Putting 
 both arms round the girl he drew her to him in a mad 
 embrace. 
 
 "Maureen, my little Maureen, my wee love, ye 're not 
 goin' away to leave me," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I 
 want ye, Maureen, more than anything in the whole world. 
 Ye 're everything to me ! Ye were everything to me ! Not 
 the day or yesterday but for a long while, Maureen. If 
 I passed ye on the road without a word t'ye hardly, 'twas 
 because I had such a notion iv ye. Many's a night when 
 every one in the place was goin' to bed I watched the light 
 in the house above thinkin' iv ye sittin' there under the 
 lamp knittin' yer stockin' or maybe sayin' yer prayers. 
 And then when the light would go out I would think iv ye 
 goin' to bed and wonderin' what ye were thinkin' about. 
 . . . Maureen, tell me what ye were thinkin' about when 
 I was standin' by the road with my head full iv ye? Tell 
 me what were ye thinkin' iv?" 
 
 * ' Iv yerself ! ' ' said the girl shyly. 
 
 "Iv me!" said the man. "And now ye 're wantin* to 
 go away and leave me. No, no. I won't let ye, Maureen! 
 Going away to Strabane, indeed. What a wee, simple 
 soul ye are, Maureen." 
 
 A flush showed in her face and she glanced down, afraid 
 to look at Cathal. In an ecstasy of passion he rested his 
 lips on her brown hair and kissed it. 
 
 The sleepy townland was awaking to life now. Every 
 door had its eye, every window its sidelong look. Mau- 
 reen suddenly became conscious of the interest evinced 
 by the neighbors in the affair. She stepped back a pace, 
 releasing herself from Cathal 's embrace. 
 
 "They're all lookin' at ye, Cathal," she said. "Ye '11 
 never hear the end iv this! I feel their eyes on us." 
 
 "Then let them go to hell," said the young man with 
 an impetuous wave of his arm. "They're more curious 
 about the business of others than they are about their own. 
 But let them think," he went on. "Ye 're not goin' and 
 that's all that matters." 
 
 "I'm goin'," said the girl with the same decision that
 
 98 MAUREEN 
 
 marked her words a moment before. "I've took it into 
 my head, and I'm goin'." 
 
 "Then ye don't care for me, Maureen," said the young 
 man, a mad jealousy flaming up in his heart. "That's 
 why ye 're goin' away, because ye don't care for me." 
 
 "I'm goin' away because I do care for ye," said the 
 girl. "I've always cared for ye, Cathal." 
 
 "And ye 're goin' to leave me?" he asked, with an in- 
 credulous nod of his head. "That's a kind iv love that 
 I don't know what to make iv, Maureen O'Malley. Ye tell 
 me that ye care for me and then get out iv the way as if 
 ye were afraid iv me. But it's only fun iv me that ye 're 
 makin', Maureen. Ye 're not goin' away." 
 
 "I'm goin'," said the girl. "If I stay here it will be 
 the black look and the hard word for me as long as I live. 
 And if ye take the notion iv helpin' me into yer head it 
 will be the same for yerself. And ye '11 be sorry for it, 
 not maybe now, but in after years." 
 
 "Not me," said Cathal, setting his teeth and closing his 
 fists as if threatening those who dared to molest the girl by 
 word or look. "If they'd only dare." 
 
 "They'd dare," said the girl. "Not maybe to yer face, 
 but behind yer back. Ye don't know the people. Ye 
 weren't me or me mother, God rest her. And when ye 
 would marry me, as ye would, I know, for ye 're not like 
 the fellows about the place. Ye 're good and kind and 
 never a man that would put a girl to shame. I speak like 
 this because I'm wise beyond my years maybe," she has- 
 tened to add, seeing a crimson blush rise on Cathal's face. 
 "Ye learn a lot through sorrow; and it's much that me 
 mother, God rest her! told me that's known to nobody 
 beyond me and herself. And nobody only meself knows 
 the woman that she was, so good and so kind. And it 
 wasn't her to blame any one at all for what happened. 
 ' 'Twas all me fault, ' she said. But beyond that she would 
 tell me nothin'. 'God knows,' she used to say, 'and 
 meself and another,' but who the other was she never 
 told me, and I never asked her. She didn't want to put 
 him to shame, whoever he was. And I'm like her, Cathal.
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 99 
 
 I don't want to put anybody to shame, neither for a 
 fault that's their own or for a fault that's not their own. 
 I could never marry yerself, Cathal. We'd be sorry for 
 it ever after, the two iv us, if I took yer name." 
 
 "I wouldn't be sorry," said the young man. "As 
 if I would and not a girl in the whole world like ye, 
 Maureen. What would I care what people would say. 
 Ah!" he exclaimed passionately. "If I would hear them 
 sayin' anything against ye, Maureen, I'd let them know." 
 He thrust out his fist as if striking somebody "And 
 sorry! Oh, Maureen!" 
 
 "Iv course I know that ye'd never let on to me, even if 
 ye were," said the girl. "But I'd be thinkin' this and 
 that and I'd never have a minute's happiness. Good-by 
 to ye, Cathal." 
 
 She caught his hand again, squeezed it, and her eyes, 
 laden with tears, rested on the man's face. Then with- 
 out another word she dropped his hand, turned round 
 and walked slowly back to her home. His eyes followed 
 her to the door; he saw her stand for a moment on the 
 threshold, her head bowed, the uncoiled tresses of hair 
 resting on her shoulders. Without looking back she dis- 
 appeared into the house. 
 
 For a full five minutes Cathal stood there as if frozen, 
 his eyes fixed on the house, a look of perplexity and agita- 
 tion featuring his face. Suddenly his eyes cleared and a 
 hopeful glow suffused his countenance. 
 
 "I know," he exclaimed happily. "I'll get me mother 
 to come up and she'll bring Maureen to her senses." 
 
 Then he went back to his home. 
 
 vn 
 
 Darkness was settling. Sliab a Tuagh, with its night- 
 cap on, was falling asleep in its blanket of gloom. Over 
 its head the early stars were being joined by others that 
 suddenly flared into sight against the obscurity as glow- 
 worms appear in the loom of a bog. Over the country 
 the varied sounds of falling night were making themselves
 
 100 MAUREEN 
 
 manifest, the lowing of heavy-uddered cows that yearned 
 for the hand of the milker, the quacking of late ducks 
 as they made for their croaghs, the barking of dogs, the 
 sound of voices, the laughter of the young who, having 
 finished their day 's work, were now congregating in groups 
 here and there on the roadway, some talking of the work 
 of the day, others of love, of this and that, all the in- 
 significant little things, the mere nothings, which go to 
 make the life of the young. 
 
 It was at this hour that a light suddenly shone from the 
 window of Maureen O 'Malley 's house on the Meenaroodagh 
 brae. The lamp had been lit by the hapless girl, who, 
 having wakened from a troubled slumber into which she 
 had fallen some moments before, recollected the journey 
 which lay before her. Even to herself she would assign 
 no reason for starting on her journey that night. To- 
 morrow at dawn would do as well. The fair would be held 
 the day after to-morrow. Why was she going there ? What 
 had happened? She hardly knew. Her eyes heavy with 
 sleep and their lashes beaded with tears caught the light 
 of the newly-lighted lamp and glimmered with a million 
 little suns. A weariness lay like a cold, heavy stone on her 
 breast, depriving her of the very power of thought. She 
 rubbed her eyes, turned up the wick a little, then turned 
 it down again as she saw the flame casting a layer of soot 
 on the top of the globe. All this she did mechanically as 
 in a dream. 
 
 She looked round the kitchen. It was dark and quiet 
 save within the circle lit by the lamp. On the top of the 
 dresser near the rafters lay a white cat asleep, its body 
 curled up in a nice round ball. Shadows played on the 
 wall, moving slowly and lazily as if afraid. Every object 
 in the room, tables, chairs, the delf on the dresser, the 
 upended crock leaning against the wall, the dying fire with 
 the ash crumbling from the peat and dropping silently on 
 the hearth, inspired awe and quiet. A feeling of loneliness 
 subdued the girl. 
 
 She looked at the empty stool under the brace. This 
 was where her mother used to sit and knit her stockings.
 
 MAUREEN 'MALLET 101 
 
 She wasn't there now, and Maureen, so long accustomed to 
 her presence in the one spot, the click and sparkle of the 
 needles, was not surprised when she saw the dead suddenly 
 appear and take up her place on the hassock again. Con- 
 scious that the dead was really there as of old, Maureen 
 was not surprised to find the Presence take on form, lift 
 her needles and go on with the knitting. At that moment 
 a slight rustle from the doorway engaged the girl's at- 
 tention. She turned round. 
 
 Some one was standing there, framed in the dark back- 
 ground and looking at Maureen. The newcomer was a 
 young girl about Maureen's age, barefooted, with a shawl 
 round her shoulders. With lips slightly parted, cheeks 
 flushed and eyes downcast as if suffering from timidity 
 and embarrassment, the newcomer rested her eyes on the 
 floor, then raised them and looked at Maureen. 
 
 "Eileen Conroy! Is it yerself ?" 
 
 "I knew ye'd be alone," said the visitor. "And it's so 
 dark and lone here and no one at all to speak one word 
 to ye. My mother wonders what's wrong with ye at all 
 and everybody in the place ready to do the last thing in 
 the world for ye and ye won't come out and stay with 
 anybody at all. Stayin' here all be yerself, Maureen! It's 
 a wonder ye 're not f eeard ! ' ' 
 
 "There's nothin' to be f eeard iv here," said Maureen 
 in a low voice, looking at the hassock to find that the ap- 
 parition had vanished. 
 
 "But ye used to be f eeard," said Eileen in a puzzled 
 voice. "Once, and that not so long gone, ye wouldn't go 
 out to the well be night for a bucket iv water, unless yer 
 mother would stand at the door singin' all the time till ye 
 came back again. Now, ye 're all yer lone and ye stay 
 here." 
 
 "But I'm not all me lone," said Maureen with a wan 
 smile. "I sit here and know I'm safe, for me mother's 
 watchin' over me yet. I saw her a minit ago and me sit- 
 tin' here be the fire. She looked at me, just in the same 
 way as she always used to do " 
 
 "Mother iv God!" Eileen exclaimed, making the sign
 
 102 MAUREEN 
 
 of the Cross, her whole body trembling. She was still 
 standing at the door. 
 
 * ' I looked at her, ' ' Maureen continued, her voice sinking 
 to a whisper, "and I saw her sit down on the hassog and 
 grope on the floor just the same as she used to do when 
 she had lost a needle, and it maybe fell into the ashes. 
 There wasn't a bit iv fear in me, for why should there 
 be, for wasn 't she my own mother ? She kept gropin ' and 
 gropin' and two or three times she put her hand on a hot 
 coal and kept it there as if the very feelin' was no longer 
 in her. All at once she lifted her head and set eyes on me. 
 It didn't look as if she had seen me before. She looked 
 as if she wanted to say something and her so lone like 
 and full iv sorrow that my heart grew cold as ice in my 
 breast. Then I hears yerself comin' in, and with that she 
 went out iv my sight like a spark in the air and I was left 
 on my lone again." 
 
 "God help us the day and the night," said Eileen, fixing 
 a scared look on the hassock by the fire and crossing her- 
 self. "But maybe it was only a dream ye were havin'." 
 
 "Maybe that," Maureen replied in a low, resigned tone. 
 "But that's what I saw anyway, Eileen. And the way 
 she groped for the needle, just the same as always. And 
 she had the same sprikkled cloud on her and her maar- 
 teens and her checked wool petticoat. And it'll be hauntin' 
 the house now she'll be till I get Masses said for her soul." 
 
 Eileen was silent. She had now come up to the fire- 
 place, and, sitting on a chair, she cast furtive glances round 
 the room. A troubled expression settled in her eyes, and 
 it seemed, even to Maureen, that her friend had something 
 on her mind. They looked at one another. 
 
 "Ye 're not yerself, Eileen," said Maureen suddenly. 
 "Ye 're as white as a sheet. It's nothin' wrong with ye, 
 is it?" 
 
 "Nothin'," said Eileen gloomily. "But I'm sick iv 
 this place. I wished I was out iv it. Ye can't move for 
 it's work all day and most iv the night. Maybe a dance 
 once a month and ye never see anything at all. I have 
 a good mind to go away altogether. If it wasn't for me
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 103 
 
 mother and her so old with the rheumatics, I'd be away 
 years ago." 
 
 "Every one's gettin' the idea iv goin' away into their 
 heads now," said Maureen. "There'll soon be not a one 
 left in the parish." 
 
 "Who's leavin' now?" asked Eileen. 
 
 "Oh, well, every one nearly," said Maureen. "There's 
 so many that's gone away to the war and maybe never 
 comin' back; and so many more that are goin' when they 
 see that England does the right thing to Ireland." 
 
 "But what do they mean by the right thing at all?" 
 Eileen questioned. Hers was a practical nature in rela- 
 tion to immediate desires, the cooking of a meal, the knit- 
 ting of a stocking, the mending of a torn dress, but for 
 anything out and beyond her sphere of domestic activities, 
 she had no use. "I don't know what they're always 
 speakin' about, the boys that bees round. It's always Ire- 
 land doin' this and that if England does the right thing." 
 
 "It's a long story," said Maureen, looking up. "Ire- 
 land hasn't her rights. They were taken from her hun- 
 dreds of years ago by England, and ever since that time 
 she has been crushed down. They've taken everything 
 from her, everything that by right belongs to a nation. 
 Her language is almost gone, and she hasn't a tongue iv 
 her own anywhere bar in wild, out-of-the-way places like 
 this, and even here it's dyin' out. We go to school as 
 children and everything is told to us in the tongue iv the 
 Sassenach. We learn our prayers in English, our catechism 
 in English, our lessons in English. If the boys go out 
 to fight as soldiers they have got to wear the clothes of the 
 King of England. They'll fight be the side iv France if 
 they're allowed to, but England won't allow them." 
 
 "But my mother says that there never was a time for 
 Ireland like the times that 's in it now, ' ' said Eileen. ' ' Stock 
 goin' up in price and the Old Age Pensions. And then 
 the boys that have gone away, it's money in pocket for 
 them that's at home. Hannah McKelvie iv the Hill has 
 two iv her boys, Corney and Hugh, at the war, and it's piles 
 iv money that she can lift on them at the Post Office once
 
 104 MAUKEEN 
 
 a week. And neither one or other iv them was much good 
 to man or baste when they were here at home." 
 
 "That's it," said Maureen with a sigh. "If a thing 
 gets in money it doesn't matter at all what the thing is. 
 Nobody is much good that will go to fight and his thought 
 on nothin' but the money that it will get him. Freedom 
 is not to be got in that way. But, Eileen," she added 
 hastily with a timorous smile, "it's not for me to be talkin' 
 iv things like this unless it's to take me mind off iv other 
 things and me that should be gettin' ready for me journey. 
 Forty miles it is, and the fair is the day after the mor- 
 row." 
 
 "Ye 're a funny one, Maureen," said the other girl, who 
 had already heard of Maureen's project. "But I won't 
 think that ye 're goin' at all. It's not to be thought iv, 
 and ye leavin' so much." 
 
 She shook her head sadly, as if lamenting something 
 which she herself had lost. She gazed furtively at Mau- 
 reen as if trying to read something in the girl's expression, 
 something of great import and moment to herself. Sev- 
 eral times Maureen looked up to meet this glance. It dis- 
 concerted her. She sensed a certain tension in the glance, 
 and the atmosphere of the room seemed to fill with certain 
 antipathy which emanated from the visitor. 
 
 She had known Eileen ever since she could remember; 
 knew, as she thought, every mood of the girl, and could 
 with the utmost ease couple any act of the girl with the 
 motive and any mood with the occasion. But this stealthy 
 glance, this covert look which hid some ulterior design 
 was not usual to Eileen. 
 
 "Ye 're lookin' very funny the night," said Maureen 
 suddenly. 
 
 "In what way," stammered the girl, catching her breath 
 as if on the point of sobbing. 
 
 "Well, it's the way that ye 're lookin' at me," said 
 Maureen. "Ye don't seem yerself at all." 
 
 "Then I'm not," the girl avowed. "I'm not meself at 
 all. It's Oh, Maureen, I couldn't tell ye for worlds, not 
 to ye anyway. ' '
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 105 
 
 "Then who to, if not meself?" said Maureen, putting 
 both arms round her friend's shoulders and drawing her 
 closer to herself. "If I can do anything to help ye, Eileen, 
 I'll do it. Ye 're the only girl friend that I've got in the 
 whole world, and who could look for another friend when 
 they have yerself, Eileen? Now tell me what's wrong with 
 ye, Eileen. Mind that I'm yer friend, and ye 're my friend, 
 the best friend I've in the world." 
 
 "Bar one," said Eileen. "And that is everything, 
 everything." As she spoke she got to her feet, stepped 
 back a few paces and coming in contact with the chair 
 under the window, sat down, as if suddenly losing all 
 control of herself. A blush mantled her face, rising to the 
 eyes, getting into tone with the lids that were reddened as 
 if with tears. 
 
 "Bar one," Maureen repeated in a surprised voice. 
 "What d'ye mane at all, Eileen Conroy?" 
 
 "Ye know yerself, Maureen." 
 
 ' ' Me ! I don 't know ! It 's the want iv sleep the nights 
 iv the wake that's tellin' on ye." 
 
 "I wished it was," said the girl, again rising to her 
 feet and taking a step towards the door. "I'm goin' 
 home," she said, but then as if thinking better of it she 
 sat down again. 
 
 "What's wrong with ye at all?" asked Maureen, fixing 
 a puzzled look on her young friend. "Tell me and I'll 
 do anything in the world for ye before I go away. Can I 
 help ye, Eileen?" 
 
 "No, no. Ye'd help me, I know, but as it is ye'd be 
 the last person in the world fit to help me," said Eileen, 
 fixing a queer, hard look on Maureen. In that look hate 
 and jealousy seemed to have mingled. "The luck came 
 yer way, Maureen O 'Malley, and it missed me ! " 
 
 Again both became silent. Maureen gazed pensively at 
 the fire, twirling a coil of her hair between finger and 
 thumb. Eileen Conroy watched her and shook her head 
 sadly from time to time, but suddenly rising to her feet 
 she crossed to Maureen and put a hand on her shoulder. 
 
 "I don't know what to think," she said calmly while
 
 106 MAUREEN 
 
 her lips quivered as if from pain. "Here are the two iv 
 us that were always friends, but now it looks as if there's 
 somethin' between us, cuttin' us away one from the other. 
 It's not that ye 're goin' away, Maureen O'Malley. It's 
 somethin' else." 
 
 "Him?" asked Maureen in a whisper, not raising her 
 eyes from the fire. 
 
 "Ay, it's Cathal," Eileen replied in a choking voice. 
 "Why is it at all, and us two the friends that we are? 
 Oh, Maureen, Maureen." 
 
 The moan broke with such anguish from the girl that 
 Maureen was filled with grief for her friend, and a feel- 
 ing of affection, warmer than ever she had known before, 
 rose in her heart. Their mutual sorrow melted the barrier 
 that stood between them and seemed to bind them closer 
 to one another. 
 
 "It's not your fault, Maureen." 
 
 "And it's not yours, and it's not his," said Maureen. 
 "It had to be : but I'm goin' away, and then he'll see that 
 ye 're a far and away better girl than I am." 
 
 "But even with yerself gone, if ye do go, and, Maureen, 
 I hope ye don't, what does it matter to Cathal in the way 
 he looks at me?" said Eileen despondently. "I'm one iv 
 the many that he might look at if he forgets yerself, a 
 thing he'll never do, Maureen. I'm nothin' to him at all. 
 It's 'Good day to ye, Eileen,' when he meets me and 
 'Good night t'ye, Eileen,' when he passes me on the road 
 at night. And, Maureen, it's often that he passes me by 
 at night and me standin' outside the door when he's goin' 
 home. I wonder does he know why I'm standin' there 
 sometimes, and it always every time when I know that 
 he'll be passin' on his cart. Oh, Maureen, Maureen!" 
 She clung closer to the girl and unburdened her soul. 
 "There was black hate in my heart against ye the day 
 when I saw ye standin' out there and him with his two 
 hands round ye. Black hate, Maureen O'Malley. And I 
 like ye, but at that minute ye were standin' between me 
 and heaven. I'd give me soul to be in yer place, my body 
 and soul. I would crawl on me hands and knees over briars,
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 107 
 
 I'd let him tramp on me if only he would catch me and 
 kiss me as he kissed yerself the day. And ye 're goin' 
 away to leave him?" she asked in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 "I'm goin' away out iv his sight for ever," said Mau- 
 reen in a tone of sorrowful resignation. 
 
 "But why, Maureen, why?" Eileen asked passionately. 
 "Why are ye leavin' him and him lovin' ye as he does?" 
 
 "That's one reason that I'm goin' away," said Maureen 
 with a sad smile. "He loves me so well that I can't make 
 him a sorry man be marryin' him and have all the people 
 talkin' behind our backs and making a mock iv him. And 
 that would break the heart iv me. Say what ye like, Eileen, 
 I'm goin'. I'll lose myself like a spark goin' up the 
 chimley and no one will hear a word about me again. 
 Maybe he'll be sorry after me a while, but as time goes on 
 he'll forget all about me, and why shouldn't he? He's a 
 young fellow." 
 
 "Ye speak just like an old woman," said Eileen. "Are 
 ye in earnest with what ye say ? ' ' 
 
 Their eyes met, Eileen's filled with the glimmer of a 
 vague hope, Maureen's with the premonition of a dread 
 certainty. They clung to one another, both trembling, 
 helpless. Maureen felt that she had no right in causing 
 her friend such suffering. Eileen realized that she was 
 mean and despicable in telling her own worries to a girl 
 who had already such suffering heaped on her own shoul- 
 ders. Unmitigated misfortune, heavy as rock, had fallen 
 on both, crushing them to the ground. Sobbing, they 
 looked at one another with piteous, childish eyes. 
 
 "Well, there's no good in crying about it!" said Mau- 
 reen with an air of resolute self-reliance as she gently 
 disengaged her arm from Eileen's and got to her feet. 
 "There's no good in cryin' about it at all." 
 
 "No good at all," Eileen acquiesced lamely, but even 
 as she spoke a fresh burst of sobbing shook her frame. 
 Staggering to her feet, she threw out her arms and clasped 
 Maureen. "It's my fault," she sobbed. "I shouldn't 
 have come here to trouble ye. But then I knew that ye'd 
 be lonely, and I was jealous of ye. ... I did not
 
 108 MAUREEN 
 
 what to do. And I love him, maybe as much as yerself, 
 Maureen, and maybe more . . . but not more. I would 
 have him if he'd take me, and I wouldn't care whether he 
 suffered for it or not. ... I don't know what I'm sayin' 
 at all. If I went away would ye stay here and marry 
 him? Maybe if ye would it would be easier to bear. A 
 married man's married. And maybe if I went away I'd 
 forget all about him and be happy beyont the mountains. ' * 
 
 Eileen's voice as she spoke was very low but firm, as if 
 trying to prevent something from mastering her. She 
 looked very beautiful. A pink glow mantled her cheeks, 
 her dark eyes were alight under her arched brows, her 
 breath coming in short, labored gasps, panting as if for 
 something which could never be attained. Without being 
 conscious of the fact, the girl was pitying herself and in 
 reality seeking help and consolation from her unhappy 
 rival. 
 
 She glanced joylessly at Maureen as the girl sat by the 
 dead fire, her dark, shiny hair curling over her beautiful 
 shoulders, her face in profile showing the line of the 
 straight nose and the contour of the rounded chin, an artist 's 
 model for his greatest masterpiece. Deep in her own 
 thoughts she remained silent. Eileen looked at her from 
 under her lashes. Her mad agitation was somewhat allayed 
 by Maureen's avowal that she was going to leave the coun- 
 try, that is the parish ; for to the Tirconail peasantry their 
 country and in fact their very world is bounded by the 
 hills that can be seen from the doorstep. But the peace 
 of heart was only for a moment. Again that rankling 
 jealousy which feeds its flame on the quiver of a lash, the 
 trembling of a lip, a sigh, and sees a hidden purport in 
 the slightest action, welled up in the heart of Eileen Con- 
 roy. It was all very well for Maureen to say that she was 
 going away. She had not gone yet. And she never would 
 go. If Cathal had a notion of her, big simple fool that 
 he was, Maureen was not the girl to miss her chance. She 
 would have him, being what she was. 
 
 Eileen Conroy got to her feet, went to the door, stood 
 there for a moment as if considering something. Then she
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY 109 
 
 looked back. Maureen was still sitting by the fire gazing 
 pensively at the brown and white ashes. "She's never 
 going away from here," said Eileen in an angry whisper 
 and was on the point of saying so aloud, but something 
 indeterminable exercised a subtle influence over the girl 
 and compelled her to depart in silence. 
 
 Two hours afterwards, Kitty Cassidy, Cathal's mother, 
 late home from the market, called to see Maureen O 'Malley, 
 and found her gone. 
 
 Though Maureen had disappeared, the house was occu- 
 pied, and the occupant was Columb Ruagh Keeran. How 
 he came to be there at that moment was not known. Of 
 course he owned the farm by right of mortgage, the people 
 knew; but that the mortgage had been paid that day by 
 the girl giving Columb the right to her share of Crinnan 
 was not as yet common knowledge. That he gave twenty 
 pounds for this right became known later, and gave rise 
 to much comment and heart-burning, especially amongst 
 those who had been gulled by a glass or two of potheen 
 when entering into transactions with Columb Ruagh 
 Keeran. 
 
 But it was considered that Columb had other ends in 
 view when he offered the girl twenty pounds, which was 
 undoubtedly true, for Columb, a man of discrimination, 
 studied the mental mood as well as the monetary need of 
 the victims whom he intended to fleece. But how he in- 
 tended to make ultimate profit from the girl Maureen 
 O 'Malley, was never known. Suffice for the purpose of 
 the story to give Columb Ruagh Keeran 's statement when 
 Kitty Cassidy enquired of him if he knew where Maureen 
 O 'Malley had gone to. 
 
 "She's away, the poor girsha," he said. "Away to 
 Strathbane with her pockets filled with money, for I have 
 bought this farm and her right to Crinnan from the girl 
 and paid her for it, money down."
 
 TOWNLANDS 
 
 Now as townlands these three townlands are the best that can "be seen, 
 
 Meenahalla and Strasallagh and Cagharacreen. 
 
 Now take the road to Rosses Beag as well as Rosses War, 
 
 And the townlands marching either hand are well above a score; 
 
 And mark them well in hill and holm, and bog and pasture land 
 
 And good strong houses standing snug and white on either hand. 
 
 "Good luck be on ye, decent man!" The girshas passing by 
 
 Will have the soft laugh on the lip, the brave look in their eye. 
 
 The hearty men: "It's warm indeed! Sit down, sir, if you please; 
 
 J8o have a pull iv this old pipe and make yourself at ease!" 
 
 "God bless you, decent man, the day!" the good houseicife will say; 
 
 "And sit you down and eat a bit to help you on your way!" 
 
 And you that's on the Rosses road that runs to Rosses Wor 
 
 Will go through many a brave toionland, and they're above a score. 
 
 But as townlands three townlands are the best you've ever seen, 
 
 Meenahalla and Strasallagh and Cagharacreen I 
 
 111
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 COLUMB RrUAGH KEERAN 
 
 SALLY ROURKE, the medicine woman, a witch who 
 ate her bread without blessing, as the neighbors af- 
 firmed, who held concert with powers of darkness, who 
 knew legerdemain, black magic and the arts which are not 
 good for a human soul, was sitting in her home on the lift of 
 Meenaroodagh brae nursing her knees and warming her 
 bare shins in front of her peat fire. 
 
 The Dungarrow people feared the old woman, but de- 
 spite this they came to her when suffering from any ail- 
 ment and besought her for a cure. Her mode of procedure 
 when she took a case in hand was of a medico-religious 
 character in which the herb cure and the fairy cure went 
 hand in hand, where the faculty of medicine took almost 
 second place to the magical ceremonies that accompanied 
 it and where exorcism was considered of greater merit 
 than castor-oil in curing a belly-pain. 
 
 The woman had cures for all ailments, the nightfire 
 (fever), the wildfire (the red rash), measles, sore eyes, 
 pains, sprains, sores, bruises, warts, styes, mumps and chin- 
 cough. These cures and charms, with their mystic forms 
 and mysterious rites, were, of no doubt, in a measure help- 
 ful, for faith works miracles amongst people who have 
 an implicit belief in unseen spiritual agencies. But now 
 alas ! Dungarrow has turned a skeptical eye to these reme- 
 dies. The people are becoming civilized, and civilization 
 with aeroplanes in the sky over Sliab League, tanks on 
 the crooked Tirconail roads, men of the Army of Occupa- 
 tion steel-helmeted and accoutered in the appointments 
 
 113
 
 114 MAUREEN 
 
 of battle drilling in the holms and forming fours round 
 the raths sacred to the fairies, has no place in its make-up 
 for old women's cures, spells and mystic incantations. 
 
 It was on the evening of the day on which Columb Ruagh 
 met Maureen 'Malley on the road and shortly after part- 
 ing from the girl that the man entered the house of Sally 
 Rourke to find her sitting by the fire, warming her feet 
 and legs after a day's wade through the bogs for leeches. 
 The little things had fastened to her legs, and now the 
 old woman was stopping the bleeding caused by their 
 bites by applying cobwebs to the wounds. 
 
 The leeches that she had caught were now swimming 
 gracefully through the water in a bottle which stood on 
 the table. Columb could see the sheen on the greenish- 
 black creatures as they curved and twisted in sinuous 
 movements. Now their bodies turned up and he could 
 see their mottled bellies; and again the flattened bodies 
 stretched out straight, showing the rows of reddish and 
 yellowish spots along their backs. 
 
 The woman looked round on hearing the noise of the 
 door, and her face, thin, blue and rigid, reminded the man 
 of a corpse. The eyes stared from their sunken pockets and 
 told of a world of cunning concealed in their depths. 
 Sally was an old crone, having passed her seventieth year 
 by ten, and eligible for the Old Age Pension which she 
 never claimed. Her dignity would not allow her to de- 
 scend to this. She had lived for close on eighty years, 
 and being able to take care of herself all that time she 
 was not going to appeal to the parish now. Taking a pen- 
 sion in her opinion was synonymous with a charitable 
 dole. "Other people can go to the parish when they get 
 on in years," she asserted, "but not old Sally Rourke. 
 My father and mother afore, God rest them! never went 
 to the parish and I'm not going to shame them that went 
 afore me." 
 
 Even Father Dan could not prevail on Sally to accept 
 the Pension. "I would take it, myself," he said, "if I 
 was offered it."
 
 COLUMB RUAGH KEERAN 115 
 
 "That ye might, Father Dan," said the woman. "But 
 then I 'm one iv the Rourkes and not a MeCabe. ' ' 
 
 She looked at the man who stood by the door, his hat 
 pulled down over his eyes and his burden, the bag con- 
 taining the pig, still on his back. The animal was grunt- 
 ing. 
 
 "Well, and what kind iv a fair was it the day?" she 
 inquired, getting to her feet and coming towards the door. 
 Her sight was failing and, her eyes unable to bear testi- 
 mony to the evidence of the ears, she could not- tell who 
 the visitor was. But all the same she was not going to 
 let any one find out this weakness of vision. The Rourkes 
 always had good eyes. Her father, it was said, could see 
 the very grass growing, and the daughter of that man 
 could not confess that she lacked any of her people's at- 
 tributes. 
 
 "I saw ye goin' down from the top of the hill the day," 
 she croaked, "and I said to meself : 'There's a man that's 
 goin' to buy out the whole market.' Them were my very 
 words." 
 
 "But the money that one paid for beasts the day was 
 big," said the man at the door, as he placed his burden 
 on the ground. "I bought this wee bonnafan, Sally 
 Rourke, and the money that I gave for it was terrible. I 
 could buy a full-grown pig for the same money two years 
 back." 
 
 "Then ye didn't strike a bargain, Columb Ruagh?" 
 said Sally Rourke in a dry, cracked voice as if she spoke 
 through a throat of cinders. 
 
 "A bargain, Sally Rourke!" exclaimed the man. "A 
 bargain did ye say? There isn't a bargain to be had now. 
 Ye need a pot iv gold sovereigns to lessen the stock iv 
 the fair by one. And then it's a chance that ye '11 ever 
 get yer money back on it. The war maybe will stop and 
 then it's the prices goin' down and sellin' the baste for 
 silver that ye bought for gold. ' ' 
 
 "That's what ye've never done as yet, Columb Ruagh," 
 said the woman. "Ye've the luck, and when a man has
 
 116 MAUREEN 
 
 that there's nothin' more to be said at all about the mat- 
 ter. It's luck that puts the guineas in the pocket." 
 
 "It is, I'll grant ye that, Sally Rourke," said Columb 
 in a wry voice. "It's luck that gives a man a bit iv profit 
 in a bargain." 
 
 "That indeed 's true," said Sally, scratching the calves 
 of her legs where they itched. "That's a true word, just 
 as true as the old sayin' that said that nobody profits bar 
 at the expense iv others." 
 
 "That's right, Sally Rourke," Columb admitted phleg- 
 matically. "And I thought iv that and me comin' up 
 here to tell ye that yer two stirks, the brannat one and 
 the white-backed one, were across the ditch on the next 
 farm that was once in the hands of Kathleen O'Malley, 
 God rest her, but is mine now, be right iv mortgage and 
 the twenty gold sovereigns that I gave to the poor woman 
 twelve months ago, and her without a penny to call her 
 own and next to nothin' then in her byre or bin. So when 
 I saw yer two stirks on the farm across the ditch I thought 
 to meself that nobody profits bar at the expense iv others." 
 
 The man's voice had taken on a melancholy tone. 
 
 "They've been across there all the day, I bate," he went 
 on, "and me down at the fair tryin' to get a sucker to 
 help me to make up the money that I paid for that farm. 
 A good penny it was and me a poor man, that's tryin' 
 to make a livin' somehow or the other up at the Crinnan 
 cross-roads. These two stirks have been over the fence 
 many's a time on the grass atin' it" he smacked his 
 lips as if munching the herbage himself and finding it to 
 his taste "the grass that I've paid for be hard work and 
 scrapin* and scringin' day in and day out for the past 
 twenty years or more." 
 
 "But they weren't over the ditch when I came down 
 the hill half an hour back," said the old woman. "They 
 were just lyin' the two iv them together at the back iv 
 Garrybawn, and they looked as if they'd lie there all night 
 without movin' a tail." 
 
 "That may be so," said Columb, with the air of a man 
 who finds everything in life the reverse of that which is
 
 COLUMB KUAGH KEERAN 117 
 
 anticipated. "And I believe it for I know that ye 're a 
 good dacent woman, Sally Rourke. But that and all, I 
 gave twenty gold pounds for the farm and if I'm to feed 
 all the stock iv the neighbors I don't see how I'm to get 
 the money back. And it's not the first time that they've 
 been there, them two stirks, Sally Rourke. I've seen them 
 often beyont the ditch, but I've said nothin' because I 
 know that ye 're a dacent woman and wouldn't do me out 
 iv me dues as a neighbor." 
 
 "That I wouldn't," said Sally Rourke. She was afraid 
 of Columb. 
 
 The man glanced at her with a grin and said slowly: 
 
 "Iv course ye wouldn't, but that and all, I can't let 
 trespassin' cattle be all day and night runnin' over me land. 
 If they were on the other side of the fence once or twice 
 it wouldn't matter a hair, but as it is they're there all day 
 and all night," he said, his voice a strange mingling of 
 levity and severity. "Ye never keep much iv an eye on 
 them, and as they say, 'Nobody profits bar at the expense 
 iv others,' so it looks as if all the profit goes to you, Sally 
 Rourke, and all the expense is paid for be me." 
 
 "But all that two stirks ate when they go over is nothin' 
 at all," pleaded the woman. "And if they go over they 
 don't stay there long, for it's soon that yell chase them 
 back, Columb Ruagh, if ye see them." 
 
 "That's it," said the man grimly. "If I see them. I 
 don't often see them, I'll admit. That's because I'm not 
 often down this way, but whenever I'm down this way I 
 do see them. They never leave the place. So there's only 
 one thing to be done and that 's to drive them to the pound. 
 And I'm goin' to do that now. I'm goin' up to the hill 
 to drive them to the pound. ' ' 
 
 The woman, who was now sitting on the chair by the 
 fire, sprung to her feet with a yell. 
 
 "Ye 're the dirty spawn iv the divil, Columb Ruagh!" 
 she shrieked. "In ye come here so that one would think 
 butter wouldn't melt in yer mouth, and then ye talk about 
 sendin' my poor bastes to the pound. And me a widow 
 woman, too, Columb Ruagh. Go'n and drive them to the
 
 118 MAUREEN 
 
 pound if ye want to and may my curse be on yer head. 
 Go 'n ! Out iv the house and away with them to the pound. 
 Go 'n, Columb Kuagh ! Go 'n, ye heU broth, ye ! Go 'n ! " 
 
 Columb, who had lifted his bag again with the intention 
 of carrying his threat into action, seemed to become dis- 
 concerted by the woman's wild outburst of wrath. He 
 glanced at her uneasily, saw the fiery eyes deeply sunk in 
 their wrinkled pockets, the contorted face, the fingers of 
 her lean hands working like the claws of a cat. In an- 
 other moment she would probably fly at the man and tear 
 his face. Columb Euagh placed the bag on the floor and 
 sat down. 
 
 "Well, don't be gettin' so wild about it, Sally Rourke," 
 he said in a temporizing tone. "Ye take everything too 
 much to heart. The pound was only me fun." 
 
 "Go'n," said the woman. " 'Twas no fun. I know ye 
 too well for that, Columb Ruagh. Ye'd take yer own 
 father from his grave and put him to the pound. That 
 ye would, Columb Ruagh." 
 
 The man held up a big open hand in front of the woman's 
 face. 
 
 "Listen!" he said. "Now listen! It's the bad humor 
 I'm in, anyway. Things have been goin' far from well 
 for me iv late. First it's one thing and then the other, 
 and the price that barley grain is goin' and meal seen and 
 oatmeal. There 's more money goes to the fillin ' iv the still 
 up there than comes out iv the worm, as the sayin' is. But 
 that and all, Sally Rourke (and ye '11 bear me out in what 
 I say), I can see me way to help a friend when it's in me 
 power to do so. I give yerself the fossaid 1 for next to 
 nothin', Sally Rourke, and ye made a tidy penny on the 
 same, sellin' it to the neighbors for sprains and hacks and 
 cuts. Ye '11 bear me out in that, Sally Rourke, won't 
 ye?" 
 
 "I will, that," said the woman, now somewhat mollified, 
 seeing that the danger of getting her two stirks pounded 
 was past. "But, Columb Ruagh," she hastened to add, 
 
 iFossaid. Forcshot. In distilling, the first spirits to come 
 through the worm.
 
 COLUMB EUAGH KEERAN 119 
 
 ' ' the f ossaid is iv no good to yerself , for nobody would go 
 to ye if they had a hack or a sprain, would they?" 
 
 "They maybe would," said Columb. "And it's maybe 
 sixpence I'd get for a taste iv the f ossaid now and again. 
 And a sixpence is a lot." 
 
 "But not to a man like yerself," said the woman. "And 
 ye rotten with money." 
 
 "It goes, Sally, it goes," said Columb with a sorrow- 
 ful shake of his head. "Money goes one way and another 
 like corn through a riddle. The minute that one grain 
 comes out another's after it just like tryin' a race. And 
 if ye put yer finger in one hole to stop the leak out it comes 
 iv another hole. It's enough to drive a man mad and 
 wrong in the head, the way that money has iv goin'. 
 Even the day, and me after payin' a round sum for that 
 sucker, I met Maureen O'Malley on the road and her 
 breakin' her heart on her mother that's gone, God rest 
 her! And she hasn't a brown penny piece to her name. 
 But I told her that I wouldn't see her bate and it was 
 money from me pocket at once to tidy her over for a bit 
 and help her, poor girl." 
 
 Columb stopped short, his memory bringing back the 
 face of the young girl as he saw it an hour previously, 
 the eyes wet with tears, the lips curved in a sad smile. 
 "Why does her face keep comin' up in front iv me?" he 
 asked himself in a voice that rose above a whisper. 
 
 "What's that?" asked Sally Eourke. 
 
 "About the poor girl, Maureen O'Malley," said Columb, 
 mobilizing the threads of the conversation and getting them 
 into trim again. "I helped to tidy her a wee bit over her 
 troubles, and that iv course was money out for me again. 
 It's a sin the way that him that should be takin' care iv 
 her now has left her to herself and the mercy iv her neigh- 
 bors," he said, his voice rising in an effort to ward off the 
 question which he saw forming on the lips of the old 
 woman. "It's a sin for him to leave her that way to her- 
 self and him gettin' on so well, the vagabond. To think 
 that he should dare to do it, the dhirty rascal. Every one 
 is down on him now, every one in the place."
 
 120 MAUREEN 
 
 "Who is it that ye 're meanin'?" came the woman's 
 question. 
 
 "The man that done it," said Columb. "I'm half a 
 mind to get hold iv him and make him do the right thing 
 be the girl. She's alone now and nobody to say a word 
 in her favor, or help her. I had to give her the few 
 pennies, and I'm a poor man, Sally Rourke, that'll 
 keep the roof over her head. Ah! the dhirty, dhirty 
 rascal ! ' ' 
 
 "Who is it, then?" asked the woman. 
 
 "It doesn't matter to yerself who it is," said Columb in 
 an excited voice. "I suppose ye know as well and better 
 than any iv us. We were in doubts about it till last night, 
 and then we heard " 
 
 "Who told ye, then?" asked Sally Rourke. "Who was 
 the one that told ye?" 
 
 "Himself," said Columb with a wink. "He came down 
 to the road last night, and he was in the wildest state. 
 He was cryin' like a child, and says he: 'It was me that 
 was to blame, and it's me that didn't spake about it for 
 the last seventeen years when I should have taken that 
 woman, God rest her ! and got married on her. And what 
 can I do now?' says he. 'Her dead and can't be helped.' 
 'But help the girl that's left,' says I. 'Make it right for 
 her, and it won't be so bad.' ' 
 
 "But the poor plaisham hasn't the face to let Cassie 
 Shemus Meehal know," said Sally Rourke, staggering 
 across the floor and looking at Columb Ruagh. "She'd 
 tear his eyes out!" 
 
 Columb got to his feet, then sank into the chair again, 
 gasping as if a pail of icy water had been emptied down 
 his neck. His mouth hanging open, his eyes sticking out 
 of his head as if imaginary fingers were gouging them 
 from their sockets, he stared at Sally Rourke. 
 
 "What's comin' over ye at all, Columb Ruagh?" she 
 inquired in a frightened voice. "Is it a fit that's on ye? 
 Lie as ye are and I'll put some cold water down yer neck. 
 It'll help, Columb. Lie aisy, now, and hold yer head 
 back Is it a fit?"
 
 COLUMB RUAGH KEERAN 121 
 
 "Mr. Brogan!" the man exclaimed, pulling himself to- 
 gether. "Mr. Brogan! Eamon na Sgaddan! Mother iv 
 God!" 
 
 Columb Ruagh was at this time reputed to be one of 
 the wealthiest men in Dungarrow. How he got his money 
 and where he got it was a mystery which even the oldest 
 and most astute inhabitant of the place could not fathom, 
 though in the parish all have a good memory and are stock 
 full of curiosity that pries deeply into the affairs of a 
 neighbor. 
 
 Columb Ruagh was the son of Columb Keeran. The 
 father was in his day, before he dropped over Kinranna 
 Bridge in a flood and got drowned, an object of great in- 
 terest to the natives. This was in a great measure due to 
 the man's strange methods of life, his queer mentality, 
 cross-grained disposition and peculiar nature. His vanity, 
 over-weening self-conceit, airs, pretensions and manner- 
 isms were for a long time the subjects of innumerable tales, 
 most of them containing at least some item of truth which 
 fascinated the gossips of the place. 
 
 If Columb sold a cow for eight pounds at the fair of 
 Stranarachary, that cow, according to the man's account 
 of the sale given to a neighbor ten minutes later, was sold 
 for eight pounds ten shillings, two and six luck's money; 
 ten minutes later, for eight pounds ten shillings, money 
 down; and in this way the money received for the cow 
 would go on increasing until by the time he got home 
 and furnished an account of the day's marketing to his 
 wife, Nelly Cosdhu (dubbed thus because she always went 
 barefooted and never washed her feet), the price he got 
 for that cow had increased to ten guineas. 
 
 "And where's all that money?" the wife would inquire, 
 as she counted the sum handed over to her keeping. 
 
 "If it's not all there, all that I said," Columb would 
 reply, "it's because I spent it like a gentleman." 
 
 What Columb meant by spending money which he had
 
 122 MAUREEN 
 
 never received, as a gentleman, was very hard to deter- 
 mine. A gentleman amongst the peasantry is always cred- 
 ited with the large heart and lavish hand, but neither of 
 these was possessed by Columb Ruagh Keeran. Despite 
 his ostentation, pomposity and pretensions, Columb was a 
 mean man, slow in paying stipends, reckonings and rents, 
 but quick to give a beggarman what in Columb 's estima- 
 tion a beggar deserved, "a shirtful of sore bones." 
 
 When a beggar new to the place went up to Columb 's 
 door, every window in the townland had its eye, every 
 door an interested spectator. "There's a poor man goin' 
 to Columb 's!" was the cry. "God look on him, the poor 
 divil." Though those who had seen the beggar a moment 
 before did not warn him against Keeran, they prayed for 
 his safety now that he was running into the mouth of 
 danger; but all the same they waited expectantly for the 
 anticipated trouble. 
 
 They could see the man stand at the door, shove it open 
 and enter. Then the next minute they would see him 
 come out, Columb holding him by the scruff of the neck 
 and tail of his coat. He would lead the beggar to the 
 verge of the street, hold him there for a second, then shove 
 him down the brae that dipped from the house to the river 
 bank. The shove was generally such a strong one that the 
 poor man would topple over, drop his mauleen and roll 
 like a top to the bottom of the brae. Following the poor 
 man would come the white potatoes which rolled from his 
 bag when it dropped to the ground. 
 
 "There, ye vagabone, ye!" Columb could be heard shout- 
 ing. "It's half the crops iv the parish that ye 're carryin* 
 in yer mauleen. Ye 're a curse to the place, you and ones 
 like ye ! Beggin ' and scringin ' and scringin ' and beggin '. 
 Scoot out iv it, ye rip! Out iv it, ye rip, and never let 
 me see yer face again! And don't come back and lift the 
 pratees. Out off me farm with ye or I'll put the dogs in 
 ye!" 
 
 Thus admonished, when he got to his feet the beggarman 
 would not come back again. In fact he would get off 
 Columb 's land without lifting the white potatoes from the
 
 COLUMB RUAGH KEERAN 123 
 
 brae. These would be gathered up a few minutes after- 
 wards by Nelly Cosdhu and taken in to fill the store which 
 Columb had in his own bin. 
 
 Added to his meanness Columb was afflicted with a mad 
 jealousy, a moral eczema, which increased its irritation 
 the more it was clawed. He was afraid that some man or 
 men would enter his home by night and steal his wife, 
 that some man would fascinate her with a look as she went 
 to Mass on a Sunday and take her away, that a neighbor 
 would come under his own roof one day, pay attention to 
 Nelly and cause the poor woman to forget her marriage 
 vows. At night Columb locked his gate, barred it, built 
 entrenchments round the hedges, barricaded the door be- 
 fore he went to bed. Even in bed he felt suspicious of 
 the world outside, and often in the dark hour his wife 
 would waken to hear her man up and about nailing the 
 window-shutters to the sill and wedging the hasp of the 
 door. 
 
 When she went to Mass on a Sunday he always accom- 
 panied her, his eyes, forbidding and stern, weighing every 
 action, every nod and handshake of the men who spoke to 
 Nelly. Causes the most slender fed the secret disease and 
 every good-day, cead mhille failthe and slati-leatTi added 
 flame to the fire of the furious jealousy which burned in 
 his heart. To him Nelly's slightest smile, word or gesture, 
 trifles devoid of interest to the world at large, presented 
 tangible qualities and special properties. Even when Nelly 
 grew old and wrinkled, when her head bent earthwards 
 under the weight of years, when her breath became wheezy 
 and her eyes filmy, Columb was still prey to his ground- 
 less fears, as a dog that buries a marrow-dry bone snarls 
 at all who look on the spot where the worthless bone is 
 hidden. 
 
 In view of what was known and what was rumored 
 Columb was left very much to himself, and as far as could 
 be ascertained he desired nothing better. He thatched his 
 own house, cut his own turf, delved his fields and set his 
 own potatoes. This was some years after his marriage, for 
 prior to then he cooperated with his neighbors in doing
 
 124 MAUREEN 
 
 jobs that took more than one man to complete. When he 
 did this, his neighbors, up to mischief when they found a 
 butt for their jokes, played on Columb ? s innate suscepti- 
 bilities. "There's Sahn Eamon Andy that's just gone 
 into yer house, ' ' they might say, and Columb would throw 
 down his implement of labor, seize his coat and rush off 
 to the house in which Nelly Cosdhu all alone was doing 
 her daily round of housekeeping. For the rest of that day 
 Columb would not be seen by his neighbors. 
 
 After a while, however, he would not come out to do a 
 hand's turn on a neighbor's farm. He kept to himself, 
 tilled his own ground, planted his potatoes and corn with- 
 out soliciting help or assistance from any neighbor. When 
 he went to Mass on Sundays he took Nelly with him, and 
 even when she went to confession he sat outside the con- 
 fessional and waited until she had told the priest her sins. 
 Few indeed they must have been, for Nelly Cosdhu never 
 even had the chance of sinning. 
 
 "God help the poor man," said the people of Dungar- 
 row. ' ' He 's even afraid that the priest will run away with 
 old Nelly, and her ! If he tied her to a stake in a ten-acre 
 field not a one in the parish would touch her with a pitch- 
 fork." 
 
 Three children were born of the marriage. Two of them 
 died before reaching the age of seven, but the other, the 
 youngest, survived and grew up to be a strapping boy, the 
 very get of his father in physique. And probably in tem- 
 perament, too, though this was difficult to know as yet, 
 for, as the Dungarrow people said: "A Keeran's never 
 known till he gets buckled." 
 
 At the age of eighteen Columb Ruagh, the boy, was 
 one of the strongest youngsters in the parish, endowed with 
 enormous vitality and vigor, having a backbone for any 
 burden and grit to tackle the hardest task. His early 
 manner of living did much to bring this about. When he 
 was aged twelve his father pulled him from the bed every 
 morning at six with the cry of : ' ' Get up, my young vaga- 
 bone. There never was a sglawvy in this house yet, and 
 ye 're not going to be one." This was the father's benedic-
 
 COLUMB RUAGH KEEEAN 125 
 
 tion, greeting and command every morning, summer and 
 winter, as he pulled the youngster from the blankets and 
 sent him to his work. Breakfast was given him at nine 
 o'clock, dinner at one and supper at six in the evening, 
 and all day long the youngster worked hard at various 
 jobs on the farm, doing a man's labor when he was four- 
 teen and two men's work when he was eighteen. 
 
 At this age he buried his father and mother, Columb 
 first, who happened to fall into the river one night when 
 coming from the market, and Nelly a week afterwards. 
 She went to bed one night, but the next morning when her 
 son called her she didn't answer him. He went across 
 to the bed, touched her shoulder, but she did not move. 
 She was dead. 
 
 Thus in his eighteenth year was the boy left on his own 
 to fight his battle in the world, a weather-hardened animal 
 who had never been to school, who went into his first boots 
 on the day his father went into the coffin. He liked the 
 boots, the pliant leather that shone so brightly when he 
 rubbed it with a woolen rag, the bright nails that glittered 
 like stars against the dun leathern background of the soles. 
 Though soft to the touch, these boots hurt his feet when 
 he put them on and worked in them. After a time he 
 decided to work as of old, barefooted, and save the shoe 
 leather for Sundays when he went to Mass. 
 
 "Now I'll get up in the morning when I want to," he 
 said on the evening following his father's funeral, but 
 the next morning he found himself out of bed as early as 
 before. In fact earlier, for now he was conscious of his 
 responsibilities, eager to perform the tasks which confronted 
 him, and ready to tackle the future which had to be hewn 
 on the way towards wealth and prosperity. 
 
 But his first year as a man working on his own was 
 steeped in adversity. The crops failed, the meadow land 
 was swept by floods when the harvest was cut, and the corn, 
 light of ear, rotted in the stooks. At the end of the year 
 when reckoning was made, Columb found that farming was 
 not a success. The tillage of the fields had not paid for 
 the sweat expended in the labor.
 
 126 MAUREEN 
 
 "It's not goin' to pay," said Columb. "Next year I'm 
 goin' across the water and see if I can make better fist iv 
 Scotland." 
 
 On the following spring he mortgaged his farm, packed 
 his belongings in a bundle and crossed to Scotland, where 
 he took up work as a casual laborer. For two years he 
 remained away, then came back to his native place with 
 money and to spare but not to spend. He was a close- 
 fisted youth of twenty-one, sublimely conscious of his own 
 worth and proud of his bodily strength. 
 
 He entered the games of the countryside and threw a 
 stone further than Searlas Dhu O'Friel, who, although a 
 Drimeeney man, was up till that time the champion stone- 
 thrower of the parish. Columb was mighty at the tug of 
 war, supple at. hurling and first favorite at running and 
 jumping. The other young men, though beaten by Columb 
 at every game, felt proud of the giant. His prowess filled 
 them with instinctive respect, and when he entered a field 
 ready for the sports, his sleeves turned up to the elbow, 
 the collar of his shirt turned down, showing a massive 
 neck and the muscles of a broad chest, the boys turned one 
 to another and nodded, as much as to say: "There's a 
 man for you, a towney of our own and afraid of no man." 
 But when the old people heard remarks like these they 
 shook their heads and murmured : ' ' The get iv his father, 
 and God help the woman that gets him when he takes it 
 into his head to marry." 
 
 But although Columb had a farm of land, now let out 
 as security for money advanced, but his whenever he de- 
 sired, as he had money and plenty of it, he did not show 
 the least interest in the girls of the place. If he went to 
 a dance, he danced with the best of them, kicking roof- 
 high in six-hand reel and Alaman, but never escorted a 
 girl home as other young men did. 
 
 Of course this was remarked upon by the natives. It 
 was not altogether correct. A young man should run 
 after the girshas. If he did not do so when young when 
 would he do it? Youth was the time for soft talk and 
 skifting, the day for the girls. But as they said this they
 
 COLUMB RUAGH KEERAN 127 
 
 would call to mind that the late Columb behaved in the 
 same manner when he was a youngster ; in fact the younger 
 man was the spit of his father. 
 
 "And see the way that it turned out with him," they 
 would add, nodding their heads knowingly, pleased at 
 their own subtlety in discovering such similarity between 
 father and son. In fact there was a dark inference to 
 be drawn from the remark, an inference which was in 
 some measure a confident prophecy. 
 
 But something unforeseen occurred on the March fol- 
 lowing Columb 's return. One morning the trees on the 
 roadway, the bridges, the walls of the market-house at 
 Stranarachary were plastered with bills telling that the 
 farm of Columb Keeran was up for auction. The farm, 
 contained twenty-seven acres (more or less), part good 
 meadow-land, part arable land in a high state of cultiva- 
 tion, thirteen acres suitable for grazing sheep or young 
 cattle, and two acres turbary. This farm, well-drained 
 and fenced in good-sized fields, was held under the good 
 Irish Marquis of Bristol at the low half-yearly rent of one 
 pound, eleven and sixpence. There was a splendid one- 
 storied thatched dwelling-house and out-houses all in extra 
 good order. 
 
 The people of Dungarrow were surprised. Auctioneers 
 had never before taken part in their sales. They could 
 manage their business themselves. When they wanted to 
 let land or sell it they tipped the wink, as they said, to a 
 neighbor, telling him perhaps not to let anybody know, 
 anything about it, and two hours later this titbit would 
 become the common property of the parish. If anybody 
 wanted to buy, the vendor would soon find a bidder calling 
 to test the truth of the rumor. In this way, by a little 
 bit of secret diplomacy, the seller would be saved the 
 necessity of paying auction fees. But Columb Ruagh did 
 not descend to stratagem of this kind. He went to the 
 auctioneer and placed the terms of sale in his hands. 
 
 That Columb auctioned was in a measure surprising, 
 but what gave rise to talk and gossip was the description 
 of the steading as given in black and white on the auction
 
 128 MAUREEN 
 
 bills. "Twenty-seven acres indeed!" said the gossips. 
 "More or less! A flea could cover it in a hop, step and 
 leap. Part good meadow land and part arable land in a 
 high state of cultivation! It might be if the hay wasn't 
 so easy washed away be the floods and the crops came up ! 
 And the rent low ! Old Columb never said that, and he was 
 always slow in payin' it. And the house isn't so bad if it 
 was thatched and the cow and hens kept out iv it. But I 
 suppose the auctioneer must do everything, bar tell the 
 truth for his money." 
 
 The farm was sold a week later for the sum of one- 
 hundred-and-thirty-seven pounds ten shillings. A man 
 from Frosses, the adjoining parish, bought it. 
 
 "And paid for it up to the nail," said the people. "It's 
 a fool that would give more than eighty pounds for the 
 holdin'. What's Columb goin' to do now?" 
 
 The first job essayed by Columb following the receipt of 
 the money was a bit of simple tailoring. He had two 
 coats, one new and woolen warranted to wear, the other 
 rent and frayed as was to be expected, seeing that the 
 man had worn this garment for close on two years. With 
 the time-worn coat Columb lined the other, and lined it in 
 a peculiar manner. He cut the material in little squares 
 and sewed these squares to the inside of the good coat, one 
 square matching another. Inside each of these squares 
 was a sovereign, set like an Agnus Dei in a scapular. 
 Viewed from the outside when the job was completed the 
 coat had the appearance of a quilted eiderdown in make if 
 not in texture. 
 
 A few days later Columb put his clothes in a bundle, 
 made for the Derry boat and crossed over to Scotland, 
 coated in gold and his mind afire with plans for the future. 
 What was a farm compared to the hard ready cash which 
 it had brought him ? To the pile in his possession he would 
 go on adding little by little, bit by bit. Then one day he 
 would have more money than anybody in the parish, boxes 
 filled with gold buried in the ground, their location known 
 to nobody save himself. 
 
 Confused images were formed in his mind as he sat on
 
 COLUMB EUAGH KEERAN 129 
 
 the deck of the Derry boat, his bundle under him and his 
 wealth in his raiment. His thoughts acquired a magic 
 power as he nodded sleepily at the base of the funnel while 
 the smoke trailed over his head splashed with sparks. To 
 the man every spark became a piece of gold ; his eyes were 
 dazzled by them. He wanted money, money ! He was go- 
 ing to make it. As he sat there he felt that from now for- 
 ward he had only one desire, gold. 
 
 When he arrived in Scotland he found it was difficult 
 to obtain employment. The season was bad, the jobs in 
 which he had worked before were now filled up or closed 
 down. The unemployed crowded the streets of the towns, 
 flowed out into the country, filled up all available openings 
 on railway and farm. The engineer had left down the 
 rule and taken up the hoe; dongarees were supplanted by 
 moleskins. The artisan had descended to casual labor, 
 the navvy had become a tramp. 
 
 But Columb, with that cunning which is so often the 
 property of the uneducated and that strength of will pos- 
 sessed by those who have only one object in view, managed 
 to eke out a livelihood despite hindrance, hardship and 
 adverse circumstances. It was not for nothing that his 
 father had taken the youngster 's upbringing in hand. The 
 hard life, cold and hunger of his early years had kneaded 
 the physique of the boy, made a man of him as a child, 
 and therefore he was proof against any hardships now. He 
 tramped about from town to town, working a day here and 
 a day there, sleeping in barns, hay stacks and under bridges. 
 "When others stood shivering in the cold, Columb slept, 
 indifferent to all temperatures and warm in his cloak of 
 gold. 
 
 Though his bedmates were often men who would stop 
 at nothing to get possession of a coin, they never inter- 
 fered with Columb. He looked so powerful that no man 
 would dare tackle him, even when he slept. Besides, he 
 dressed so shabbily that no man thought it worth his while 
 to tackle him for any money which he might possess. 
 
 But despite prudence, parsimony, and his efforts to block 
 every hole in the sieve of expenditure, Columb found that
 
 130 MAUREEN 
 
 the gold of which he dreamt on the Deny boat was as dif- 
 ficult to catch as the sparks falling from the smoke of the 
 funnel. At the end of three months he had only added two 
 gold pieces to his pile, one piece a sovereign and the other 
 valued at half that amount. 
 
 Then at the end of that time, in the middle of June to 
 be correct, Columb fell in luck's way. One morning when 
 coming through the town of Port Glasgow he met a man 
 at the entrance of a close rubbing the blood from his face 
 and filling a deserted street with his maledictions. Not a 
 window was open, no curious eyes stared out at the irate 
 man. In this locality incidents like this were of such com- 
 mon occurrence that no sleeper would forsake his bed in 
 order to view the proceedings. 
 
 Columb when he came abreast of the man paused and 
 looked at him. 
 
 "What's wrong with ye, good man?" he inquired. 
 
 "Wha's wrang!" repeated the man, in a high screech. 
 "Wha's wrang! I'll tell ye, callant. The dirrty whoor 
 up there" he pointed a bloodstained thumb at the win- 
 dow "has done me oot o' seven poons." 
 
 "She has, then?" said Columb, coming closer, a covet- 
 ous gleam in his eyes. "Seven pounds!" 
 
 "Seven poons!" yelled the man. "And then got me 
 chucked doon stairs. ' ' 
 
 "Herself that threw ye out, was it?" asked Columb. 
 
 "Catch me lettin' a strip o' a hussy throw me out!" 
 said the man. " 'Twas her bully ! The whoor 's bully!" 
 
 "Ye ought to have kept clear iv the house," said Columb. 
 
 "I'll tell ye what," said the man, looking at Columb 's 
 shoulders and feeling his face with his eyes. "Ye 're a 
 strong laddie, and if ye help me to get the siller back from 
 that woman I'll gie ye a poon o' the money." 
 
 "In this way," said Columb, in a brisk voice, entering 
 the close. 
 
 "Up the stairs, first landing," said the man, following on 
 the heels of the avenger. 
 
 They came to a door that stood ajar with one panel shat- 
 tered as if some one had tried to shove a foot through it.
 
 COLUMB KUAGH KEERAN 131 
 
 "In there, laddie," said the bloodstained man, shelter- 
 ing himself behind the massive bulk of Cohimb Ruagh. 
 
 The Irishman shoved the door open and entered. In a 
 bed near the wall a woman was lying. A dark man, bristly 
 and dirty, sat on a chair by a dead fire taking off his 
 boots. As Columb came in the woman sat up in bed and 
 set a frightened stare on him; the man holding the end 
 of a lace between his finger and thumb glanced round and 
 fixed a pair of scowling eyes on the intruders. 
 
 "Back again?" said the woman when she saw the blood- 
 stained man. "What d'ye want the noo?" 
 
 "My seven poons," was the reply. 
 
 "And what are ye after?" asked the man with the shoe- 
 lace, glaring angrily at Columb. He measured the Irish- 
 man with a scornful look and got to his feet. 
 
 "I've come with this dacent man to help him to get the 
 money ye've robbed him iv," said Columb, magnificently 
 calm. "Hand it over at once." 
 
 "Awa oot o' the hoos at yince with ye," said the woman, 
 rising from the bed and placing her naked feet on the 
 floor. Her shift torn at neck and hip exposed half her 
 body. "Gie him a cloot on the lug, Donal." 
 
 The dark man rushed at Columb, hit him full on the 
 face and almost knocked him down. The man who had 
 lost seven pounds drew back several paces and watched the 
 ensuing contest from the safety of the landing. But the 
 struggle was a very short one, for the dark man follow- 
 ing his blow was seized by Columb round the waist and 
 shook like a rat in the grip of a terrier. 
 
 "I'll kick the guts out iv ye," said the red-haired man 
 with an oath as Donal screamed under his pressure as if 
 he had been under a granite mill-stone. "Where's the 
 money, ye dirty sneakin' cur? Where's the money?" 
 
 "Let me go and I'll tell ye!" panted the man. "My 
 arm's bruk! Ye 're chokin' me! Let me go!" 
 
 Columb released the man, who immediately he was free 
 turned to the woman. 
 
 "Gie the man the siller!" he yelped, fuming with rage 
 and resentment. "Gie it him and let him clear oot."
 
 132 MAUREEN 
 
 The woman obeyed as a she-wolf obeys its mate, with a 
 snarl, fumbled under the pillow and drew out a fistful of 
 money which she handed to Columb. He took it, spread 
 it out on his palm and counted it. Then he put it in his 
 pocket. 
 
 "It's mine," said the man at the door, who hadn't 
 spoken a word for some time. 
 
 "Yes, be damned!" growled Columb. "Ye 're not worth 
 it! When I was gettin' this man to see sense ye were 
 jookin' behind the door like a wean that's afeeard iv gettin' 
 its bottom skelped. Scoot!" 
 
 Both went out, the little man in front, eager to keep 
 out of Columb 's reach. When they came to the street the 
 little man stopped and looked at Columb Ruagh. The 
 sun was rising and the shadows of the houses lay across 
 the gray-blue streets. The hour was close on five. 
 
 "Ye can keep yin poon and gie's the other six," said 
 the little man. 
 
 "To the divil with ye!" said Columb Ruagh with a 
 snort and walked away. Fortunately for him the town 
 was deserted. Not a policeman was to be seen. The two 
 left the town by the main road, Columb in front, the little 
 man following, shouting at the top of his voice. Here they 
 met a gang of railwaymen coming in from a night shift. 
 
 "He robbed me o' seven poons," said the little man, but 
 the workers to whom he spoke were too weary to take any 
 interest in his trouble. Besides, the affair was none of 
 theirs. 
 
 "Knock him down and take it from him," was the per- 
 functory advice of one. 
 
 "A man wi' shouthers like that," said the little man, 
 who still, despite Columb 's formidable appearance, con- 
 tinued following him. When they reached the lonely road 
 near the hamlet of Langbank, Columb took to his heels and 
 proceeded to run. His pursuer also ran, but after a while 
 when he saw the distance between himself and Columb 
 Ruagh increase, he gave it up as a bad job and returned to 
 Port Glasgow. 
 
 At two o'clock in the afternoon Columb arrived at the
 
 COLUMB RUAGH KEERAN 133 
 
 Glasgow free coup on Houston Moss, and here he met Mr. 
 Brogan, towney of his own, whom he had not seen since 
 the dance at Neddy Og's on the previous Candlemas night. 
 The account of this meeting has been already told. 
 
 Towards sunset Columb arrived at a big house near 
 Paisley and asked for bit and sup, being a poor man out 
 of work who had tried his best to get a job, but without 
 success. 
 
 "And if a job is offered you would you take it?" asked 
 the elderly gentleman to whom Columb addressed his ques- 
 tion and who happened to be the proprietor of the house. 
 
 "That I would," said Columb. 
 
 "Well, I need a man to help the gardener," said the 
 old man. "Do you think you can do that sort of work?" 
 
 "That I can," Columb replied. 
 
 Next day Columb started work on the gentleman's es- 
 tate and remained there for two years. At the end of 
 that time, the old man died and in his will left one hundred 
 pounds to each of his servants who had served him loyally 
 and faithfully for a period of two years and over. Columb 
 got his hundred pounds and with this in his keeping he 
 returned to his native parish a rich man. 
 
 m 
 
 If traced on a map of Tirconail the parish of Dungar- 
 row would in outline have the appearance of a fan partly 
 folded, its outer guards the boundaries of the parish. One 
 of these rests on Sliab League, the other on the boglands 
 of Frosses. The leaf of the fan lies at an oblique angle, 
 its axis on the hills of Crinnan, from which the fan slopes 
 downwards till it trails its outer verge in the waves of 
 Gweenora Bay. 
 
 In Drimeeney or any sea-bordering townland of Dun- 
 garrow a towney may speak of being next-door neighbor 
 to America, but if he happens to live in the townland of 
 Crinnan, which has no boundary, march ditch or boreen, 
 he lives next to no place, an outcast, a resident of the town- 
 land that is at the back of Godspeed, of which no map
 
 134 MAUREEN 
 
 gives location or latitude. Crinnan belongs to everybody, 
 which means that it belongs to none; Crinnan has only 
 one building, which was erected by a potheen-maker in 
 the old days; Crinnan has seldom echoed to the foot of 
 an ubiquitous policeman; Crinnan is a deserted waste of 
 hill and bog, the mtermost townland in the parish of 
 Dungarrow. 
 
 The road from Dungarrow going eastwards runs over 
 Crinnan hill, and here it forks into two, one leading to 
 Doonwell (a resort of pilgrims) and the other going to 
 the little village of Kineeragh where the natives, workers 
 in wool, sell their webs of homespun on market days. 
 
 The townland of Crinnan belonged in common to the 
 residents of Meenaroodagh, Meenarood, and Meenadinnagh. 
 But none had the least interest in the place. It was not 
 worth while putting stock to graze there; young stirks 
 stuck in the marshes, sheep fell over the precipices, cattle 
 strayed and were never found again. In short, Crinnan 
 was of no use as pasture, meadow, bog, or building-land. 
 This was the opinion of the Dungarrow people. 
 
 But Columb Ruagh Keeran returned from Scotland 
 with a different opinion in his head. He had money, but 
 no home, the desire to make money and little prospect of 
 making it if he set out in the same way as the residents of 
 Dungarrow. But the astute Columb had a scheme in hia 
 head. He wanted Crinnan, the whole townland, to use 
 it as he thought fit without let or hindrance, and he deter- 
 mined that he should have it. 
 
 As a preliminary he took the ruined house by the Crin- 
 nan cross-roads. The house had been there for years, but 
 none except wandering tinkers ever made use of it. Co- 
 lumb took it over from the tinkers, and after he had done 
 so the tinkers (there were three strong men in the gang) 
 came down the Dungarrow road swathed in bandages, the 
 men streaming with blood, the women shrieking impreca- 
 tions, the children howling, and all full of the story of a 
 red-haired madman who had attacked them at the Crinnan 
 cross-roads and half murdered them. 
 
 Columb now became owner. There was a doorway, he
 
 COLUMB RUAGH KEERAN 135 
 
 built a door; a fireplace, and he made a fire. Where he 
 got the wood for the door and the turf for the fire was 
 unknown. But no one questioned him about these mat- 
 ters. Columb was a strong man with a temper, and the 
 people were afraid of him. 
 
 In possession of the house, Columb Ruagh set himself 
 out with the object of getting possession of the townland. 
 He got the local schoolmaster, Mick Gallagher, to write 
 out a form saying that : ' ' We who have signed our names 
 hereunder give to Mr. Columb Keeran the right to use the 
 lands known as Crinnan and bounden, etc., for any purpose 
 which he sees fit. Signed and dated under our hands Anno 
 Domini 18" 
 
 To write this was an easy job for Mick Gallagher, a 
 scholar second to none, but getting possession of this land, 
 which was of no use to any one save to Columb Ruagh 
 Keeran, was a job beset with many difficulties. 
 
 Condy Heelagh would give his portion and welcome, 
 because it was no good at all to himself, but he never liked 
 to put down his name in black and white to anything. 
 One never knows, you know. 
 
 "But ye cannot write at all, Condy," said Mick Gal- 
 lagher, who was party to the proceedings. 
 
 "Well, that's the reason that I don't want to begin," 
 said the astute Condy. 
 
 "Ye don't need to write at all," the master explained. 
 "All that ye need to do is this," and as he spoke, the 
 schoolmaster stuck his forefinger against the soot on the 
 back of the chimney and drew a cross on the limewashed 
 wall. 
 
 "With soot, like that?" Condy questioned. 
 
 "No," said the schoolmaster. "Just with the pen on 
 white paper." 
 
 Seeing that drawing a cross was such a simple thing, 
 and being fascinated by its novelty, Condy Heelagh signed 
 away his property in Crinnan. 
 
 Coy Fergus Beeragh would not sign. He was not afraid 
 of putting his name down like Condy Heelagh. He knew 
 the world and was a scholar, a man who could read and
 
 136 MAUREEN 
 
 write. But that and all he was not going to sign anything. 
 If it was the man that had the place close on forty years 
 ago he would sign Crinnan, aye and his own house and 
 home over to him, for he was a man that could do things. 
 The potheen that this man (long dead he is, God rest him !) 
 made was the best that Coy ever drank in the barony. 
 Crinnan was no good for setting or grazing or cutting 
 turf, but as a place for making potheen it had no equal. 
 If a man took the place to make potheen, ah ! There was 
 a world of meaning in the expressive ah! and the wink 
 which accompanied it. 
 
 A week later Columb brought Coy a bottle of potheen, 
 and Coy signed away his right to part, portion and share 
 of the Crinnan uplands. 
 
 The potheen worked miracles with others. Columb 
 seemed able to lay his hand on the stuff, not only in bot- 
 tles but in jars and kegs. Whisky was dear to buy, and 
 after all, leaving aside the taste, potheen had just the same 
 effect as bottled usquebagh from O 'Ryan's shop in Strana- 
 rachary. And then potheen could be had for next to 
 nothing, just for the mere signing away of land that was 
 good for neither man nor beast. 
 
 Besides, poor Columb wanted a home, and a man that 
 had the courage to go and live up there in Crinnan at the 
 back of Godspeed deserved to be helped. And the people 
 would help Columb Ruagh Keeran, a dacent man, a man 
 without his heart in the penny piece, a respectable young- 
 ster, a credit to the place, etc., etc. So they signed over 
 the land, drank the free potheen while Columb chuckled 
 in his beard and added to his acres. 
 
 But success is not for every day, and Columb Ruagh 
 found this to his cost when he called on Mr. Brogan. Now 
 Eamon na Sgaddan had big footing in Crinnan, rights 
 due to luck of birth, accident of death and hazard of mar, 
 riage. When Columb Ruagh Keeran spoke to Mr. Bro- 
 gan about the matter, Mr. Brogan said : ' ' See Cassie She- 
 mus Meehal about it." This Columb did. 
 
 He found the woman in her home washing some clothes,
 
 COLUMB KUAGH KEERAN 137 
 
 a washboard and tub on a chair by the door, her arms 
 elbow-deep in soapsuds. 
 
 "Well, good day to ye, Cassie Shemus," said Columb, 
 as if something mutually interesting and known to both 
 had just occurred and gave him the privilege of opening 
 the conversation in this familiar manner. 
 
 "Well, good day to yerself, Columb Ruagh," said Cas- 
 sie. "It's long, long since I've seen ye over this door- 
 step." 
 
 "Not since your poor father died, God rest him!" said 
 Columb Ruagh, with a sound something between a dry 
 cough and a sigh, which possibly was intended for an ex- 
 pression of grief. 
 
 ' ' I mind ye comin ' then, ' ' said Cassie with a wry pucker 
 of her lips. "I mind ye at the wake but not at the bury- 
 in'." 
 
 "I was only a gasair then," said Columb. "Comin' on 
 fifteen only. ' ' 
 
 " 'Twas old Columb that wasn't at the buryin' either," 
 said Cassie, rubbing a red flannel shirt against the fluted 
 ridging of the washboard. "I suppose it was the shillin' 
 for offerin's that kept him away." 
 
 "Well, he was a funny old laddybuck anyway," said 
 Columb flippantly, striving to appear humored at his fa- 
 ther's parsimony. "But that's gone and past and the old 
 times were the funny times." 
 
 "Well, I suppose ye haven't come here for nothing" 
 said the woman, putting her hands to her side and looking 
 at Columb Buagh. "Ye haven't come here for nothin', so 
 out with it, whatever it is, and let me get on with me 
 work." 
 
 "This is the way iv it, then," said Columb, feeling that 
 it would be wise to place the facts of the case before her 
 as succinctly as possible. "Ye 're a business woman, a re- 
 spectable woman and dacent into the bargain. It's about 
 Crinnan. I'm trying to get a bit iv that land up there, 
 that's no good for man or baste and that's iv as little use 
 to any one as a patch, on the backside of a scarecrow. I'm
 
 138 MAUREEN 
 
 a poor man; Cassie Shemus, without any home but what 
 the tinkers stay at night in, but a poor man must do some- 
 thin' to take in the bread and butter. Now somethin' to 
 warm the discourse afore we go any further," said Co- 
 lumb, taking a black bottle from his pocket. 
 
 "This is the best iv stuff, and a wee drop is the finest 
 thing in the world," he went on. "And if ye want fossaid 
 for sprains or airrid 1 (ye've airrid on yer wrists, Cassie 
 Shemus Meehal), I'll give ye as much as ye want and never 
 ask ye for a penny for it. And ..." 
 
 "That's enough," said Cassie Shemus Meehal, breaking 
 in on his discourse and clutching the rim of the washing 
 tub. "Scoot! I don't want to hear any more iv yer old 
 snash." 
 
 "But listen to me," said Columb. 
 
 "Scoot!" said Cassie Shemus Meehal. 
 
 "Listen. Just a minute! Listen!" 
 
 "Ye '11 get this down yer back if ye 're not out iv the 
 house at once," said the woman, lifting the tub from the 
 chair. 
 
 "But the land that ye have up there ye never make use 
 iv," said Columb. "Ye've neither sheep nor " 
 
 She raised the tub and with a mighty heave flung its 
 contents towards him. The full force of the water caught 
 the man on the neck and almost tossed him over. He 
 heaved out of it, steaming, spluttering and choking. 
 
 "Scoot!" he heard Cassie shout. 
 
 "Ye dhirty bitch iv hell," yelled Columb. "For two 
 straws I'd wring yer neck from yer shoulder." 
 
 He made a step towards her, then as if thinking better 
 of it he turned on his heel and walked away, the soapy 
 water running from his coat on to his trousers and from 
 his trousers into his boots. 
 
 In the days that followed the man was the prey of two 
 desires, one the acquisition of money, the second to 
 get the acres which by luck of birth, accident of death and 
 hazard of marriage belonged to Eamon na Sgaddan and 
 his woman, Cassie Shemus Meehal. In the first he was 
 
 lAirrid. Hacks and scars on the skin caused by weather and work.
 
 COLUMB RUAGH KEERAN 139 
 
 successful. Crinnan, fenced and drained all by the labor 
 of one man, had changed from a wilderness into first-class 
 grazing ground that Columb kept white with fleeces. Money 
 was pouring in and Columb was now reputed to be the 
 richest man in the parish ; ' ' and all that money was made 
 on a keg of potheen," Dungarrow said. 
 
 Seventeen years following the date on which he took 
 possession of the house at Crinnan cross-roads, a certain 
 incident occurred in the house of Sally Rourke, and follow- 
 ing this incident Columb Ruagh Keeran saw a means to- 
 wards an end and the realization of a desire. 
 
 IV 
 
 Darkness had long since fallen, and a moon, full the 
 previous night, was rising over the hills of Tirconail, which 
 showed in dark, bulky masses against the Eastern sky. 
 The river that rose from the Crinnan uplands could be 
 heard wailing its way down the holms to the sea, and the 
 clusters of hazel-bushes which lined the stream looked like 
 gangs of evil specters plotting mischief in the gloom. Sky 
 and land were speckled with stars, heavenly and earthly, 
 stellary and paraffin, the first gleaming from the unutter- 
 able deep, the second from the cabins of Dungarrow. 
 
 Amidst these earthly stars, one gleamed from the win- 
 dow of Mr. Brogan's house, where that habitation rested 
 snug and sheltered in a groin of land on the Meenaroodagh 
 braes. The being of this particular star was a paraffin 
 lamp without a globe which stood on the kitchen table and 
 shed a hard glow on the interior of the house, lighting 
 up the delf on the dresser, the clock over the fireplace and 
 the dog lying on the hearth, its nose resting on its fore- 
 paws and the paws stuck in the turf ashes. 
 
 Only one person was now in the house, Mr. Brogan. 
 His wife, Cassie Shemus Meehal as she was still known, 
 had left the house half an hour ago with the intention of 
 going to Paddy Keefe's shop for provisions, leaving her 
 man to take care of the house during her absence. "Take 
 and look at the fire and don't let it out when I'm away,"
 
 140 MAUREEN 
 
 she said as a parting behest. "And don't let the cat at 
 the crame, and don't sit in the chair all the time with one 
 hand as long as the other ! ' ' 
 
 "I'll do as ye bid me, Cassie," said Eamon passively, 
 without rising from his seat. 
 
 At the present moment the fire was almost out and the 
 cat, surfeited on cream from the crock on the dresser, was 
 lying on the roof-beam asleep. Neither of these happen- 
 ings had been noticed by Eamon, who was still seated on 
 the chair by the table just as his wife had left him, both 
 arms hanging limp by his side, his mouth open and his 
 eyes fixed in a vacant stare at the opposite wall. Once he 
 roused himself, pressed both hands against his kidneys 
 and seemed as on the point of rising. But thinking better 
 of it, as it seemed, he shook his head gloomily and relapsed 
 into the old pithless posture. 
 
 ' ' Fate ! " he moaned, feebly. * ' Fate ! Can I endure it ? 
 Can I endure it?" 
 
 Even as he spoke a low sound startled him. It seemed 
 as if a bag of wool or meal was being drawn across the 
 street. How it could be drawn was a mystery as the man 's 
 cars could not detect the sound of footsteps. Immediately 
 he was on his feet, however, for he suddenly realized that 
 Cassie Shemus Meehal would be back now at any moment. 
 He looked at the fire. It was almost out. At the milk- 
 crock. The lid was off, the dresser was white, telling of 
 the depredations of the cat. And Cassie Shemus Meehal 
 was outside ! 
 
 There are moments when fear gives way to reckless- 
 ness. Such a moment had come to Mr. Brogan. He put 
 his hands in his pockets, assumed an aggressive pose and 
 looked at the window. 
 
 "Let her come!" he said, but not daring to raise his 
 voice above a whisper, "and I'll show Cassie Shemus Mee- 
 hal that I'm not as big a plaisham as she makes me out 
 to be!" 
 
 The window had no blind. Through it the man could 
 see the moon big and white heaving itself over the hill of
 
 COLUMB RUAGH KEERAN 141 
 
 Crinnan. And with the moon, but nearer, in fact, outside 
 the window-pane, a hand rose, closed all fingers save one, 
 and with this beckoned to Mr. Brogan. The man shud- 
 dered, and a cold shiver ran through every member of his 
 body, while the solitary finger outside the window-pane 
 kept beckoning, beckoning. 
 
 "An omen of danger!" Eamon gasped. "A portent of 
 evil!" 
 
 The hand disappeared, but something rose to take its 
 place, rose slowly, and Eamon gazed spellbound. First 
 came into view a shock of hair standing out in several 
 ways, every tuft working, as it seemed, on wires and per- 
 forming a fantastic dance against the background of the 
 moon. Under this distortion of hair was a pallid brow, 
 and set at the base of the brow was a pair of eyes, which 
 to Eamon 's distorted imagination burned like two sparks 
 from the flames of hell. The finger rose again and beck- 
 oned. The apparition wanted Mr. Brogan. 
 
 "It's Columb Ruagh!" gasped Eamon. "Now what 
 will he be wantin' me for?" 
 
 Columb disappeared, and Mr. Brogan with one hasty 
 rush put the lid on the crock, gave the milk-strewn dresser 
 a rub with the dishcloth, and threw half a dozen turf on 
 the fire. Then he went out. 
 
 At the angle formed where a stack of turf rested on the 
 end wall of the house, something moved. 
 
 " Hi ! " hissed a voice. 
 
 Eamon went towards the figure, which moved away as 
 the householder neared it. In this manner, without a 
 word, the two men proceeded until two-hundred yards 
 separated them from the house, Columb Kuagh in front 
 and Eamon na Sgaddan in rear. Suddenly the leading 
 man stopped, placed a burden which he carried on the 
 ground and lay down beside it. Eamon reached him and 
 also stopped. He looked down at the red-haired man, who, 
 flat on his back, was stroking his mustache with a slow, 
 methodical hand. 
 
 "Sit down on yer bottom, Eamon," he said in a low,
 
 142 MAUREEN 
 
 impressive voice. "Sit down and listen till I tell ye some- 
 thin'." 
 
 "But it's too cold to sit out here when there's a good 
 fire to sit at in the house below," said Eamon. "It's yer 
 death iv cold that ye '11 be gettin' out here." 
 
 "Sit down," said Columb, "beside me, and the sucker 
 that I bought at the fair the day." 
 
 Eamon still stood irresolute, his eyes fixed on Columb. 
 
 "It's the death iv cold that ye '11 be gettin', Mr. Keeran," 
 he repeated. 
 
 "Sit down, Eamon," Columb insisted in a hoarse whis- 
 per. "It's for yer own good, mind, what I'm goin' to 
 say to ye. All's fair and above board between us two, 
 Eamon! Ye know that. We've traveled beyont the water 
 and we know what's what, as well as the measure iv one 
 another. We're business men, Eamon na Sgaddan or if 
 ye like, Mr. Brogan. So get down on yer bottom be the 
 side iv me and listen to what I've to say." 
 
 Eamon sat down without a word. 
 
 "Listen to me," began Columb in an affable tone, though 
 it was evident to Eamon that something vaguely threaten- 
 ing lurked under the quiet, lazy voice. ' ' I came along here 
 the night just to see ye and have it out about somethin* 
 with ye. What that somethin' is, I'll tell ye in a minit. 
 But first, Eamon, I want to ask ye a question. It's a 
 straight question, and knowin* yerself as I do I'm sure 
 that ye '11 give a straight answer. The question's this, 
 Eamon. Do ye know me for what I am? No, wait a 
 minit" this as Eamon gave a preliminary cough before 
 replying "wait a minit till I explain meself fully. I'm 
 not sayin' that ye don't know what I mane. Not that, 
 Eamon, but what I mane is this. I'm no hand at speakin'. 
 I can never make meself understood like a scholar, for I 
 haven't the learnin'. It takes me a week to say what ye 
 could get yer tongue round in two words. That's it. I'm 
 a rough mountainy man without the learnin'. Listen. 
 This is what I mane, Eamon, when I ask ye 'Do ye know 
 me for what I am ? ' It 's like this. I 'm a man that keeps 
 to himself away up there at the Crinnan cross-roads doin*
 
 COLUMB RUAGH KEERAN 143 
 
 my best to make ends meet, what with one thing and an- 
 other. But it's a hard job that, I'm tellin' ye, and I'm a 
 poor man, Eamon, a poor man. Ye believe that, Eamon, 
 don't ye?" 
 
 "I suppose I do," Eamon assented weakly, though 
 thinking otherwise. 
 
 ' ' I 'm also a man that people would think tight-fisted and 
 hard," Columb continued. "But it's not the case at all. 
 I'm a man with the ready hand when I see a person in 
 trouble. Give me a chance to do a good turn and I'll do 
 
 it. That's me, Eamon na Sgad Mr. Brogan, I mane. 
 
 . . . Even the day when I was comin' back from the fair 
 I saw them two stirks iv Sally Rourke's on the mortgaged 
 land, and it's not the first time that I saw them there 
 either. What did I do, Eamon, Mr. Brogan, I mane ? This, 
 and nothin' else. I went up to her house and there she 
 was there havin' her shin-heat be the fire. And says I to 
 her, ' Them two stirks iv yers, Sally, Sprikkles and Branny, 
 are up on the mortgaged land, it that used to belong to 
 Kathleen 'Malley, God rest her ! at one time and now be- 
 longs to me on account iv the twenty gold sovereigns that 
 I gave her when she was hard up with the back iv every 
 one's hand to her. Them two stirks iv yer own are the 
 divils for grass that's sweet, Sally,' says I. But that was 
 me fun, and Sally is always slow to take offense when I'm 
 spakin' to her. Sally, if not another person in the parish, 
 knows me for what I am. It's her that has the good hearty 
 word for me whenever she meets me at Mass or Market. 
 That's Sally! 
 
 " 'Yes, they're two rascally vagabones, them same stirks/ 
 says she. 'I'm after them when I can, but an ould woman 
 like me hasn't the legs iv a young girsha. It's short 
 iv wind that I am now at the heel iv the day,' says she. 
 'But that and all, I'm not the woman to let me cattle 
 bastes graze on a neighbor when there's life in me 
 body.' 
 
 " 'That I know, Sally Rourke,' says I. 'And that's 
 why I came in to see ye. I didn't want ye, and ye so on 
 in years and at the shut iv day, too, to wander over the
 
 144 MAUREEN 
 
 hill and keep on the tail iv them two stirks. Don't pay 
 any heed to them the night, Sally,' says I, just like that. 
 'There's grass and enough on the mortgaged land, and 
 the two stirks can have as much as they want iv it. It's a 
 hard-hearted man, Sally,' says I, 'that would have ye run- 
 nin' after young stirks after what ye have done for the 
 people iv the Glen. 'Twas yerself always was the one to 
 go to with all complaints from a sprained finger to a 
 broken back.' That's what I said, Eamon. that and more 
 to the same tune was what crossed me mouth. To think 
 that I 'd have the poor ould woman runnin ' after the stirks 
 through the hills in the black iv night went against the 
 grain iv me, for I thought as anybody else with a grain iv 
 commonsense would have thought. Isn't Sally the first 
 woman to hand when a soul enters the world? Sally at 
 the beginnin' and the priest at the end! But if Sally 
 hadn't done her job at the beginnin' and done it well 
 there's no job for the priest at the finish. Amn't I talkin' 
 sense, Eamon, answer me now?" 
 
 "Of course ye 're talkin' sense, as you always do," said 
 Eamon with a slight shiver as if the cold night air was 
 chilling him. 
 
 "But it's gettin' cold that ye are here, sittin' down on 
 the wet stubble and the rain not dried out iv it yet," said 
 Columb in a tone of concern, looking at the man who 
 was now lying on the ground beside him. "Ye shouldn't 
 have come out without yer coat, and a muffler, too, for 
 there's a nip in the weather. May's always a month that 
 can't be trusted." 
 
 "No, it never can be trusted," said Eamon in a relieved 
 voice as he got to his feet and shook himself. "I'll just 
 get down to the house and have a heat be the fire, and ye '11 
 come down too and have a sup iv tay afore ye go up the 
 road to Crinnan. It's a long step in front iv ye, Mr. 
 Keeran. But for all that a man gets warm on his f3et 
 when he's shakin' them. And if ye 're not comin' down 
 with me to have a sup iv tay, I '11 just walk with ye to the 
 road and see ye on yer way safe. ' ' 
 
 "But I haven't said 'No' to goin* down with ye to have
 
 COLUMB RUAGH KEERAN 145 
 
 a drop iv tay, Eamon," said Columb, turning slowly on 
 his side, placing his elbow in the ground and resting his 
 face in the cup of his hand. "I haven't said 'No' to it, 
 but I'm not goin' down there, thankin' ye for yer invita- 
 tion all the same. I would like to go, but I'm a poor man, 
 Eamon, and there's so much for me to do up at home that 
 I haven't the time to spend down here. It's a bad wicked 
 world when ye come to think iv it. Ye've to scringe and 
 rake and scrape from one year's end to the other, and no 
 matter how hard ye scrape and save ye 're as poor on it 
 at Hall 'eve as ye were on Candlemas Day." 
 
 He now spoke slowly and laboriously as if the weariness 
 of making money had crept into his tongue. Eamon 
 walked backwards a pace, rubbed the toe of his boot against 
 the ground and sighed. 
 
 "It's a hard world, Mr. Keeran," he said. 
 
 "For some iv us," said Columb, "but not for all. The 
 hand of God is heavy on some iv us and the hand iv man 
 heavy on others. And on some the hand iv God and man 
 is heavy. And I know one that's sufferin' in that way, a 
 poor soul that hasn't a friend in the world and as far 
 as the look iv things go not a friend in heaven. D'ye 
 know who I'm meaning, Mr. Brogan? You're a man and 
 a scholar and one that's quick to get the hinge of things. 
 Now d'ye know who I mane?" 
 
 "I don't know, Columb," said Eamon in a whisper. 
 
 "Well, that's strange," Columb continued mercilessly. 
 "It's a neighbor iv yers. Now d'ye know?" 
 
 "Not Sally Rourke?" asked Eamon in an agitated whis- 
 per. Though deep down in his heart he knew that Columb 
 was not referring to Sally Rourke, he had still a flimsy 
 hope that it might be Sally. 
 
 "No, it's not her," said Columb in an oily voice. "Poor 
 Sally has her sorrows, as I've said, but still she has heart 
 to be sorry for a neighbor that's worse off nor herself. A 
 young neighbor, too, at that. Now d'ye know who it 
 is?" 
 
 Eamon sank down on both knees, holding one hand in 
 the other and fixed a piteous look on Columb Ruagh.
 
 146 MAUKEEN 
 
 "I don't know what ye mane," he said. "Tell me who 
 it is, Columb ? Tell me ! Tell me ! " 
 
 "Ye look feeard, Mr. Brogan," said Columb, in a tone 
 which seemed charged with mock sympathy. "Or is it 
 sick that ye are gettin' with the cold! Ye 're white, too. 
 Are ye feeard iv somethin', Mr. Brogan?" 
 
 "Oh! I'm all right," said Eamon with a hollow laugh, 
 getting to his feet again. "But tell me who ye mane." 
 
 "Tell you who I mane," said Columb, and there was 
 something almost caustic in his voice. "Well, I will that, 
 but it's funny that it's yerself iv all men that doesn't know 
 who I mane. Everybody else knows, every one to the butt 
 iv the barony and beyond. Every one knows the one that 
 I'm talkin' about and every one's sayin' this and that, 
 one thing worse than the other. It's funny the way that 
 people talk about things that is no consarn iv their own. 
 Isn't it now, Mr. Brogan?" 
 
 He looked at Eamon. In the moonlight he could see 
 the brows of the poor man contract as if he were on the 
 point of undertaking something wild and reckless. All 
 this seemed to give Columb a cruel pleasure. His policy 
 of wearing the man down seemed to be on the point of 
 working its purpose, whatever that purpose was. Eamon 
 coughed, opened his mouth as if on the point of speaking, 
 then closed his mouth again. 
 
 "People are never happy unless they're talkin' iv things 
 that's no consarn iv their own," Columb urged. "I'm 
 talkin' the truth, amn't I, Mr. Brogan?" 
 
 "It's a true word," Eamon acquiesced lamely. 
 
 "True as Gospel," Columb went on, casually, it being 
 yet his pleasure to give with catlike grace his mouse a few 
 seconds of perilous freedom. "And it's the way iv the 
 world since the start iv time. Some people are such spawn 
 that they are never happy unless they're talkin' scandal 
 and runnin' down their neighbors. I can't stand people 
 iv that get, Columb, but that and all what can I do ? Noth- 
 in' at all. I'm one man against the whole world when I 
 stand up for people that's down. The only person that 
 I've met to look eye to eye with me is Sally Rourke, and
 
 COLUMB KUAGH KEERAN 147 
 
 when she sees a neighbor worse off nor herself she's ready 
 to lend her a helpin' hand. Lend her, I said, and I didn't 
 mean to. But now that I Ve said her I will stick to it. It 's 
 a woman that the people are talkin' about, Mr. Brogan. It 
 is for a woman that Sally Rourke has the kind word, and 
 I, meself, poor as I am, had the ready hand when I saw 
 the poverty that she was in. Now ye do know who it is 
 that I am manin', Mr. Brogan?" 
 
 The claw was stretched out and the mouse drawn in 
 again. 
 
 "Maureen O'Malley that ye are manin', is it?" Eamon 
 asked in a thick whisper, looking full in Columb's face as 
 if the eyes of the red-haired man fascinated him. 
 
 "Maureen O'Malley," said Columb quietly, with the 
 calm, easy, horrible composure of a Grand Inquisitor turn- 
 ing the lever of the thumbscrew. "That is the girl, her 
 that's left her lone on the world now with not a soul to 
 take care iv her ! Her poor mother dead, killed be want, 
 sufferin', and be the man that was guilty iv her sin and 
 then left her to herself when she got into trouble. Who 
 the man is doesn't matter now. Whoever he is and what- 
 ever he is, there's one thing certain about him. He owes 
 every penny in his hands to help that girl, Maureen Mai- 
 ley. If he was too big a vagabone to give the girl his 
 name it's as little as he can do to give the girl his money. 
 Me, for example, me that's supposed to be a rough moun- 
 tainy gulpin', without a word iv learnin' in me head, look 
 at me ! I met the poor girl on the road the day and with- 
 out a word, when I saw the tears comin' from her eyes 
 and runnin' down her cheeks, I put me hand in me pocket 
 and gave her out twenty gold pounds and says : ' Get yer- 
 self somethin' for that, Maureen, and don't cry.' That's 
 what I said to the girl, Mr. Brogan, and that's the money 
 that I gave to her and me a poor man too. And I gave it 
 to her, not the same as charity, but as if I was drivin' a 
 hard bargain with her. I pretended that I wanted a 
 piece iv land, her share iv the hill iv Crinnan, the rest 
 iv the hill belonging to yerself and Cassie Shemus Meehal, 
 Mr. Brogan."
 
 148 MAUREEN 
 
 He paused and kept silent for a moment. 
 
 "And for that bit iv the hill, that would never be any 
 good to her, for she hasn't the money to stock it, I gave 
 her twenty pounds in gold, ' ' he went on. ' ' Twenty pounds, 
 Mr. Brogan, and me a poor man, too. But I couldn't see 
 her goin' round on her lone in her sorrow with maybe 
 hardly a bite to ate from the shriek iv dawn to the shut iv 
 day. Now, Mr. Brogan, don't ye think" Columb got to 
 his feet and came close to Eamon, who for the past five 
 minutes kept his eyes obstinately fixed on the toe of his 
 boot "don't ye think that I did the right thing to the 
 poor girsha?" 
 
 "Ye did the right thing," Eamon answered. 
 
 "And I wasn't the man to blame in the beginnin', was 
 I?" Columb persisted. 
 
 "I don't know what ye 're manin', Columb," said Eamon 
 in a voice of anguish. 
 
 "Well, I'll explain," said Columb, taking his pipe from 
 the pocket of his coat and putting it in his mouth. "I'll 
 explain what's in my head, though I'm a stupid man and 
 not as deep as a scholar. I never was at school. I didn't 
 even meet the scholars. In a word, Mr. Brogan, I 'm moun- 
 tainy and thick as mud. But for all that I never did any- 
 thing dirty when it came to a woman. I always kept me- 
 self respectable and dacent. That's me, Mr. Brogan, that's 
 old Columb for ye. There's not a one in the barony that 
 can cast anything up in me face. If they could they'd do 
 it, for it's not in the get iv any one to make it easy for a 
 person that makes a slip. If I was the one to blame in 
 the beginnin', if I was the one to go home with Kathleen 
 Malley from the dance in Neddy Og 's seventeen years gone 
 last Candlemas I'd never hear the end iv it. Would I, do 
 ye think, Mr. Brogan?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Eamon in a whisper. 
 
 "Well, I don't think I would and I wouldn't desarve to 
 if I treated Kathleen O 'Malley, God rest her! as she was 
 treated in her life with the back iv the hand to her when- 
 ever she went out to Mass or Market. Why didn 't the man 
 that was the one to blame step forward and give his name
 
 COLUMB RUAGH KEERAN 149 
 
 to her and her wean and make her right in the eyes iv the 
 world and the eyes iv God? Why didn't he now? I put 
 it to yerself, why didn't he, if he was a man with heart 
 and spirit? If he wasn't the dirty spawn that he was, 
 why didn 't he ? Why didn 't he, Mr. Brogan ? Why didn 't 
 he?" 
 
 Although up till now Eamon had felt the cold and shiv- 
 ered as if the night air was chilling him, he suddenly be- 
 came hot, stifling. A wave of warm blood charged his 
 body, his face and head, and throbbed at his temple veins 
 as if it would burst the bounds which confined it. He 
 spluttered as if something caught in his throat, coughed, 
 swallowed, spat, then rubbed his hand across his forehead 
 and gave forth a few unintelligible sounds. 
 
 "Don't take it so hard," said Columb. "Take it easy, 
 Eamon. It's all right." 
 
 1 ' Why didn 't he, you ask, Mr. Keeran ? Why didn 't he ? " 
 said poor Eamon in a half -strangled whisper. 
 
 "That's the question," said Columb excitedly. "Why 
 didn 'the?" 
 
 "Because," said Eamon, his head bent to the ground, 
 his arms hanging limply. 
 
 "Because what?" Columb urged. 
 
 "Because," said Eamon, straightening himself with a 
 jerk and catching the neck of his waistcoat with both hands 
 as if baring his breast to receive the arrows of adverse for- 
 tune, "because he was married on Cassie Shemus Mee- 
 hal." 
 
 The house was in complete darkness. Not a sound issued 
 from the dense obscurity as Mr. Brogan crossed the thresh- 
 old with suspended breath and timorous footfall. In the 
 blackness of the interior a perfect hush reigned, the hush 
 of a block of gun-cotton before the spark is applied. 
 Though outside the moon shone with its silvery gleam, the 
 blind on the window, drawn tight by Cassie Shemus Mee- 
 hal, refused to let one ray enter the room. Unable to see
 
 150 MAUREEN 
 
 the woman in the darkness, Mr. Brogan was yet conscious 
 of a hostile presence and susceptible to properties which 
 though hidden seemed to possess dynamic energy, omnip- 
 otent though unseen. He shuddered, but bracing him- 
 self he went towards the window and groped for some- 
 thing on the sill. 
 
 Striking a match he turned up the wick of the paraffin 
 lamp and lit it. Then turning round he looked at the bed. 
 His wife lay there, her knees curled up and her eyes fixed 
 on the man. Everything else was just as he left it when 
 he went out, with the exception of the fire and the bed. 
 The first was raked, the second occupied. Cassie Shemus 
 Meehal sat up in bed. 
 
 "Well, you're back again," she said in a quiet voice. 
 This was a preliminary, something that could not be gain- 
 said. She usually began in this manner, husbanding her 
 resources judiciously at the start, knowing that she would 
 need them all before she came to the end of her usual 
 flush of vituperative abuse. 
 
 Eamon, contrary to his custom, did not answer, nor make 
 excuses for his delinquency. Instead, he reached his arm 
 up to the lip of the wall where the roof-beam rested, 
 groped under the scraws and brought therefrom a razor 
 case. Taking out the razor he commenced sharpening it on 
 a hone. This action of Eamon having no precedent some- 
 what discomfited the woman. 
 
 "What are ye goin' to do?" she asked. 
 
 Eamon, busy with hone and razor, made no answer. 
 
 "Is it deaf that ye are?" she shrieked. "Do ye not hear 
 what I'm sayin' to ye?" 
 
 Mr. Brogan, with imperturbable rear his back was to- 
 wards Cassie Shemus Meehal, his face on his hone con- 
 tinued sharpening the razor. 
 
 "Don't ye hear me!" she yelled. "Or d'ye not! Burnin' 
 all the oil as well as everything else," she added, clutch- 
 ing at a side issue as she floundered from the straight path 
 of original intention. 
 
 Eamon turned round, coolly thrust up his sleeves, and 
 with razor in hand came towards the bed, stood there, an
 
 COLUMB RUAGH KEERAN 151 
 
 air of profound mystery settling on his face. Never had 
 Cassie seen Mr. Brogan behave in this way before. He 
 was not like other men, of course, and a man who is not 
 like other men might be guilty of any action of which ordi- 
 nary men in their ordinary senses are not capable. She 
 looked at the door, then at her husband. He was now giv- 
 ing a finishing touch to the razor edge by rubbing it along 
 his forearm. 
 
 "Goin' to shave is it that ye are, Eamon?" she asked, 
 in a voice of astonishment, suddenly becoming conscious 
 of something not altogether in keeping with ordinary be- 
 havior in the action of her man. 
 
 " Maybe aye and maybe no," Eamon replied in a gruff 
 voice. "The razor is an implement that can be used for 
 more than one purpose." 
 
 " Mother iv God, what do ye mane, Eamon?" shrieked 
 the woman, and the shriek had a quality which he had 
 never heard before in the shriek of Cassie Shemus Meehal. 
 "Under God the day and the night what's it that ye 're 
 up to with the razor?" 
 
 "It's the best-tempered steel, and it would slit a throat 
 as easy as 'twould slit a new turf," said Eamon medita- 
 tively, as if talking to himself, but to the woman trembling 
 on the bed the words were fraught with horrible signifi- 
 cance. 
 
 She stared at him, with wide-open eyes, a queer shivery 
 sensation in her spine, a strange troubled thought running 
 through her mind. Eamon na Sgaddan was going mad. 
 
 "I was always the good wife to ye, Eamon," said Cassie, 
 at that moment recollecting that mad men may be easily 
 led away from their purpose by a very slight suggestion. 
 "Always the good wife to ye I was, Eamon, wasn't I?" 
 
 "Aye," Eamon acquiesced doubtfully as if the mono- 
 syllable were open to great question. A cold sweat oozed 
 out on the woman's forehead. Eamon had changed his 
 position and was now between her and the door. 
 
 "A good woman t'ye, Eamon," she went on wildly. 
 ' ' Summer and winter I was on me feet at the earliest minit 
 in the mornin', gettin' things ready in order that ye
 
 152 MAUREEN 
 
 wouldn't have a hard day iv it when ye got up yerself. 
 Now don't ye think so yerself that I was the good woman 
 t'ye?" 
 
 "Maybe," said Eamon with an almost vicious sweep of 
 the razor down his hairy wrist. 
 
 "And the way that I used to make the tay for ye and 
 give it t'ye in the bed," she went on. The storm of emo- 
 tion in her brain disturbed the sediment of half-forgotten 
 memories and threw them to the surface as a flood tears 
 at the fabric of an ancient river-bed and whirls its parts, 
 portions and pieces up to the light of day. "And ye mind 
 the way that I used to take it t'ye, Eamon," she pleaded, 
 * ' and it piping hot in the mornin '. ' ' 
 
 "I mind it well," Eamon admitted grimly. "Three 
 times you done it, after the marriage seventeen years 
 ago." 
 
 Another remembrance from the heel-tap of the past 
 surged up in Cassie's mind. People who go mad show a 
 preference to attack whose whom they love best. "And 
 it is the wrong thing that I'm doin'," she stammered to 
 herself in a whisper. 
 
 "I wasn't a good wife to ye at all, Eamon," she shouted, 
 hastening to retrieve her past blunders. "I never treated 
 ye as a man ought to be treated. Don 't forget that, mind. ' ' 
 
 "I'll not," said Eamon, testing the temper of the steel 
 with his thumb. "No fear iv me letting that out iv me 
 mind." 
 
 "And what is that ye 're manin' to do at all?" she 
 gasped, feeling herself in the position of one who has 
 changed rooms in a burning house. Eamon looked at her; 
 then as if the razor had not passed its test he recom- 
 menced sharpening it on his forearm. In fact he was now 
 feeling terrified himself. The position in which he found 
 himself was so novel, so unprecedented in the history of 
 his marital relations that he felt he could not endure it 
 much longer. Cassie Shemus Meehal was terrified, and 
 Mr. Brogan was at a loss as to how 'he could take advan- 
 tage of this terror. But something had to be done, some- 
 thing drastic.
 
 COLUMB EUAGH KEERAN 153 
 
 He stopped rubbing the weapon and, holding it by the 
 haft, he looked at the woman in the bed. 
 
 ' ' I 'm desperate, ' ' he blurted out, setting his teeth. * ' I 'm 
 a man that has never had his way, but from now f orrit I 'm 
 goin' to have it! I've seen the way that business has been 
 carried on here by you, Cassie Shemus Meehal, and I 
 don 't approve of it ! From now on I 'm goin ' to be master 
 here myself and no one else ! ' ' 
 
 "Iv course, Eamon, iv course," said the woman sooth- 
 ingly, with a sigh of relief. 
 
 "All right, all right!" he said, waving his razor in the 
 air as if the woman's approval of his changed views was 
 a matter of no consequence. "I've begun the night to 
 show that I'm master here. The night I've sold that bit 
 iv land up be the Crinnan cross-roads to Columb Ruagh 
 Keeran, and what I've got for it doesn't matter to anybody 
 bar meself." 
 
 "Iv course, Eamon, iv course," said the woman. "Ye 're 
 master here and nobody can gainsay that." 
 
 "Now make iv that whatever ye like," he said aggres- 
 sively, looking at his wife. He had not heard what she 
 said; he did not want to hear it. One word from Cassie, 
 if listened to, might break down the whole wall of his re- 
 solve and determination. In fact, Mr. Brogan was almost 
 on the point of collapse. "Make iv that whatever ye like !" 
 he cried. "And I don't care a damn what ye think iv it." 
 
 He shut his razor, went with a steady step to the table, 
 turned down the wick and blew out the light. Then he 
 undressed and went into the bed beside Cassie Shemus 
 Meehal.
 
 FAIRIES 
 
 lleenahalla "bedding and grass, 
 Butter and milk in Inishmool, 
 And big the pastures in Ardnaglass 
 That hasn't its equal in sheep and wool i 
 There are seven corners in Donegal, 
 And acres many, meadow and moor; 
 Rich in money, but that and all, 
 The folk of the Rosses are very poor. 
 
 The guinea coin is the butt of care 
 
 And hearts are heavy for hands that hold, 
 
 But the Rosses people, and they be bare, 
 
 Have neither their hearts in gear nor gold 
 
 And it's all of them always for song and fun, 
 
 First to frolic at dance and spree 
 
 With nimble toes when the day is done, 
 
 In Carrandooragh and Meenaree. 
 
 And they take the gifts from the mill and churn 
 And the mallard wor on the Rosses bog 
 To the gentle oak by the Dooran burn 
 For the little people from Tir nan Og, 
 Who come with the dusk their gifts to find 
 In the sacred ring by the haunted oak, 
 And they weave a spell over souls so kind, 
 Bo the Rosses people are happy folk. 
 
 155
 
 CHAPTER V 
 MRS. THORNTON 
 
 IT was the early morning and raining heavily. The 
 greening sycamore and ash dripped sullenly, spatter- 
 ing the camber of the roadway with their heavy tears. 
 The drains on either side of the highway were riding their 
 boundaries and spilling their overflow on the holms, where 
 the lush grass thickened in its far-flung carpet of nascent 
 green. In the wet and early morning of May the coun- 
 try presented a cheerless face to the leaden sky. All 
 things seemed to droop despondently, the drooping clouds, 
 the drooping hedgerows and drooping grasses. The few 
 pedestrians on the roadway seemed to take tone from the 
 general character of the day. They bent their heads and 
 drooped as if following the funeral of a friend. 
 
 Along this road, with Strabane in front showing through 
 the rain in outline vague, in aspect forbidding, came Mau- 
 reen O'Malley, a lone and solitary figure, plaintive and 
 penniless. In the far distance the hills of her native 
 Donegal rose to the sky, dismal and gloomy. Foot-weary 
 and spiritless she trudged on her way barefooted, her boots 
 hanging over her shoulder, a little checked bundle under 
 her arm. 
 
 Round her head, hiding her ears and covering her hair 
 so completely that not one lock showed, was a red ker- 
 chief, wringing wet. The girl 's features were pinched and 
 drawn, the cheeks hollow, and the eyes, joyless and tired, 
 sunk deep in their pockets as if, becoming weary of the 
 drear perspective, they had withdrawn to die. Over her 
 shoulders under the boots hung her gray shawl. From its 
 
 157
 
 158 MAUREEN 
 
 drooping tassels seeped the rain to the petticoat and from 
 the petticoat it fell on her legs and streaked its way to 
 the road. 
 
 Since the night before last when she left home, she had 
 traveled some fifty miles. When Eileen Conroy left her, 
 Maureen packed her little personal belongings in a bundle, 
 turned down the light as if she were going to bed and took 
 the road that led beyond the mountains. The night was 
 very clear and the highway deserted so that she met no- 
 body on the earlier part of her journey. A league from 
 Meenaroodagh she sat down by the roadside, took off her 
 boots, which pinched her feet, and strapped them over her 
 shoulder. Ever since then she had walked barefooted. 
 
 Shortly after daybreak with the marches of Dungarrow 
 long past and the hill of Crinnan well to the rear, the 
 girl encountered a woman driving two milch cows to their 
 pasturage. The woman was very old, her hair snowy white 
 and her face lined with wrinkles. Like Maureen she was 
 barefooted. 
 
 ''The blessing of God be on you, decent girl," she said 
 in Irish, and stopping, fixed a pair of kindly eyes on Mau- 
 reen. "And where are you off to so early in the day?" 
 
 "To the fair of Strabane," said Maureen. 
 
 "And going all the way on your feet?" inquired the 
 woman. 
 
 "All the way," Maureen replied. 
 
 "It's a long journey in front of you," said the woman 
 with the cows. "And where are you from?" 
 
 ' ' Dungarrow. ' ' 
 
 "A kindly arm of the world," said the woman. "And 
 what do they call you?" 
 
 "Maureen O'Malley." 
 
 "A good name that. And is your father and mother 
 living?" 
 
 In this manner the conversation proceeded for a full 
 ten minutes, Maureen answering questions, the old woman 
 giving an opinion on the substance and essence of the 
 girl's reply as a preliminary to a further interrogation.
 
 MRS. THORNTON 159 
 
 "Well, I must get on my way," said Maureen when the 
 inquisition became tedious. 
 
 "Have you had your breakfast then?" asked the old 
 woman. 
 
 "No, indeed," was Maureen's answer. 
 
 "And you have no money?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 "Listen then," said the woman with the readiness of 
 one who seemed to have spent all her life in doing acts of 
 kindness to Donegal girls on the way to the hiring-fair of 
 Strabane. " I '11 leave the cows here. The two are as quiet 
 as lambs, and one of them, the brindled one, had twins at 
 the last calving. And such fine calves, but one of them 
 died because he had the evil eye put on him and it was 
 only two days old at the time. I tried to put it away with 
 Doon Well water, but the spell was too strong on the poor 
 little dear when we noticed it, and it was too late. But 
 the cows are quiet, Maureen O'Malley, with no roving in 
 their legs, so I '11 leave them here to graze by the road, and 
 I '11 come back with you and give you a good bowl of tea. ' ' 
 
 Holding Maureen by the hand, the old woman turned 
 and accompanied the girl along the road till they reached 
 a snug thatched cottage that stood by the roadside under 
 a sycamore tree. Through the open door a fire could 
 be seen blazing on the hearth. The two women 
 entered. 
 
 "Sit down on the chair and warm your wee feet," said 
 the hostess. "And I'll get the kettle ready." 
 
 Breakfast was prepared, bread and fresh butter spread 
 thickly, and two eggs. Maureen drew her chair in to the 
 table and found to her surprise that she was very hungry. 
 
 "A thousand thanks to you," she said, getting up when 
 she had finished and addressing the old woman, whose 
 eyes appeared to have grown brighter at every mouthful 
 that Maureen had eaten. This hospitality, while being 
 sustenance to the chance guest, seemed to bring renewed 
 vitality to the eyes of the old woman. 
 
 "But you have eaten nothing," said the woman with a
 
 160 MAUREEN 
 
 gesture of disapproval. "Two eggs only, and there are 
 two more in the pandy on the fire boiling for you. ' ' 
 
 "It's the first time I ever ate two eggs together," said 
 Maureen. "Thanks again very much." 
 
 "Arrah, don't thank me," said the woman. "Thank 
 God, decent girl, that has given me the power to give you 
 a bit of a meal and it was a bit, Maureen. A sparrow 
 would have eaten more for its collation. ' ' 
 
 Maureen raised the bundle from the floor and put it 
 under her arm prior to taking her departure. 
 
 "It's a long journey," said the old woman with a sigh, 
 taking down a scapular which hung from a nail over the 
 fireplace. ' ' But if it has to be done it has to be done, and 
 God be with you all the way. And here, take this scapular 
 with you and it will be luck to you. The girl that wore 
 this had the same cut as yourself and the same laughing 
 eyes. Your eyes look tired now, Maureen O'Malley, with 
 the thought of the journey in your head, but I know that 
 at the heel of a day at home when you sit down at a dance 
 you can laugh with the best of them and make a joke with 
 a ready tongue. My girl, God rest her ! was like that. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Is she dead ? ' ' asked Maureen in a tone of pity. 
 
 ' ' Two years gone, last Christmas, ' ' said the woman, tears 
 showing in her eyes. "A cold in the chest and a cough, 
 and she went from me like a spark that goes up in the 
 air. And this is hers, but now you take it and put it 
 round your neck and you are sure to have the prayer of 
 an angel on you all the years of your life." 
 
 She handed Maureen the scapular. The girl kissed it, 
 put it round her neck, while tears welled from her tired 
 eyes. 
 
 "And take this with you, too," said the woman, handing 
 Maureen a red handkerchief in which were stored the two 
 boiled eggs and several slices of bread and butter. "Just 
 sit down be the road when the hunger comes on you and 
 say a prayer for yourself and for all that's in misery and 
 make a meal. And God and Mary watch over you and keep 
 you safe all the days of your life. Beannacht leat, Mau- 
 reen. Beannacht leat!"
 
 MRS. THORNTON 161 
 
 All day long Maureen traveled, but now and again paus- 
 ing for a moment to take a nibble from the store in the 
 handkerchief. A certain moral fortitude filled her being 
 since she met the old woman, and this, brightening her 
 mental outlook, went a long way towards easing the 
 physical strain of the journey. In addition to this happy 
 incident, the day was bright and warm, the air filled with 
 the scent of early flowers. Walking barefooted was con- 
 ducive to a certain dreamy languor in no way impaired 
 by the effort of walking. 
 
 Removed in space from the scenes of her unhappy child- 
 hood and in time from the calamity which had so recently 
 overtaken her, the joy of the first went some way towards 
 the abrogation of the second, and Maureen was in a meas- 
 ure happy. The kindly act which blest the morning helped 
 in a way to dissipate the vague fear of the preceding night. 
 The uneasy feeling with which she contemplated the jour- 
 ney threading the somber web of a more defined grief left 
 no room for the slightest thread of hope to inweave itself 
 into the fabric. 
 
 But the most checkered weather has its gleams and tinges 
 of brightness and the dreariest life its moments of happi- 
 ness. Though nipped sorely by the pincers of adverse for- ^ 
 tune and circumstance, youth, strong-blooded and vital, 
 is quick to renew itself. So with Maureen O'Malley. On 
 the dry road, now bathed with the sun and heartened by 
 singing birds from broom and bramble, she felt in high 
 spirits, which, when she paused a moment to analyze them, 
 seemed to her as something very wrong and mean. 
 
 "And my mother, God rest her, dead," she whispered 
 accusingly as if to damp her mood. But even this whis- 
 pered reproof served no purpose. A moment following 
 utterance, thoughts of her mother left her mind, and she 
 found herself thinking of Cathal Cassidy, his declaration 
 of love. 
 
 But always on the fringe of this remembrance the form 
 of her mother, white and ghostly, showed itself holding a 
 finger in air, as if to remind Maureen that she was doing 
 something wrong in thinking of the man that loved her.
 
 162 MAUREEN 
 
 Maureen recalled her mother's injunction given many a 
 time as the two sat by the home fire, Kathleen knitting a 
 stocking while the daughter read a book, or built castles 
 of wonder with turf for walls, a dishcloth for roof and a 
 streak of red ashes for the road which a fairy prince would 
 take when coming to free the imprisoned princess from 
 the toils of the giant who had imprisoned her in a dark 
 dungeon. 
 
 "When you grow up and be a woman and a man maybe 
 comes and asks you to be married on him," the mother 
 would say, "see that he's not a man of this parish or the 
 parish next it on either side. You must be married on a 
 man out of the parish if ever you marry at all. That's 
 if you want to be happy and if you want the man to be 
 happy as well. Mind that, Maureen, my wee dear," she 
 would say, catching the girl in her arms and kissing her. 
 "It's for your own good, mind, for your own good, my 
 wee flower of the world." 
 
 But Maureen' did not understand the mother's meaning 
 then, did not understand it even when her prince took 
 on the form and appointments of Cathal Cassidy, when 
 the prancing steed became a cart horse and the glittering 
 spear became the ash-hafted whip which Cathal used in 
 driving. The prince who rescued her from a castle of 
 dreams at ten and carried her away to the land of Tir 
 Nan Og on his spirited steed, was the same prince who met 
 her going to Mass on Sunday when she was seventeen and 
 carried her away to another land where youth is eternal 
 and where Love holds sway over the hearts of the young. 
 
 Into this mysterious realm with love as yet unspoken 
 but felt, where thoughts communicated, where silence had 
 tangible properties, and where an ordinary greeting 
 breathed the romance of the world, the girl was wafted. 
 Then came a day when her prince spoke to her, saying, 
 "You are mine for ever and always." 
 
 This happened a moment ago and was happening now, 
 for Maureen on her journey to Strabane was living it all 
 over again. Exiled from her Fairyland, she bore its aroma 
 still in her heart. As she walked she could feel the arms
 
 MRS. THORNTON 163 
 
 of her prince circle her shoulder, his lips rest on her hair 
 and his voice whisper of love in her ear. Cathal loved 
 her with all the strength of his heart ; he would tumble the 
 world down for her sake; he was her Fairy Prince come 
 to real life. 
 
 But as she thought of him she recalled her mother alive, 
 who had warned her against him, and her mother dead, 
 who had come, even as he told his love, to remind her of 
 the advice so often given when Maureen was a little child 
 when impressions dint the young, malleable mind and be- 
 come part of it, like faith that always remains either in 
 acceptance or negation. 
 
 Now, however, removed from temptation, she could think 
 of Cathal, for in that there was nothing wrong, nothing 
 at variance with a promise once given to her mother. She 
 would not be Cathal 's wife, she had renounced him on prin- 
 ciple, in accordance with the tenets of one who was gone. 
 But the moment of impassioned love came back upon her 
 with all its cruel charm, and Maureen felt that she had 
 cast away something dear and precious from her life. 
 
 "Was it right or was it wrong? She could not tell, but 
 as she puzzled over it she could not help feeling that some- 
 thing had left her and vanished without any prospect of 
 returning. A strange weakness overtook the girl as she 
 thought of this. Her legs gave way under her, and she 
 sat down by the roadside while tears of anguish, bitter as 
 gall, welled up in her eyes. 
 
 That night Maureen stole into a barn by the roadside, 
 lay down in the hay and fell asleep. In the morning at 
 four when she awoke it was raining, a heavy rain that 
 made every wheel-wound on the road a ditch, every holm 
 a lake, and every brook a torrent. The girl was well out 
 of the mountainy district now, into the flat lands where 
 no hill rose to shelter a warm glen and where the horizon 
 stretched away into drear immeasurable distances. Here 
 the very houses had a more austere look than any she had 
 ever known in Dungarrow. They were cold, proud, self- 
 centered and forbidding. The whole environment was 
 tinged with something hard and austere, such as might 

 
 164 MAUREEN 
 
 sadden the merriest heart and intensify the gloom of a 
 soul already steeped in anguish. 
 
 Maureen shuddered whenever she looked at the smug 
 slated houses that seemed to draw themselves up with a 
 distant, friendless shrug as she looked at them. They were 
 decidedly hostile and supercilious, cold as if no cheerful 
 fire ever burned on a hearth within, forbidding as if their 
 doors never opened in welcome to a soul, pitiless even as 
 if their people never were guilty of charity or benevolence. 
 
 n 
 
 At nine o'clock, with Strabane in the near distance and 
 the rain pelting pitilessly on her sodden garments, Mau- 
 reen sat down by the roadside and put on her boots. The 
 road was now thick with the country people on their way 
 to the fair. All were converging on one point, the gloomy 
 town of Strabane, farmers in their dainty gigs coming to 
 hire hands for the ensuing six months, boys and girls 
 with a term of service at an end hastening to undertake 
 another six months' work that would be in effect similar, 
 but in location different. It was the twelfth of May in 
 Strabane, the day on which gold changed hands as the re- 
 turn for a past six months' stewardship and silver given 
 as earnest of a bargain newly made. 
 
 Maureen, having laced her boots, got to her feet and was 
 on the point of setting off when some one shouted behind 
 her. She looked back to see a jaunting car approaching, 
 a swarthy man, portly of paunch, on one side holding the 
 reins, and on the other side an elderly woman gripping 
 the rail of the dickey with the object of steadying herself 
 on the seat as the car oscillated on the rough, uneven 
 causeway. It was the man who shouted. 
 
 "Hi! Donegal!" he called. 
 
 Maureen, realizing that he was addressing her, stopped 
 and when he came abreast he brought his horse to a stand- 
 still. 
 
 "Goin* to the fair?" he inquired in a gruff voice. 
 
 "I'm going to the fair," said Maureen.
 
 MRS. THORNTON 165 
 
 "Goin' to hire yerself out?" he asked. 
 
 "That I am," said Maureen. 
 
 "Yes," said the man, stroking his beard and spitting 
 on the roadway. "Yes, yes. And what money are you 
 after?" 
 
 Maureen, who dwelt practically alone when at home and 
 who knew very little of transactions between master and 
 servant, was at a loss as to what answer she should give. 
 She once heard a neighboring girl back from service beyond 
 the mountains tell that her wages for six months were six 
 pounds ten shillings. Probably if she asked for the same 
 wage it would be given. 
 
 "Six pound ten," she replied, looking at the man. 
 
 "For a year?" he asked and gave vent to a sarcastic 
 whistle. Then he looked at the woman. "Did you hear 
 that ? " he said. ' ' Six pound ten ! " 
 
 "I'm not deaf," said the woman with a snort, evi- 
 dently intended for Maureen. "Drive on." 
 
 The man gave the horse a flick with his whip ; the animal 
 trotted off, but when a hundred yards separated the two 
 from the girl the vehicle stopped again and waited till 
 Maureen overtook it. 
 
 "Six pounds ten, you're wantin'?" the man inquired, 
 turning round on his seat and looking at Maureen. Then 
 without waiting for an answer he continued: "It's big 
 money for a girl your cut, and you'll never get it, either 
 here or in the fair. Where are you from, anyway?" he 
 asked, as if knowledge of the girl's native place would in 
 some manner explain why she dared to ask eight pence 
 half penny a day as wages. 
 
 "Dungarrow," said Maureen. 
 
 "Saw some Dungarrow cubs," said the man with a sniff. 
 ' ' Fill their pockets with money and their bellies with spuds 
 and they're the best cubs in the world. But put them in 
 front of a day's work and they love it so much that they'll 
 lie beside it and look at it. I suppose the girls are not 
 a bit better. "What can you do?" 
 
 ' ' Can you nurse weans ? ' ' asked the woman, before Mau- 
 reen had time to reply to the man's question.
 
 166 MAUREEN 
 
 "I never had to do that," said the girl. "But I'll try 
 and do my best." 
 
 "Do you know what weans are fed on?" asked the 
 woman. 
 
 "Milk if they're very wee," said the girl. "And when 
 they get bigger " 
 
 "That's enough to know about them," said the woman. 
 "If I take you on I'll learn you the rest, that's if you're 
 willin' to learn. I love weans and I give them no end 
 iv care. But I've my own opinions iv the way to bring 
 them up. A wean must be treated kindly, but not too 
 kindly. If they're made to live too soft on it at the start 
 they're never any good when they grow up. Now isn't 
 that your own opinion, Donegal?" 
 
 "It is," said Maureen in a puzzled voice. Though not 
 knowing what interpretation to place on the woman's theo- 
 ries of child-rearing, she wanted to make herself agree- 
 able. 
 
 "Any people sib to you comin ' to the fair the day?" 
 asked the man, leaning across the dickey. 
 
 "I haven't any one sib to me," said the girl. 
 
 "Not a brother or sister?" 
 
 "I haven't any." 
 
 "And your father and mother?" inquired the man, fix- 
 ing a knowing look on his woman friend. 
 
 "They're dead," said Maureen, tears coming to her 
 eyes. 
 
 "You're all on your own, then?" asked the woman. 
 
 "Yes, I'm all on my lone," Maureen replied. 
 
 "And does any one know that you're here?" asked the 
 woman, exchanging glances with the swarthy man. 
 
 "No one as far as I can tell," Maureen said. "I stole 
 away." 
 
 "Not from the place that you were hired in?" asked the 
 man in a voice tinged with suspicion. "You didn't run 
 away from your place as lots of the Dungarrow cubs do 
 with money that's not their own in their pocket?" 
 
 "I'm not a thief, if that's what you mean," said Mau-
 
 MRS. THORNTON 167 
 
 reen, straightening her shoulders and taking a step for- 
 ward as if to continue her journey. 
 
 "He doesn't mean that," said the woman in conciliatory 
 voice. "It's only his fun. But at bottom he's a right 
 good fellow." 
 
 " 'Twas only my fun," the man hastened to confirm. 
 "I don't mean what I say most of the time. And your 
 money," he added. "What was it, now?" 
 
 "Six pounds ten," said the girl. 
 
 "Six pounds ten," said the woman deprecatingly. "A 
 big lot that." 
 
 "You'll not be able to get five pounds at the fair if 
 you're there," said the man. "Now what do you say to," 
 he cleared his throat "to five pounds?" He stretched 
 the last two words as if endeavoring to make the girl real- 
 ize what five whole pounds really meant. 
 
 "I'm goin' to the fair afore I'd hire with any man for 
 five pounds," said Maureen in an emphatic voice. 
 
 "Well, five pound five," said the woman, implying by 
 her tones that she would pay that wage at a pinch, but 
 never go a penny beyond it. 
 
 ' ' Five pound five, ' ' said the driver in the tone of a man 
 who had really nothing to do with the business but was 
 surprised at the generosity of the woman. 
 
 "And you will have the will of the table that I sit at 
 meself," said the woman. 
 
 "Just think of that," said the man, his astonishment 
 at such munificence increasing the rotundity of his per- 
 son. 
 
 "And every Sunday your own to go to your duties," 
 said the woman. 
 
 "Every Sunday," repeated the driver, emphasizing the 
 adjective. 
 
 "Now what do you say to that?" queried the woman, 
 having completed the tally of privileges. "Isn't it worth 
 your while to come to a place like this where you have 
 everything your own way, light work and a good table?" 
 
 "Not at that money," said the girl in a tone of quiet
 
 168 MAUREEN 
 
 assurance. "If I go to the fair I'll be able to get a far 
 and away bigger money." 
 
 "Five ten, then," said the man with a sigh. 
 
 "No, thank ye," said Maureen, taking a few steps in 
 the direction of the town. 
 
 "Five fifteen, then," the woman shouted after the girl. 
 "Drive on the horse, Bob! Six pound ten!" 
 
 "I don't know how you can come to give the girl that," 
 said the man to the woman, when the gig came abreast 
 Maureen. "It's throwing good money away and it's so 
 hard to scrape it together." 
 
 "I'm always like that," said the woman, accepting the 
 impeachment and sighing because it was justified. "I 
 always give my servants the best money, and sometimes 
 they're worth it, but more often not." 
 
 "Not a lie in what you say, Martha," remarked the man 
 in a tone of whole-hearted approval, and fixing his eyes 
 on Maureen. "Six pound you're offered," he said. "Six 
 pound! A big penny for a girl that has never been here 
 before. Six pound. Now what do you say to it? You're 
 poor on it I '11 warrant, and a pound or two won 't do you 
 any hurt come Hallowe'en." 
 
 Maureen looked at the woman, then at the man. 
 
 "It won't do me any hurt," she said stiffly to the latter. 
 "It'll maybe hurt you more to pay it!" 
 
 "Ah! that's spirit, Bob," said the woman with a mali- 
 cious chuckle as if the remark addressed to her friend Bob 
 afforded her cruel enjoyment. "That's spirit. I like a 
 girl iv your cut," addressing Maureen. "Now what'a to 
 be done in it? Will we split the difference? Say the 
 word and we'll split it. Six five!" 
 
 "Six five," echoed the man. 
 
 "All right," said Maureen quietly. 
 
 "Then it's no good in you comin' in to the fair," said 
 the woman. "Get up on the car and we'll drive you along 
 to a house back here on the road and you can have a sleep 
 maybe. You're tired, aren't you?" 
 
 " Tired 's not the word!" said Maureen. 
 
 "Well, give me your hand and up you get," said the
 
 MRS. THORNTON 169 
 
 woman, catching Maureen by the hand and helping her 
 onto the seat. 
 
 The driver reined the horse round, and when they had 
 traveled back about half a mile they turned up a side road 
 where after a ten minutes' brisk drive they came to the 
 door of a little one-storied house. The driver knocked 
 on the door with the butt of his whip, and a sallow-faced 
 woman opened it. 
 
 "Good mornin' to ye, Mrs. Thornton," she said in a 
 weak, lifeless voice, gazing at the woman on the car. ' ' What 
 can I do for ye?" 
 
 "I'vte hired this Donegal," said Mrs. Thornton. "She 
 has traveled all the way from her home, and she's tired. 
 Let her stay here till I come back from the fair. Then 
 I'll take her home with me. And don't blab to her either, 
 Mary. Keep a civil tongue in your head." 
 
 "I never am one to speak when the business is none iv 
 mine," said the woman in a cowed voice. 
 
 "All right," said Mrs. Thornton. "I'll be back as soon 
 as I can. Drive on, Bob." 
 
 m 
 
 The room was small, cold and evil-smelling, a mere box 
 in which Maureen could not stand upright. Her bed lay 
 on the floor, a shakedown of last year's straw, moldy and 
 malodorous, in fact looking as if it were dung-soaked 
 mulch gathered from a farmyard in the rain and never 
 allowed to dry. On this lay two petticoats, which a ragged 
 scarecrow might have shed in disgust, and a wet bundle 
 wrapped in a check kerchief. One petticoat served the 
 purpose of sheet, the other a blanket, and the bundle 
 wrapped in the check kerchief was the pillow on which 
 Maureen O'Malley would rest her head in sleep. It was 
 now near midnight, the sky clear and starry, such of it as 
 could be seen through the two-paned window near the roof, 
 and the moon rising. 
 
 The room was chill and silent, chill because the wind 
 blew up through the cracks in the floor and silent because
 
 170 MAUREEN 
 
 everybody was apparently asleep. A sort of deathly gloom 
 seemed to possess the house, as if fell spirits kept their 
 vigils there. Something uncanny pervaded the atmosphere 
 of the place, something that assumed an almost palpable 
 form over Maureen's head when she sat in the kitchen to 
 eat the cold meal that Mrs. Thornton provided and after- 
 wards followed the girl up the ladder leading to her bed- 
 room. Now this Presence, this form without substance or 
 outline, felt but unseen, settled down in the corners to 
 keep watch over Maureen all the night. 
 
 The girl sat on her blanket, a prey to thoughts the most 
 gloomy and conflicting. "What was the place in which she 
 found herself? She tried to recall her coming, but weari- 
 ness seemed to blot out all coherence in thought. She recol- 
 lected certain things with precision, but things as near and 
 as vivid ran hurriedly across the tablet of her mind as if 
 afraid of being memorized. 
 
 She recalled the girl, Mary, in the cottage, a poor, half- 
 witted creature, who would not speak of her own accord 
 and answered Maureen's questions with nods and mono- 
 syllables.. All day long Maureen remained there, nodding 
 drowsily at times and at intervals falling into short, trou- 
 bled spasms of slumber. 
 
 At seven in the evening the car containing Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton and her friend Bob drew up at the door, called for 
 Maureen, and when she came out she was helped up on 
 the seat beside the man. On the way to her place, over a 
 rocky road, the man put his arm round the girl several 
 times, with the object, as he declared, of keeping her snug 
 in her seat. But on each occasion the girl thrust the hand 
 aside and eased as far from the driver as possible. Finally, 
 after a run of three hours, the car stopped and the two 
 women descended from their seats. 
 
 "We've to walk the rest of the way," said Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton. "Across the fields." 
 
 The car drove away and the women crossed a wide field, 
 then along a lane, then over further fields, sloughy and 
 miry with the water rising ankle high. Ten minutes 
 brought them to a house that stood high and sullen, with
 
 MRS. THORNTON 171 
 
 no light showing through door or window. To Maureen it 
 looked like a prison. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton took a key from her pocket, opened the 
 door and entered, Maureen following. The girl's nostrils, 
 rendered susceptible by the long journey in the fresh air, 
 were immediately assailed by a strong, disagreeable odor 
 as if something was putrefying in the house. The moon 
 had not yet risen, and the interior of the dwelling was a 
 block of dense blackness almost palpable. 
 
 "Stand there, Donegal, till I get a light," said Mrs. 
 Thornton, leaving Maureen on the threshold and disappear- 
 ing into the gloom. Maureen could hear the woman scrape 
 a board, probably the table, with her fingers as if groping 
 for something. At the same moment a low whimper, like 
 the wail of a lost puppy, was heard near Maureen, coming 
 from the ground, as far as she could ascertain. It died 
 away but was replaced by a second whimper, closer still, 
 as if the thing were creeping nearer. Maureen edged back 
 to the door shivering with terror. It was a rat ! She had 
 heard rats squeal when at home and the sound from the 
 gloom reminded her of them. 
 
 A third whimper, nearer this time, reached Maureen 's 
 ears. Whatever made the sound was coming closer. The 
 woman was still groping on the table. 
 
 "What's makin' that sound at all?" stammered Mau- 
 reen. 
 
 The woman returned no answer, but as if to make up for 
 that the crying was repeated near at hand, then further 
 back, first in one corner then in another. The gloom was 
 filled with these strange, uncanny noises that sounded now 
 like the shrill plaint of trodden mice. They came from all 
 corners, filling the dense obscurity as if it had a thousand 
 tongues. 
 
 "Where did that strap leave the matches?" the woman 
 suddenly cried in a querulous voice. "Nothin' is right 
 when I leave the house for a minute." 
 
 Maureen's eyes could now make out the form of the 
 woman in the darkness, black and shadowy as if the gloom 
 had accumulated into a darker heap in one part of the
 
 172 MAUREEN 
 
 room. She was now near the window, which was slowly 
 taking on a lighter shade and losing the gloom which was 
 its a moment before. The moon was rising. 
 
 There was a sudden creak under Mrs. Thornton's feet 
 and she bent to the ground. 
 
 "Hung it up on the floor as I thought," she said. "The 
 trollop!" 
 
 Straightening herself she struck a match and lit an oil 
 lamp which was nailed to the mantelpiece over the fire- 
 less hearth. Maureen looked round her and saw the room. 
 
 It was a square compartment, the walls unpapered and 
 black as if covered with soot, the floor earthen and pitted 
 with holes, the roof finger-deep in dust from which hung 
 venerable cobwebs. On the ashes of the dead fire sat a 
 skillet, lid off and empty. A chair stood under the win- 
 dow, and on this was piled a heap of children's clothing. 
 Maureen noticed these things cursorily, for in them there 
 was nothing extraordinary. She had seen houses cleaner 
 and again houses dirtier. She was a servant girl any- 
 way, and if her mistress lived here surely she could. 
 
 But what excited her attention and wonder was the 
 small oblong box placed in the angle of the wall facing 
 her. In this something was moving restlessly and crying. 
 The cry was the same as reached her ears when she stood 
 at the door in the darkness, the same low, weak whimper 
 that reminded her of a trampled mouse. As a blanket cov- 
 ered the box nothing living was visible. Possibly the 
 thing, whatever it was, had crawled on the floor in the 
 gloom, and now when the lamp was lit scurried into the 
 box again. It was certainly nearer her feet a moment ago. 
 
 As she thought of this she looked in the corner near 
 the door, to see a second box, covered over with a print 
 cloth. But there was nothing alive in that box, or at 
 least if there was it neither moved nor cried. Something 
 wailed on her left, a cry similar to that which she had 
 already heard. Maureen turned round. At her back near 
 the wall was a third box the same as the others, and out 
 of this, from a huddle of rags, a white face was peering, 
 the puny face of a child.
 
 MES. HiDB0T 173 
 
 "Well, Doneg- ered, place V ' ^an, sitting down on a 
 chair by the fir face in,/ o at Maureen. "Do you like 
 the place?" .?*?!< 
 
 "I like it,' oc^a Maureen, but there was uncertainty 
 in her tones. 
 
 "I was just thinkin ' that you did by the way you keep 
 lookin' at everything in the house. You don't see any- 
 thing wrong with it, Donegal, do you now?" 
 
 "No," said Maureen. 
 
 "No, ma'am, when you speak to me, Donegal," said the 
 woman sharply. "I'm your mistress now. Amn't I?" 
 
 "You are, ma'am!" 
 
 "I know the Donegals," said the woman with a wry 
 curl of her upper lip. "They're all double-faced, but 
 when they've to deal with me they find that it doesn't 
 pay to get up till any tricks. Can you wash?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said Maureen. 
 
 "Well, a short job till it's time till go till bed," said 
 Mrs. Thornton, eyeing Maureen with a critical eye. 
 "There's two blankets on the back of that chair. There's 
 a bucket of water down there at the back of you. Steep 
 the blankets in it, wring them and put them over the back 
 of the chair again. Then I'll show you where you're to 
 sleep the night." 
 
 Maureen rinsed the blankets, wrung them and placed 
 them on the chair as directed. All the time she worked 
 the children kept crying from their various boxes. There 
 were four children in the room, three in boxes, one in a 
 cradle under the window. These four cried in turn at 
 times, one beginning when the other left off, again in con- 
 cord, all the little voices vying with one another as if in 
 contest. Maureen could see only one face. This face, old 
 as time, gazed at her with large, curious eyes as if it 
 wanted to question the girl about something. There was 
 something pitiable in the creature, in the contour of the 
 face, which sank inwards, the drooping mouth and the ex- 
 pression of the eyes. In fact the child seemed to desire 
 something, and that something, in Maureen's estimate, 
 was food.
 
 174 .MAUREEN 
 
 That four children of the" l; e window, should be in one 
 house, where the only other occu^SJng the~t from Maureen, 
 was Mrs. Thornton, did not strike t&e~ Donegal girl as 
 being in any way peculiar. But this outlook of the girl 
 had education and circumstance to vindicate it. She had 
 never been away from home before, had never traveled on 
 a railway train, had a mind as yet undeveloped and with- 
 out sense of the value or fitness of things outside the par- 
 ish in which she was born. So many impressions novel 
 and strange had been hers for the last forty-eight hours 
 that now, her perceptions blunted with sorrow and mind 
 befogged with weariness, she was unable to analyze her own 
 sensations. 
 
 "It's time for you to get till bed," said Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton when Maureen had completed her work. "Some peo- 
 ple can go to bed when they want to, but not me. I have 
 to see after these children, light the fire to dry their 
 clothes and blankets. It's a hard life, Donegal!" 
 
 "And can I not help ye to do a bit iv yer work?" asked 
 Maureen. "I'm not sleepy, ma'am." 
 
 "You're to go till bed now," said the woman coldly. 
 "You're to do what you're told when you're here, Done- 
 gal. Come after me and I'll show you your room." 
 
 Maureen lived this scene over again as she sat on her 
 bed in the attic. She was weary but could not get to 
 sleep. In fact she did not want to sleep. It was so cold in 
 the room with the wind blowing up through the floor, slid- 
 ing in slyly under the door, chilling her legs, her arms and 
 her back. Dark things lurked in the corner of the room, 
 glowering out at the hapless girl. Her fancy conjured hor- 
 rible visions in the apartment. Alternate shades, lighter 
 where the moon rays streamed through the window, darker 
 where the gloom massed itself in the angles of the walls, 
 formed themselves into varied shapes, spectral and forbid- 
 ding. The wind sighing against the window was some- 
 thing, form without substance, a fell spirit trying to enter; 
 the low, puling cries of the children downstairs, which 
 could be heard now and again, sounded like the groans of 
 souls condemned to eternal torment.
 
 'MRS. TH'ORNTON 175 
 
 Maureen shuddered, placed her elbow on her little check 
 bundle and her face in the cup of her hand. Uncon- 
 sciously her eyes closed, her head slipped down the fore- 
 arm and came to rest in the crook of her elbow. Thus Mrs. 
 Thornton found her when she came to wake the Donegal 
 at six o 'clock the next morning. 
 
 IV 
 
 "Well, Donegal," said Mrs. Thornton, when she and 
 Maureen came down to the apartment termed a kitchen, 
 which looked for all the world like a lumber-room into 
 which a number of boxes (and one cradle) had been flung 
 and in which little children had been accidentally placed. 
 "Well, Donegal, do you always sleep with your clothes 
 on?" 
 
 "I was tired, ma'am," Maureen replied. "And I sat 
 down for a minit and didn't know anything more till ye 
 wakened me." 
 
 "Well, in one way there's somethin' to be said for it, 
 goin' to sleep like that," remarked Mrs. Thornton. "You 
 can get up more quick in the mornin' if you haven't to get 
 in till your clothes when I call you. It's good from that 
 point of view, but then, on the other hand, it's a sign of 
 lazy bones, and lazy bones is no good when a girl has to 
 put hand till a hard job." 
 
 "But I had next to no sleep the night afore last," said 
 Maureen. 
 
 "Ma'am," said Mrs. Thornton, drawing attention to 
 something which Maureen's speech had lacked. 
 
 "Ma'am," Maureen repeated. 
 
 "Well, it's a Donegal cub to find excuse for anything," 
 said Mrs. Thornton dryly. "If it's fallin' to sleep at work 
 it's because they couldn't sleep the night before, and if 
 they go out till the well for a pail of water and be late 
 comin' back it's always that they've sprained an ankle 
 or broke a leg or somethin'. Lies! God! they could beat 
 a devil with their lies. That is most of them, but not all, ' ' 
 said Mrs. Thornton with a certain graciousness. "There
 
 
 176 MA u KEEN 
 
 was one, the girl that was here before you, and she was, 
 was " The mistress was on the point of saying "good," 
 but the word being too definite and final she modified the 
 unspoken utterance "She wasn't a bad girl in her way. 
 Not too forward, Donegal, not too forward. Her name 
 was Mary Sharkey." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said Maureen, seeing that Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton waited for a reply. 
 
 "She always got up when I called her, never poked her 
 nose into what didn't consarn her, did what she was bid 
 and done it quickly," said Mrs. Thornton. "And what 
 she would ate wasn 't a great lot ; I mean not a very great 
 lot, not like some Donegals that never can get their guts 
 filled. Now are ye hard to fill, Donegal ? ' ' 
 
 "Not very, ma'am," said Maureen timidly. 
 
 "It's breakfast time now, and what would you like?" 
 asked Mrs. Thornton, holding one hand against the other 
 and turning her eyes ceilingwards as if preparing for the 
 worst. 
 
 " Whatever 's goin', ma'am," said Maureen. 
 
 "That means nothin'," said Mrs. Thornton. "I'll make 
 the breakfast ready and you put your hand to it." 
 
 Maureen looked round the room, which showed stark and 
 cold in the morning, with no relieving tint on wall or 
 floor. The ash-dead fireplace represented something for- 
 gotten and lost. In front of it stood the chair on which 
 Maureen had hung the blankets on the previous night. 
 These blankets were gone now. One of them, as far as 
 could be seen, now covered the box in the angle of the room 
 near the doorway, and the other was on the cradle under 
 the window. The fireplace showed no change from the pre- 
 vious night, as if turf had not been lit on it since then. 
 If that was so the children were covered with wet blankets. 
 
 One child was sitting up in a box sucking its thumb 
 a sign of hunger. Two others were whimpering beneath 
 their coverings, the one in the cradle was hidden and silent. 
 Mrs. Thornton watched Maureen as the girl with her eyes 
 took stock of the room. 
 
 "Mary Sharkey," said the woman at last, "always saw
 
 MRS. THOENTON 177 
 
 what was to do the minit she got up. "With her one hand 
 wasn't as long as the other when there was something to 
 do. That was Mary Sharkey, not a bad girl in her way." 
 
 "What '11 I do, ma'am?" asked Maureen. 
 
 "What '11 you do?" said Mrs. Thornton with a groan of 
 despair. "You ask what you'll do with everything to 
 do!" 
 
 "Will I wash the children?" asked Maureen. 
 
 "You're to do what I tell you," said Mrs. Thornton 
 icily. "First you're to sweep the floor, then you're to 
 go out and milch the cows in the byre. Then make the 
 byre and after that wash the spuds in the brook. Then 
 I'll tell you what else to do, Donegal." 
 
 Maureen swept the floor, milked the cows (there were 
 two of them) and made the byre. When this was done 
 she went to Mrs. Thornton, who was boiling a kettle over 
 a smoky fire. 
 
 "Well, that wasn't so long," said the woman, referring 
 to the work which Maureen had completed. "Mary Shar- 
 key could do it quicker, much quicker, but maybe when 
 you get used till it " 
 
 "Where are the spuds, ma'am?" asked Maureen. 
 
 "The spuds!" asked Mrs. Thornton in an awestruck 
 voice. "The spuds! What spuds?" 
 
 "The ones that I'm to wash, ma'am." 
 
 "The ones that you're to wash!" repeated Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton, the tone of awe giving place to one of agony. "You 
 mean to say that they're not washed yet?" 
 
 "No, ma'am." 
 
 ' ' Oh, Donegal ! ' ' said the woman, awe and agony giving 
 place to resignation in her voice. "Oh, Donegal! Done- 
 gal!" 
 
 After a long silence she deigned to tell Maureen where 
 the spuds could be found, and after these were washed she 
 gave the girl several duties to perform, the washing of 
 hippins, the scrubbing of tables and chairs, straining of 
 milk, and the many other jobs which a house, apparently 
 unattended for many days, needed. 
 
 "Now we'll have our breakfast," said Mrs. Thornton,
 
 178 MAUREEN 
 
 "Donegals are quicker to table than anywhere else in the 
 world." 
 
 It was now nine o'clock. Maureen was very hungry, 
 but feeling pity for the children in their various receptacles 
 and deeming it policy to suggest that they should be fed 
 first, she turned to Mrs. Thornton. 
 
 "I can wait till the children have their breakfasts, 
 ma'am," she said. "The wee dears will be hungry." 
 
 "Well, that!" the woman exclaimed, raising her hands 
 shoulder high and dropping them helplessly on the table 
 at which she sat. "Well, that! And a Donegal, too. 
 Mary Sharkey, and her with me for close on two years, 
 had never the face to say what was the right thing for her 
 to do. Sit down! Have your breakfast and hold your 
 tongue!" 
 
 Maureen sat down and ate her breakfast in silence. The 
 repast was a very poor one, cold stirabout and sour butter- 
 milk. Maureen's rusty spoon had a reasty taste that set 
 the teeth on edge. Her bowl seemed never to have known 
 the offices of a dishclout; its exterior was streaked yellow 
 as if some dye had fallen there, and the upper rim was 
 spotted with specks of dried clay, which seemed to have 
 been grafted into the delf. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton ate very quickly, swallowing her stir- 
 about with guttle and guzzle, making a noise that reminded 
 Maureen of swine in a trough. When she had finished she 
 hit the table with her spoon as if to signify that time was 
 up. 
 
 "Well, Donegal, I have a good appetite," she exclaimed, 
 "but" 
 
 Maureen winced at the insinuation, but continued her 
 meal. 
 
 "Mary Sharkey always finished just when I finished," 
 said Mrs. Thornton. "And she was a splendid girl with 
 her hands when she had a day 's work f ornenst her. ' ' 
 
 Maureen finished her meal, but felt almost as hungry 
 now as when she started. She would have liked to ask for 
 more, but several things prevented her from doing this. 
 The vessel that contained the food filled her with physical
 
 MRS. THORNTON 179 
 
 repulsion; the steely eyes of her mistress cowed her; and 
 the vaunted excellencies of Mary Sharkey threw her own 
 incompetence and lack of servantly qualities into the glar- 
 ing conspicuity of mud blobs on a lime-washed wall. 
 
 "Now, Donegal," said the ogre, "get the cows out and 
 I'll show you where you're to drive them to. And when 
 you're there I'll tell you what your job is." 
 
 The cows were taken out and driven into a field crossed 
 by the two women on the previous night. This field was 
 strongly fenced. A stick thrown across the gap at one 
 end would be sufficient to keep the cattle in the pasture all 
 day. Despite this, however, Maureen was assigned her 
 position in the field on top of a mound in the center. 
 
 "You're to stay here all the day," said the woman, 
 "right on top iv the height, and keep your eyes on the 
 cows and not let them stray all over the country. And also 
 keep your eye on the road," she continued, pointing her 
 finger into the distance at the highway that roamed across 
 the fields. "Keep your eye on it, and if you see any one 
 comin' down to me, in the house with you as hard as you 
 can skin and let me know. By any one I mean them that 
 comes with a collar and tie and maybe on a car. People 
 with a collar and tie can't be trusted; they're mean and 
 mingy, and maybe it's puttin' their hands on things that 
 they have no right to. Now what was it that I've told 
 you ? ' ' 
 
 Maureen repeated the instructions given by the woman. 
 
 "That's just what I said, Donegal," said Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton almost grudgingly as if she were incensed at Maureen 's 
 ability in remembering details. "That's what I've said, 
 and if you've an eye like Mary Sharkey you'll run to 
 me in that great hurry that if you fall you'll not take time 
 to rise. And another thing, Donegal," she added, "see 
 that house away there at the butt of the brae?" 
 
 She pointed her finger at a slated house in the far dis- 
 tance. 
 
 "You see it?" she asked. 
 
 "I see it, ma'am," said Maureen. 
 
 ""Well, take heed of what I say," said the woman. "Some
 
 180 MAUREEN 
 
 day you may see a white sheet put out on the holly bush 
 that's on this near side iv that house. The minit you see 
 a white sheet put out there, Donegal, skin down to me 
 as if the divil from hell was after you and let me know. 
 Now what have you to do, Donegal, if ever you see a white 
 sheet on the holly bush?" 
 
 "Run and tell you, ma'am," Maureen replied. 
 
 "Now you know everything," said Mrs. Thornton. 
 "You're here to do what I tell you, to watch the cows, 
 the road and the holly bush. And if you don't do it, I'll 
 peel the skin off iv the back iv you." 
 
 Then leaving the girl to herself and her cows she went 
 back to the house. 
 
 At one o'clock she returned with some cold potatoes and 
 an aged herring which to judge by its taste must have 
 lain in the pickling-bin since last Candlemas. These she 
 gave to Maureen with the curt announcement that it was 
 dinner-time. 
 
 "And don't fall to sleep while ye 're atin'," said Mrs. 
 Thornton. "All the Donegal cubs, bar Mary Sharkey 
 maybe, had a habit of falling till sleep without rhyme 
 or reason. ' ' 
 
 There was no tea given the girl, and at seven o'clock, 
 weary to death and hungry, she drove the cows in, tied 
 them to their stakes and milked them. After that a num- 
 ber of little jobs were done, washing of potatoes, tidying 
 the nursery, carrying in peat from the stack outside the 
 door and piling them in a snug heap against the wall of 
 the kitchen. 
 
 "Now you'll be wantin' somethin' in your guts, I war- 
 rant," said Mrs. Thornton when Maureen had finished. 
 "You've the will of the table that I sit at myself, so down 
 and make a meal iv it." 
 
 Maureen sat down to her spoon and bowl, the same as 
 she had in the morning. It was stirabout again and but- 
 termilk. Maureen ate quickly, but not as quickly as Mrs. 
 Thornton. When the mistress finished guzzling she looked 
 at the girl.
 
 MRS. THORNTON 181 
 
 "You can put it down," she said with a sarcastic leer 
 curling her dry lips. "Ye can put it down, Donegal. . . . 
 But finish the bowl and off to bed with you." 
 
 Weeks crawled by, and with the passage of time Mau- 
 reen gained some idea of her mistress, though she was 
 slow in forming a definite conception of the woman. She 
 only saw Mrs. Thornton in the morning and evening, when 
 tidying the nursery, making the byre, milking the cows, 
 and eating her meals. All the time that was not spent in 
 the field herding the cows, she was under the supervision 
 of the woman. Even out in the pasture land she would 
 at times become conscious of being observed, and looking 
 back from her post to the house she would now and again 
 see the mistress watching her through a window or door. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton never allowed the girl to come near the 
 children. 
 
 "Donegals know nothin' about wains," she used to say 
 when Maureen approached one of the cots in the kitchen. 
 ' ' If you 're not told to go near them, don 't go near them. ' ' 
 
 The woman's order was a threat, and Maureen kept 
 away from the children, though her heart was filled with 
 pity for the little mites. They seemed to belong to no- 
 body, and they never laughed. They opened their eyes 
 in the morning, looked out from their dirty cots with 
 that serious, wondering look of little children to which is 
 added a peculiar restless air that is not the property of 
 the well-treated young. What their ages might be Maureen 
 could not estimate. It was a harrowing sight to see them 
 start crying when their morning inspection of the kitchen 
 came to an end. All through the day they howled alter- 
 nately or in unison, querulous atoms that seemed to cry 
 against the injustice of a plight to which they were con- 
 demned. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton was a tall, angular woman, cut from a 
 heavy pattern and utterly devoid of all the mental graces
 
 182 MAUREEN 
 
 which tone down austerity of features and inconcinnity 
 of bodily form. Laughter, kindliness and love were utterly 
 foreign to her. She was a hard woman, cruel and greedy, 
 the springs of pity, if they ever existed, dry in her soul. 
 Her age might have been thirty, probably a little more. 
 
 Though Mrs. Thornton kept Maureen in ignorance re- 
 garding the children, there was the loose tongue of the 
 assemblage which undid in a moment the barrier which 
 took months to build. The tongue in this case belonged 
 to Susan Lacy, a servant on a neighboring farm. This 
 servant accompanied Maureen as the girl was on her way 
 back from the Catholic chapel of Newtonsmith one Sunday 
 morning towards the latter end of August. 
 
 "Ye 're out early on it the mornin'," said Susan at the 
 chapel gate, by way of greeting. 
 
 "I go to Mass this early every Sunday mornin V' Mau- 
 reen replied. "It's only to mornin' Mass that I'm let." 
 
 "So it's with Her that ye 're?" asked the girl whom 
 Maureen had never before met. 
 
 "Mrs. Thornton! It is, sure." 
 
 "And how many wains has she on her now?" 
 
 "Four," Maureen replied. 
 
 "And when are they goin' to die?" asked Susan casually. 
 
 ' ' Die ! ' ' Maureen echoed. * ' I don 't know what ye mean ! ' * 
 
 "Iv course an' ye don't at all," said the other girl with 
 a knowing nod. "Catch Her gettin' ones to work in her 
 place that's not green on it. She murders all the wains 
 that she gets." 
 
 "How?" asked Maureen with a shudder. "What does 
 she do to them?" 
 
 "I'm sure that I don't know," said the girl. "It's 
 wains out iv the workhouse that she gets, them kind iv 
 wains ye know that nobody wants." 
 
 "Aye," Maureen nodded, recalling her own life in 
 Dungarrow. 
 
 "They're called by a quality word, them wains, ligiti- 
 mate," said the girl. "But it doesn't matter what name 
 they get, they're always the same. And when they go 
 to Her they're as good as done for."
 
 MRS. THORNTON 183 
 
 "But can't the polls take them away from her if she's 
 like that?" Maureen inquired. 
 
 "They can't nab the weasel and it sleeping," was the 
 reply. "The polis can't get up soon enough for her over 
 there. No one sees Her to do anything, and the wains 
 die with decline or somethin', and the girls that had them 
 pay Mrs. Thornton." 
 
 "But if she's like that can't nobody tell on her?" asked 
 Maureen. 
 
 ' ' If they tell what can they prove ? ' ' said Susan. * ' Noth- 
 in' at all, and nothin's no good with no evidence." 
 
 Maureen went home from Mass that day her head filled 
 with thoughts perplexing and strange. She walked along 
 the road, her boots well worn at toe and heel, scraping 
 the gravel, her head sunk on her breast. These children 
 had something in common with herself, she thought, "One 
 of them kind iv wains that nobody wants. ' ' 
 
 "Like meself," she said, almost grimly. Then she 
 thought of the mother that watched over her in the home 
 in Dungarrow. "I wasn't left all on my own when I was 
 wee," she said, and as she thought of this a wave of pity 
 towards the poor, ill-treated children in the house of Mrs. 
 Thornton filled her soul. 
 
 ."But maybe it's only talk," she said, recalling the 
 story told her a short time ago. "People do be sayin' 
 things. But I'll find out for meself the night," she 
 added. 
 
 That night she found out for herself. Unable to sleep 
 in her attic, she sat on her bed, turning over in her mind 
 what she had heard that morning. At one o'clock, draw- 
 ing her shawl round her shoulders, she stole down the 
 stairs in stocking soles and entered the kitchen. 
 
 Here all was dark. Out of the gloom came the sound 
 of a child crying, and rising louder was the heavy snore 
 of Mrs. Thornton, asleep on the bed in the corner of the 
 room. On the left as she entered was one of the boxes 
 under the window. Holding her breath, Maureen stole up 
 quietly and touched the blanket which covered the baby. 
 The wrap, as she had suspected, was wet as if it had been
 
 184 MAUREEN 
 
 recently soaked in water. It was one of the blankets which 
 the girl had washed before coming to bed. 
 
 Two hours later the Inspector of the N. S. P. C. C., 
 resident at Newtonsmith, was roused from his sleep by a 
 local policeman who was accompanied by a girl that de- 
 sired to make a certain statement to the Inspector. The 
 matter of which she wanted to speak related to children 
 who were treated harshly in the neighborhood. The girl 
 made a statement but would not give the Inspector her 
 name, not even when he assured her that the Society 
 would never disclose her identity. 
 
 That morning Maureen O'Malley was afoot and at work 
 when Mrs. Thornton awoke. 
 
 VI 
 
 At ten o'clock of that day, when Maureen was sitting 
 on her hillock in the center of the pasture field, her eyes 
 fixed on the slated house in the distance, the property of 
 Bob Baxter, she saw a white sheet wave out and cover the 
 holly bush that stood by the near gable end. The girl 
 got to her feet, stood for a moment, as if undecided as to 
 what she should do, then ran to her mistress to inform her 
 of this occurrence. 
 
 ' ' They are comin ' ! " shrieked Mrs. Thornton, rising from 
 the table at which she sat, when she saw the girl cross 
 the threshold. 
 
 "The sheet on the holly bush," Maureen gasped, sud- 
 denly feeling that she had done wrong in coming in. The 
 white sheet was probably a signal of danger hung out 
 by Mr. Baxter. No doubt the police were now on their 
 way towards the house. 
 
 "Well, get to work, get your hands to it, to the job at 
 once!" shouted Mrs. Thornton, rushing to the cradle and 
 with one sweep lifting the blanket which covered the child 
 therein and throwing the blanket at Maureen. "And this! 
 And this! And this!" she roared, uncovering the boxes 
 and throwing the wraps on the floor. ' ' Take them all with 
 you as fast as you can and put them in the byre. In a
 
 MRS. THORNTON 185 
 
 place that's dry, and don't trail them in the dung. Run 
 like hell, run! And come back!" 
 
 The greed-bitten woman slavered and spluttered as she 
 gave directions, but never ceased in her work for a mo- 
 ment. Maureen lifted the blankets and found that they 
 were all wringing wet, just as if they had come from a 
 washing-tub. Taking them out she placed them in the 
 byre and on coming back found that Mrs. Thornton had 
 taken some children's clothes and dry blankets from some 
 hidden recess of the house. These lay on a chair under the 
 window. 
 
 The woman was now tending a child with affectionate 
 solicitude, rubbing its belly with a dry towel, washing 
 its face and head and wrapping it in warm swathing-bands. 
 On the floor lay a heap of old and evil-smelling garments, 
 the every-day appointments of the baby. 
 
 "Out with these, Donegal," shouted the mistress, point- 
 ing her finger at the huddle of dirty clothes. "Put them 
 intil the tub outside the door and mind that they're to be 
 washed if there's ones puttin' any questions till you." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said Maureen, and did as she was di- 
 rected. 
 
 Twenty minutes later a man, tall, with a slight stoop, 
 dressed in knickers and a Norfolk jacket, came to the door 
 and entered. By this time the children were all nicely 
 arranged in their cots, two regaling themselves from milk- 
 bottles, one sucking a dummy teat, and a fourth whimper- 
 ing. As the stranger came in, the woman fixed a surprised 
 look on him as if she had not expected a visitor. He 
 looked round the room, taking stock of all the inmates. 
 
 "I didn't expect you the day," said Mrs. Thornton, 
 with a certain jaunty air purporting that though she did 
 not expect the visitor she was in no way put out by his 
 coming. 
 
 "True, true, Mrs. Thornton," said the man politely 
 but firmly, as if excusing himself for the unheralded visit 
 but giving the impression that he was only doing his duty 
 coming in this manner. "Now," he asked, in a polite 
 tone, "how are they all under your care?"
 
 186 MAUREEN 
 
 "Just as you see," said the woman with a wave of her 
 hand. This wave embraced all the room, the cobwebs on 
 the roof, the children and even Maureen. On this last 
 perquisite of the establishment the man fixed a look of 
 vague recognition as if he had met her on some previous 
 occasion. 
 
 "Donegal?" he inquired casually, and Mrs. Thornton 
 nodded. 
 
 "A smarter lookin' girl than the one that was here," 
 said the man, speaking as if the object under considera- 
 tion were not within ear-shot. 
 
 "Aye," said Mrs. Thornton, drawling out her mono- 
 syllable as if it were subject to great modification. 
 
 "Well, how about these?" said the man, crossing the 
 room to the child that was whimpering a moment pre- 
 viously. Now it was sitting up sucking its finger. "This 
 one looks ill. Is it?" 
 
 The woman shook her head. 
 
 "It's too thin on it. Do you give it enough food?" 
 
 "It doesn't take kindly to its meals," said the woman. 
 "It's wastin'." 
 
 "Have you seen the doctor about it?" inquired the 
 man. 
 
 "He was here three months back," said Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton with an upward turn of her chin like an animal at 
 bay. "And I had to pay him for it, too." 
 
 "But there's the dispensary doctor that you can call 
 in free," said the visitor. "Why haven't you got him to 
 see the children?" 
 
 "I haven't time to leave them to go and look for the 
 doctor," said the woman. "If I did the dear knows what 
 would take place. ' ' 
 
 "Well, send the girl to the doctor if you can't go your- 
 self," said the man, pointing at Maureen. "And this 
 child?" he inquired, looking at the one that was sucking 
 its thumb. "You got it from the workhouse six months 
 ago?" 
 
 "Yes," said the woman. "Indeed and it was a poor 
 ranny of a wain when it came here. The mother, her
 
 MRS. THORNTON 187 
 
 that had it, said it was makin' no sign of doin' good." 
 
 "Mary Lyon?" asked the visitor. 
 
 Mrs. Thornton nodded. 
 
 " Where is the girl now?" 
 
 "Hired in Dawlish," said Mrs. Thornton. "But the 
 keepin' iv that wain is a hard job. And I get paid for my 
 trouble only thirty-two and six a month." 
 
 "And for these others?" asked the man in the Nor- 
 folk jacket, taking a book and pencil from his pocket and 
 making an entry. "You get paid for them, too?" 
 
 "For two of them," said the woman. "The other's my 
 own wain. ' ' 
 
 "What's the age of the child Lyon?" asked the man. 
 
 "Past two." 
 
 "Can it walk?" 
 
 "Not yet. It's doncy on it." 
 
 "Can it stand?" 
 
 "It can't," said the woman. "And if it can't, I can't 
 make it." 
 
 "I suppose you can't," said the visitor, again looking 
 at Maureen. 
 
 "Do you like your place?" he asked her. 
 
 "Middling," said Maureen; "if it wasn't that I was 
 half starved." 
 
 "What!" yelled Mrs. Thornton. "Half starved and 
 you sit at the same table as myself!" 
 
 "I thought I did, till I came in the day to find you sit- 
 tin' down to this," said Maureen, pointing to the table 
 at which Mrs. Thornton was sitting when she entered half 
 an hour previously. Here a good breakfast was spread 
 out, a large bowl of tea, several thick slices of bread and 
 butter and a plate which contained two eggs and a rasher 
 of bacon. 
 
 "There, listen to her," said Mrs. Thornton, appealing 
 to the visitor. "A full breakfast in the morn, and dinner 
 and supper that would do the heart good to see and, and, 
 and " she faltered and stopped as if her rage had over- 
 mastered her. 
 
 "Out!" she shrieked when composure was regained.
 
 188 MAUREEN 
 
 "Out, Donegal, and set about washin' the clothes for the 
 wains! And mind you don't let me see your nose inside 
 the door till I send for you." 
 
 Thus admonished, Maureen with a shrug of indifference 
 made her way outside and began her washing. Half an 
 hour later she was still there, when the visitor in the Nor- 
 folk jacket left and made his way across the fields to the 
 highroad. 
 
 "Now," said Maureen to herself when silence fell on 
 the house, "now it'll be for me that she'll be goin' when 
 she comes out. Well, there, let her if she does. I don't 
 care!" 
 
 As she spoke these words she gave a stubborn shake of 
 head and rinsed the clothes so viciously that an on- 
 looker would have thought the girl bore the habiliments 
 of the children some enmity. 
 
 An hour passed and still Mrs. Thornton did not come 
 outside the door. It was then that the girl heard the 
 sound of footsteps, and presently a man, stout and pant- 
 ing, as if he had been running, came round the corner of the 
 house. It was Mrs. Thornton's friend, Bob Baxter, the 
 man who drove the car home from the hiring-fair of Stra- 
 bane. Maureen knew him well, having often seen him 
 since when he visited the house of her mistress. 
 
 "Maureen, dear, are you busy at your work?" he asked 
 in soft, sugary tones. 
 
 "Yes, sir," Maureen replied, having been ordered by 
 Mrs. Thornton to address Baxter as "sir" whenever she 
 spoke to him. 
 
 "And your mistress?" the man asked. 
 
 "She's inside," said Maureen. 
 
 The man went indoors and for half an hour Maureen 
 could hear the sound of low voices from the house. At 
 the end of that time Mrs. Thornton stuck her head through 
 the door. 
 
 "Come in, Donegal," she called. "I want to speak to 
 you." 
 
 Maureen went in. Mr. Baxter was sitting on a chair
 
 MRS. THORNTON 189 
 
 near the window, one leg across the other and a pipe in 
 his mouth. Mrs. Thornton stood near the table, arms 
 folded and her eyes fixed on Maureen. 
 
 "Donegal," said she in a low, angry voice, which caused 
 Maureen to start, not because it was angry, for Mrs. 
 Thornton seemed always in a temper, but because it was 
 low. The mistress generally shrieked her reprimands. 
 "Donegal," she said, "what's that that you said about 
 your meals here in my house?" 
 
 "The truth," said Maureen defiantly. 
 
 "But you sit at the same table as myself," said the 
 woman. "And that was what I said when we made the 
 bargain at Strabane the day of the fair. I said you'd have 
 your meals at the same table as myself. Didn't I now, 
 Bob?" she appealed to her friend. 
 
 "That was the bargain," said the man, looking at Mau- 
 reen. 
 
 "And you have breakfast with me at the table every 
 morning," Mrs. Thornton reminded Maureen. "Every 
 mornin' since you came here. And you're free to go to 
 duties every Sunday." 
 
 "I've to get up an hour earlier every Sunday morn 
 to do the work afore I leave the house," said Maureen, a 
 flood of color settling on her face. "And then I've to 
 work an hour later in the night when I come back." 
 
 "But it wasn't in the bargain that you hadn't to do 
 these things," the mistress persisted. "You'll bear me 
 out in what I say, Bob." 
 
 "I'll bear you out in that, Mrs. Thornton," said Bob. 
 
 "It doesn't matter what either iv the two iv ye say," 
 said Maureen in an angry voice which was as much a sur- 
 prise to herself as to the listeners. "It's not the life iv a 
 dog here. Even cows in the field get a change in what 
 they ate, but here it's always the same. To think that 
 anybody would be made to eat next to nothin' and then 
 get what they eat in a bowl that's too dirty to be set afore 
 a pig!" 
 
 Mrs. Thornton positively reeled; she turned pale, then
 
 190 MAUREEN 
 
 red. She fixed a malign glance on Maureen, then sud- 
 denly, as if seeing a way of getting the better of the girl, 
 her lips formed in a diabolical smile. 
 
 "I'm afeeard that she's no good for here," she said, 
 speaking to Bob. "We'd do worse than chase her 
 away. ' ' 
 
 "Not till ye pay me up to the day, anyway," said Mau- 
 reen doggedly. Now, having overstepped a certain limit 
 and spoken angrily to Mrs. Thornton, she felt as in a de- 
 lirium that there was nothing more in the house sacred to 
 her. In her heart was a sudden itching to defy all re- 
 strictions and enjoy liberty of speech, unbridled and un- 
 bounded. 
 
 "Aye, ye take a girl here as yer servant and treat her 
 as a slave," she said, speaking very quietly, and letting 
 word by word drop slowly from her lips, as if they were 
 things of value to be doled out sparingly. "You take a 
 girl here and it's up early and down late with never a 
 minute to herself and next to nothing to eat. And such 
 a house as one has to go into with a bed that's no better 
 than a beggar's shakedown and a roof lettin' in the rain 
 on yer face whenever it's a shower. That's the kind iv a 
 house that a girl gets here." 
 
 Suddenly she broke down and burst into a fit of sob- 
 bing. The tears streamed from her eyes and ran down her 
 cheeks. Mrs. Thornton looked at the girl with self-satis- 
 fied smirk. It was right and proper that Maureen, the 
 Donegal, should be made to weep. 
 
 ' ' She 's too proud on it, ' ' she said to Mr. Baxter. ' ' That 's 
 what's wrong with the girl. Far above her station!" 
 
 "You're too hard on her, I think," said Bob in a voice 
 peculiarly kind. "Let her go out to her cows now and 
 she'll be all right come dinner-time." 
 
 "Donegal," said Mrs. Thornton, "go out to the cows, 
 and I'll have more to say to you when I've time to spare 
 the night." 
 
 But that night Mrs. Thornton, having troubles of her 
 own, had no time at her disposal to heap opprobrium on 
 the head of the Donegal. During the afternoon a doctor
 
 MRS. THORNTON 191 
 
 called in to see the children, and the child Lyon, the 
 illegitimate offspring of the servant girl, Mary Lyon, was 
 taken back to the mansion which saw its birth, the parish 
 workhouse. 
 
 vn 
 
 When the magistrates at Newtonsmith Petty Sessions 
 came to the decision that the woman Thornton was guilty 
 of wilful neglect in the case of the child Lyon, which died 
 in the workhouse, they sentenced her to nine months' im- 
 prisonment. In this way was justice administered, and 
 the bald pates and lichen-gray beards nodded together on 
 the bench, satisfied that they had done the right thing in 
 the eyes of God and man in sentencing the woman for her 
 gross violation of all laws human and divine. In the fur- 
 thering of civilization towards an ultimate goal of well- 
 being and brotherly love, Maureen O'Malley had also done 
 her duty. As witness for the prosecution she had told of 
 the little children starving in the house of her mistress, 
 told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth 
 as she had sworn to do. The Gods of justice were appeased, 
 the criminal was sentenced and the well-fed magistrates 
 ambled home to their dinners. They left the court-house 
 just as Maureen O'Malley, homeless and forgotten, went 
 out alone into the bare street of Newtonsmith. 
 
 What to do now she had not the least idea. The house 
 in which she had stayed for the last four months was de- 
 serted, the children were gone, the mistress gone. It was 
 no good going back there. And Maureen had not a penny. 
 
 But still it was harvest-time. The weather was fine, the 
 workers were busy in the hay and cornfields. The crops 
 were being gathered in and stored for the coming winter. 
 Surely it would be easy to get a job. 
 
 "So you're free, Maureen!" 
 
 The man who spoke was Bob Baxter. He had just come 
 out from one of the shops that lined the street, a bundle 
 in his arms. This he flung with a mighty heave into the 
 well of his side-car that stood by the curb.
 
 192 MAUREEN 
 
 "Free from what, Mr. Baxter?" asked Maureen coldly. 
 She did not like the man. 
 
 "From the polis and the court," said Baxter with a 
 low laugh. "To think iv it! Maureen givin' away Mrs. 
 Thornton." 
 
 ' ' She 's not Mrs., ' ' said Maureen. ' ' She 's ' Miss. ' ' ' 
 
 "Ah! and they've found out all about her," said the 
 man with a start. "What else did they find out?" he 
 asked. "I hadn't time to go myself. I've such a lot to 
 do with the harvest." 
 
 "I don't know what they said," said Maureen wearily. 
 "It's past thinkin' iv the kind iv a woman that she was." 
 The girl spoke as if Mrs. Thornton had left the world for 
 good. 
 
 "But I thought that she was a married woman," said 
 Baxter, leaning against the side of the car and looking 
 at Maureen. 
 
 " 'Twas dacenter to let on that she was, I suppose," 
 said Maureen. "But anyway I don't want to talk any 
 more about her." 
 
 "Aye, aye," said the man thoughtfully. "She'll be in 
 the black hole for nine months. And what are you goin' 
 to do now, Maureen?" he asked suddenly as if the plight 
 of the Donegal just occurred to him. 
 
 "I don't know," said Maureen. "But as long as one 
 trusts in God things will turn out for the best in the long 
 run." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose, Maureen, that that's one way to look 
 at it," he replied. "But it never helps to sow the corn." 
 
 "That an' all," said Maureen proudly, "I'd rather 
 tramp the roads than be in a house like the house that I 
 was in." 
 
 "Aye, 'twas a hard house," the man agreed. "But 
 maybe she'd her own troubles, for one never knows. Any- 
 way, we'll not speak any more about her. About yourself, 
 Maureen," he added. "Now where are you for?" 
 
 "I don't know," faltered the girl. 
 
 "But it's not the thing to go out on the road and not
 
 MRS. THORNTON 193 
 
 knowin' where it will lead to," said Bob Baxter. "Every- 
 body has servants and to spare, and no one will give you 
 a job. The harvest is almost in, anyway. ' ' 
 
 "It's used to things worse even than trampin' the road 
 that I am," said Maureen, wrapping her shawl round her 
 shoulders as if on the point of going off. "One gets tired 
 iv a house that they don't like, and it's not half as hard 
 to bear the roads." 
 
 ' ' But the ones that bees on the road, ' ' said Baxter, shak- 
 ing his head. "You never know what you're runnin' up 
 against, beggars and tinkers maybe." 
 
 "Maybe there are ones that bees called dacent and them 
 worse and far worse than beggars and tinkers," said Mau- 
 reen. "Anyway it's off that I am." 
 
 ' ' But if ye 'd get a place would you take it ? " asked Bax- 
 ter. "A good place, and not in any way like the one that 
 you were in last? "Would you take it?" 
 
 "I would sure," was the girl's reply. "But where 's 
 the place?" 
 
 "It's a girl to help in the house, that's wanted," said 
 Baxter. "The work's light and the table's at her will, not 
 like a table that I've heard iv not so long ago." 
 
 As he said these last words a thick smile crawled across 
 his face and he fixed a knowing look on Maureen and 
 winked. 
 
 "Where's this place, then?" asked the girl. 
 
 "On my farm," said the man. "It'll be aisy for you 
 there, for I'm never hard on them that I get to work." 
 
 "And what's the wages?" asked Maureen, putting the 
 question idly in order to have a moment to consider the 
 offer. 
 
 "Well, the year's well on now," said Mr. Baxter slowly. 
 "This is the third day of September, and it leaves just a 
 month and a half till the hirin' iv Strabane. What d'ye 
 say to thirty bob?" 
 
 " I 'd rather chance my luck on the road, ' ' said Maureen, 
 shaking her head in proud defiance, as if throwing a chal- 
 lenge in the face of the future.
 
 194 MAUREEN 
 
 "Thirty-two and six," said the man. "Yell have the 
 cookin' to do and that means that ye '11 have charge of the 
 place, bag and baggage." 
 
 "And can I get to my duties?" 
 
 "Every Sunday," said Mr. Baxter. "Every Sunday, 
 and ye '11 not have to get up earlier on that account. I 
 always act fair and above board to them that's hired in 
 my house. Thirty-two and six money down on the twelfth 
 of November and the hiring-fair on then." 
 
 He drawled out the last words lovingly as if the winter 
 hiring-fair was a privilege for which the man himself 
 was responsible. 
 
 Maureen was silent, weighing over in her mind the offer 
 which Baxter had just made her. A fever of restlessness 
 and fear as she contemplated the future seized the girl; 
 her whole body quivered. The road leading from the town 
 out into the country beyond stretched away from her feet, 
 cold and forbidding. If she could not get a job starva- 
 tion lay in front of her. Dangers would certainly beset 
 her on the highway where without surety for the future all 
 ends were uncertain. Baxter might really be a good man. 
 She recollected how he had spoken on her behalf a few 
 weeks previously in the house of Mrs. Thornton. Should 
 she accept the man's offer? Anyway, beggars are not 
 choosers. She thought of the cold hedgerows by night, the 
 pitiless sky, the falling rain. 
 
 "And my house is far and away nearer Newtonsmith 
 church than the one you were in," said the man as if con- 
 tinuing a subject, although he had not spoken for five 
 minutes. "And it'll be easy to go there and easy to get 
 back." 
 
 "All right; I'll come with ye," said Maureen, bowing 
 her head as if to a destiny which she felt approaching. 
 
 vm 
 
 It was dry and cold out of doors, with a brisk wind 
 shaking the aging leaves from the trees and blowing them 
 across the farmyard. Here the trampled droppings of
 
 MRS. THORNTON 195 
 
 cows, chaff from winnowing fans and wisps of hay and 
 straw coalescing formed a thick mulch which covered the 
 cobblestones. 
 
 Maureen O 'Malley, after a hard day 's work, milking and 
 feeding cows, cleaning out the byre and stable and doing 
 the hundred and one other jobs which come to the farm- 
 hand every day, felt very weary as she went to her room 
 and sat down on the corner of her bed for a moment, wish- 
 ing, with the vague dream of the weary when it is bed 
 hour, that by some mysterious process she could get into 
 bed without the trouble of getting there. But this not 
 being possible, she sat down on the corner of the bed 
 and gave way to dreams. Even there was a certain joy 
 in prolonging anticipation of rest, knowing that she had 
 eight hours' sleep in front of her. 
 
 Bob Baxter went out in the morning on his car, bound 
 for the town of Newtonsmith, telling Maureen that if he 
 were late in returning that night she was on no ac- 
 count to sit up and wait for him. Master and servant 
 were the only occupants of this steading, and some six 
 weeks had now passed since sentence was passed on Mrs. 
 Thornton. 
 
 Now all alone in the house, Maureen decided to turn into 
 bed. Night passes quickly for the limb-wearied who fall 
 asleep night after night from the same job and awake to 
 the same job morning after morning. Farm labor is 
 monotonous, especially for those who have no interest in 
 the farm beyond the wages paid them at the heel of the 
 year. When the corn browns, the servant says : ' ' To-mor- 
 row or the day after I cut it, and that is not an easy 
 job!" or says, when the bogland dries and the straight 
 turf curls on the spread field: "I'll have to stack them 
 soon, and that is sore on the fingers." 
 
 But the farmer's outlook is somewhat different. The 
 spread of land, hedged, ditched, fenced and watered, em- 
 braces in it a past and a future. It belonged to his father 
 and will, when the time comes, belong to his sons. Every 
 bank and brae breathes a tradition of days gone and a 
 hope of days coming. To the servant it is different, mean-
 
 196 MAUREEN 
 
 ing tenure on sufferance for a season, sweat, weariness 
 and longings. It is a place, but not a home. 
 
 This Maureen felt and felt acutely, when a moment was 
 given her to rest, to straighten her back and to think. All 
 day long under the crawling sun she worked, longing for 
 the night and sleep ; at night she feared the speedy return 
 of the morning. She had no friend, no one to write her 
 a letter asking how she was getting on, no one to write to. 
 Her mind was gradually becoming torpid, her face set 
 with that hard cast which comes to. features that have 
 forgotten how to smile. 
 
 In the beginning when she came to the place she would 
 sing a song at the milking in the morning and at night 
 she would sit for a while in her room before going to bed 
 and by candle light write long letters on scraps of paper. 
 But these letters she tore up when finished, not knowing 
 any one to send them to. That was six weeks ago. Now 
 the girl neither sang nor wrote. When her day's work 
 came to an end, a torpor seemed to seize her limbs and 
 her brain, and she went to bed. Once or twice, or was it 
 three times, she awoke in the morning and found herself 
 lying on the bed still clothed as she had left her work on 
 the night before. Maureen had then sat down on the bed 
 and without undressing had fallen asleep. 
 
 "Well, I can't sleep like that the night," she said, her 
 elbow on the pillow, her brown head resting on her hand 
 and her eyes heavy with sleep. Eising to her feet, she 
 stretched her arms over her shoulders and yawned. 
 
 ' ' I 'd better light the candle, ' ' she mumbled and searched 
 on the floor near the door. Presently a match was struck 
 which flared up in a long, spluttering flame. This she 
 applied to a candle stuck in the neck of a bottle. The 
 candle glimmered feebly, unable to pierce the dark corners 
 of the room. In addition to being a sleeping-chamber, til* 
 apartment was a lumber-room for various odds and ends, 
 graips, forks, coils of ropes, twisters, spades and shovels. 
 Near the door was the bed, with ticking of straw in pal- 
 liasse and pillow, both wearing thin and allowing particles 
 of the stuffing to fall out on the floor. At the foot of the
 
 MRS. THORNTON 197 
 
 bed lay a blanket, white at one time, but now turning a 
 dark brown. 
 
 Maureen took the bottle from the door and placed it in 
 the center of the room and began undressing. She took 
 off her boots and stockings, sitting on the floor as she did 
 so. Her feet so white looked dainty and childish, despite 
 the mire in which they trolloped all the day. She took off 
 her blouse and gazed at her arms, nut-brown from finger- 
 tip to elbow and lustrous as white silk from elbow to shoul- 
 der. Unloosening her brown hair and allowing it to fall 
 in waves over her shoulder, she knelt by the bedside, 
 pressed her head against the mattress and said her prayers. 
 
 She said her prayers in Irish, every word spreading out 
 from the speaker and embracing some thought that had 
 little to do with the prayer, some memory of the time that 
 had passed when she was a little girl and her mother taught 
 her the Lord's Prayer and the Hail Mary away home in 
 the parish of Dungarrow. Maureen prayed to God with 
 Cathal in her mind ; to the Virgin, her mind teeming with 
 memories of her own mother. 
 
 She could see her as of old, sitting by the fire, her cloud 
 over her head and her bright needles gleaming in the lamp* 
 light as she knitted a stocking. All day long Maureen 
 had worked hard, giving little thought to the past; weary 
 labor that wrings the sweat from the brow dries the tears 
 in the eyes; the travail of the body dulls the emotion of 
 the soul. But now when a moment 's respite from the labor 
 of her hands allowed time for thought, her soul teemed 
 with anguish ; she pressed her little brown hands together 
 and wept. 
 
 "Mother, I'm not forgettin' ye!" she sobbed in a feeble 
 voice that floated like a whisper into the gloom. "Ye 're 
 with me always in me mind, mother. Always, always!" 
 
 Thought ebbed away from the girl, passing into every- 
 thing around her. The reflection of the candle on the wall 
 danced in a thousand little ripples of light. Her soul went 
 out and became part of the radiance ; the girl went with it ; 
 she swayed and danced in delirious fancy, nodded, courte- 
 sied, sank into a hollow of bliss and splendor, strove to
 
 198 MAUREEN 
 
 rise again, but being unable to do so, the girl sank into an 
 easy and blissful slumber. 
 
 She awoke with a start, feeling that something terrible 
 was about to happen. The candle was still flaring weakly, 
 and the dim glimmering played on the wall over the bed. 
 A cold wind blew from somewhere chilling her arms and 
 legs. She rose shivering, conscious that something foreign 
 was near, and turned round, to see Bob Baxter, who was 
 in the room behind her. 
 
 "What are you wantin' here?" she gasped, overcome 
 with fright and shame. With her shoulder naked, her 
 chemise open at the breast, she felt as if she would sink 
 through the floor. The blood mantled her face and pulsed 
 through her temples as if to burst the veins that confined it. 
 
 * ' If you want me to do anything, I '11 be ready in a minit, 
 but leave the room," she cried piteously, pulling the front 
 of her chemise together. 
 
 "Maureen, wee Maureen !" said the man in a thick voice, 
 his small eyes blinking and his loose lower lip hanging as 
 if suspended from a string. He stood in the center of 
 the apartment, which, being a very small one, placed him 
 within arm's reach of Maureen. The whole atmosphere 
 of the place was impregnated with the smell of souring 
 whisky. 
 
 "Maureen, Maureen!" he went on, in the same drunken 
 voice. ' ' Wee Maureen, the Donegal ! That 's what I want ! 
 Wee Maureen." 
 
 The girl lifted the blanket from the bed, and wrapped 
 it round her shoulder. Then she reached for her boots. 
 
 "It's yer supper that ye 're wantin'," she said. "I'll 
 make it for ye when I get my boots on. ' ' 
 
 "Supper," said Baxter, rolling his head and wrinkling 
 his brows. "Supper. I don't want supper. I want Mau- 
 reen, wee Maureen, the Donegal!" 
 
 "Well, I'm here," said Maureen, frightened, but feeling 
 that it was best to humor the man. "Is it supper that 
 ye 're wantin'?" 
 
 "I don't want supper," he repeated. "Curses on sup- 
 per! I want Maureen, wee Maureen, the Donegal. Not
 
 MRS. THORNTON 199 
 
 in bed and it's two o'clock in the mornin*. Time to get 
 up. Every night, every night, Maureen. D'you sleep 
 like that every night, Maureen!" 
 
 The girl fixed a horrified stare on the man, her eyes 
 wide open and thoughts of something horrid surging 
 through her mind. If she could only get past the man 
 and out she could run away. But that was impossible; 
 he stood between her and the door, a hideous smile, brutal 
 and cunning, the smile of a bird of prey thickening his 
 besotted features. 
 
 "What do you want in here, Mr. Baxter?" cried Mau- 
 reen in a strange, strangled voice, as if some one had 
 clutched her throat. "Go away at once. Go away. It's 
 not yer place to be in here at all." 
 
 She drew herself back to the bed, tightened the shawl 
 round her shoulder and faced the man, looking like some 
 beautiful animal at bay. Her hair, taking on a silken 
 sheen in every tress, swelling out here in a brilliant luster 
 and sinking down there in the dim satiny fold of a curl, 
 fell over her white neck and hung in wavy lines over her 
 cheeks and brow. 
 
 "Little Maureen! Maureen the Donegal!" articulated 
 the man, his voice choking as if he were swallowing some- 
 thing, his small, flesh-padded eyes glinting with a gleam 
 of brutal animal passion. "Not in bed, Maureen, not in 
 bed, Maureen, ye little Donegal." 
 
 He groped out for her as if he were blind, and one hand 
 fumbled at her shawl while the other pressed its fingers 
 through her hanging hair. Maureen sank on the bed, 
 ducked quickly as he tried to clutch her, and got to the 
 floor again. 
 
 "Ah, Maureen, you're cute," he said with a leer, straight- 
 ening himself sharply and getting between the girl and 
 the door. "Ah, Maureen. Thought I was drunk, did you! 
 Thought you'd play tricks with me, Donegal. I have you 
 here. Look here, Maureen, I don't mean any harm. I'm 
 all alone in the world and you're all on your own. Don't 
 be angry with me, Maureen. Just come here and sit down, 
 or better get into bed . . ."
 
 200 MAUREEN 
 
 The candle flame danced evilly as it swooned and recov- 
 ered its presence on the lip of the bottle. It was dying, 
 going out, and presently the room would be in darkness. 
 This thought surged up in the brain of the girl. She fixed 
 a terrified look on the man, at the mighty form glowering 
 large in the dim light, and its shadow, big and inconceiv- 
 ably monstrous, glooming the wall at his back. Just at the 
 same moment, in the maze of horror, Maureen saw some- 
 thing glitter like a star on the wall to her left. It was 
 the large shawing knife which she had used in the turnip 
 field that day. Bending on the weapon as a hawk swoops 
 on a lark she caught the haft in her hand and slipped it 
 from the cleek on which it hung. 
 
 "Mr. Baxter," said Maureen, her eyes narrowing to a 
 point and speaking through her set teeth, "if you don't 
 get out iv the room at once, I'll drive this right through 
 you." 
 
 Grinding his black uneven teeth as if chewing coal, he 
 stepped back a pace, touched the door with his back and 
 stood stock-still facing the girl, shades of uneasiness, dis- 
 comfiture and uncertainty darkening his face. 
 
 "Maureen, I didn't mean what you think," he stam- 
 mered. " Twas the drink that got to my head." 
 
 "Then leave me to meself now," said the girl, leaning 
 towards him, her little knuckles white as she gripped the 
 knife haft, her eyes round and flashing. "Go out iv the 
 room at once and leave me be." 
 
 "Aye, leave you!" said the man in a peculiar, deliberate 
 tone as he put his hand on the door-knob. "But you're 
 so nice and all alone, too. Put down the knife, Maureen, 
 and listen." 
 
 "There's nothin' that I want to hear from ye, Mr. Bax- 
 ter, after what ye've done," said Maureen, feeling as if 
 something in her head was being drawn taut and was on 
 the point of breaking. She held out a limp, beseeching 
 hand to her master. "Leave me be," she begged piteously. 
 "It's not right, Mr. Baxter. Leave me to meself!" 
 
 "But you'll not chase me out, Maureen," he asked in a 
 hoarse voice. "I'll leave you be now, if you promise that
 
 MRS. THORNTON 201 
 
 ye '11 not always put me away. Will you promise, Mau- 
 reen?" 
 
 "I promise," said the girl. "Some other time, but not 
 now. ' ' 
 
 "Good night then, Maureen," said the man, drawing 
 the door open. "Some other time, Maureen. Mind that; 
 it's a promise." 
 
 She did not reply. The candle gave a last faint flicker 
 and died. Maureen rushed to the door, still holding the 
 shawing knife, and drew the bolt. Then shivering and 
 sobbing she knelt down and said a prayer, her ears open 
 to the noise made by the staggering man in an adjacent 
 bedroom. 
 
 For a long time Maureen remained in this attitude like 
 a beaten animal afraid that the slightest movement may 
 bring back the punishment that is over for the moment. 
 When she got to her feet, she groped in the darkness for 
 her check kerchief, spread it out on the floor and tied her 
 few articles of clothing in it. 
 
 When the first gray light of the dawn streamed through 
 the window, she unbarred the door silently and went into 
 the kitchen, her bundle under her arm and her shawl 
 wrapped round her shoulders. Not a sound was to be 
 heard ; the place was in absolute stillness. The girl opened 
 the door, shut it quietly behind her and was in the stead- 
 ing yard. 
 
 Maureen 's second term of service was at an end. 
 
 Maureen, the proud, radiant, inaccessible Maureen, took 
 to the road again, tired and penniless, but nevertheless 
 filled with that sense of independence which comes to those 
 who have performed an act that is noble and honorable. 
 The pure girl had defended her honor, protected herself 
 against the advances of her master. The innate delicacy 
 common to her race, the sure flame of undying desire, its 
 gratification renounced because of a promise given and the 
 .religious faith that gleamed steadily in a heart stricken
 
 202 MAUREEN 
 
 with the misfortune of existence, armed Maureen against 
 the man, and added strength to her inherent resolves. On 
 the previous night she would have murdered the man, 
 sinned, if any extreme taken to protect that which was 
 her soul, her honor, the pinnacle on which she stood, could 
 be catalogued in the category of sin. Now as she recalled 
 the incidents of the night her own memory had nothing to 
 call forth in impeachment of her action. To Maureen vir- 
 tue had its own discretion, innate purity its own bulwark, 
 frankness its own method of thwarting its enemy's flight. 
 
 But even as she had shrunk on the previous night from 
 the embraces of the drunken man, she now shrank from 
 the remembrance of them. As she walked along her mother 
 seemed to be very near her, the stay of salvation and the 
 plank to which she could cling in the deadly shipwreck of 
 circumstance. 
 
 All the pride of her nature rose up within her as she 
 paced along the road, barefooted, her feet scratched and 
 sore, her little check bundle under her arm. But she did 
 not feel weary ; a power peculiar to the innocent and good 
 heartened her, toning her spirit to the highest pitch, brac- 
 ing the old, calm purposes, counseling endurance when the 
 load lay heavy, and resignation when troubles beat fiercely 
 against her. 
 
 She skirted a village, walking through a miry field, and 
 struck the road further along. The causeway was very 
 dry, littered with a fine white gravel which the cold hard 
 wind blew across the countryside and whisked against 
 Maureen's face. It was now ten o'clock in the morning. 
 
 She had no idea where she was bound for, but she wanted 
 to find a place where she would be taken on as a servant. 
 She was well aware that at this season of the year the 
 demand for servants was small. Coming as it did between 
 the fairs the farmers would have their staffs, and even 
 now those taken for the hay and harvest season were not 
 busily engaged. The back of the working season was 
 broken, the crops were for the most part saved, the hag- 
 gards stocked and the yield of the potato fields binned and 
 pitted.
 
 MRS. THORNTON 203 
 
 Through this country where no prospects fronted her, 
 Maureen pursued her way, on, on, somewhere, until she 
 could find a haven and refuge. It all rested with Him 
 and He would not forsake her in the hour of stress and 
 tribulation. 
 
 Now and again she stopped, put her hand in her bosom 
 and pressed the scapular which had been given her months 
 before. In some way this gave her hope for the future, a 
 confidence in herself and trust in the ultimate attain- 
 ment of all that her heart desired, safety, surety, and a 
 home. 
 
 At noon she breasted the summit of a hill. Here she 
 sat down and looked at the country which lay around her. 
 Behind were the woods, plantations and homes of a rich, 
 lush country which she had just passed through. A river, 
 heavy-bosomed and quiet, slept as it seemed in its bed, 
 too lazy to move, to sparkle or sing. To the prospect this 
 supine belt of water added a tone of stateliness and aloof- 
 ness. As Maureen looked at it, she shuddered as if an 
 icy hand had suddenly laid itself on her heart. 
 
 She turned to the road in front of her that led down into 
 a fertile valley where the corn was stacked in good, com- 
 fortable, warm heaps and gave a touch of something rest- 
 ful and serene to the country. Here, near at hand, was a 
 limewashed cottage, snugly thatched, with a curl of smoke 
 rising from its chimney. Farther along could be seen the 
 road twisting round a spinney, rising to a lift in the braes, 
 showing straight and white in places, again twisting in a 
 sinuous line, dipping and disappearing, only to rise into 
 view again farther along. Finally away in the far dis- 
 tance it lost itself altogether like a stream in the sand. 
 A row of dark hills whose contour lined a pale sky closed 
 the perspective. 
 
 "The hills," said Maureen, with a sigh. "They're like 
 Donegal, so snug and so warm." She was not in reality 
 thinking of the hills but of the glens which they hid, the 
 homes and the people whom she knew. 
 
 She got to her feet again and went towards the cottage 
 at the foot of the slope.
 
 204 MAUREEN 
 
 A woman was standing at the door shaking a checked 
 petticoat in the breeze. 
 
 "Well, and who are you at all?" she asked as Maureen 
 came abreast. A housekeeper finding a burglar in his 
 bedroom might address him in a similar manner. 
 
 "I'm a Donegal girl, dacent woman," said Maureen. 
 
 She hung the petticoat in the crook of her arm, rubbed 
 her chin with a ridgy and gnarry hand, dry as an ancient 
 turf, and stared at the girl. 
 
 "Well, I thought be the first look at ye that ye were 
 a poor woman or worse than that, a tinker," she said. 
 "And ye 're a Donegal?" 
 
 ' ' I am, ' ' said Maureen. 
 
 "Where from?" 
 
 "Dungarrow." 
 
 "Whereabouts there?" 
 
 "Meenaroodagh," said Maureen, hope filling her heart, 
 for the woman spoke as if she knew the place. 
 
 "Indeed then," said the woman. "I come from near 
 there meself, but I don't know ye. My name afore I got 
 married on a man was Norah Beeragh. And yer own name 
 is?" 
 
 "Maureen O'Malley," was the reply. Maureen had 
 often heard of Norah, the daughter of Coy Fergus Beeragh, 
 but had never seen her. Norah had gone away beyond 
 the mountains years ago, got married and had never re- 
 turned home since then. 
 
 "So you're Maureen O'Malley," said Norah, looking 
 the girl up and down with sharp, shifty eyes. "Just the 
 same in the turn iv the face and the way you hold your 
 shoulders," she went on, probably tracing a resemblance 
 between Maureen and her mother. "Just the very cut of 
 yer mother, that I knew so well and me wee," she said. 
 "And ye '11 be full iv money now?" she questioned. 
 
 "I'm lookin' for a job," said Maureen. "And I haven't 
 one penny piece." 
 
 "Tell me that!" said the woman with a dry, sharp 
 laugh. 
 
 "It's true," said Maureen.
 
 MRS. THORNTON 205 
 
 "Well, ye weren't long in spendin' what ye got," said 
 Norah. "And it would be a good penny and all from what 
 they say. ' ' 
 
 "I don't know at all what ye 're manin'," said Maureen, 
 a puzzled look showing on her face. 
 
 "Don't know what I mane and you all in the papers!" 
 
 "In the papers," Maureen exclaimed, turning white. 
 "What am I in the papers for?" 
 
 "Well, you're the one to ask me that ! " said Norah curtly, 
 a certain tone of distrust and suspicion toning her voice. 
 "And after makin' good money out iv it too." 
 
 "What am I in the papers for?" Maureen asked again. 
 "I don't know what ye 're manin' at all." 
 
 " 'Twas because ye 're the informer and got that woman 
 Thornton into jail because ye told on her," said Norah. 
 "It's a way iv makin' money iv course, but it's not to the 
 likin' iv all and every one. I wouldn't sink meself to the 
 doin' iv it." 
 
 "But it was for the childre," Maureen protested. "The 
 poor things were gettin' starved and them so cold that it 
 would break the heart iv a stone to keep lookin' at them." 
 
 "And ye got yerself in the papers," said Norah, sus- 
 picion at an unwonted happening filling her voice. 
 
 The world outside her own was one of vagueness and 
 mystery ; the fact of appearing in the papers augured some- 
 thing dark and doubtful, guilt, error and crime. Dun- 
 garrow itself got into the papers now and again, but al- 
 ways in a dark light, murder, death, theft. When these 
 events occurred and the law took its cumbrous course, 
 papers were bought, eagerly read and discussed, weighed 
 in the parish gatherings, which having their own code of 
 morality came to an ultimate abstract conclusion that 
 nothing good will ever come of those who get into the pa- 
 pers. Coy Fergus Beeragh was adamant in this belief; 
 Norah when young and malleable accepted it, unconsciously 
 and without question, as the browning corn accepts the 
 tone of autumn. Even now with outlook contained and 
 thought untraveled, she still clung to an ancient fixity of 
 values when the subject of papers came before her. Be-
 
 206 MAUREEN 
 
 sides, was not Maureen the daughter of Kathleen 'Mai- 
 ley, a girl base begotten who judged by accident of birth 
 was fit for any misdemeanor? That she should be in the 
 papers was something which might be expected. 
 
 "Well, and if I did get in the papers there's nothin' to 
 be ashamed iv by that," said Maureen after a moment's 
 silence. 
 
 "No, nothin' at all, if ye look at it in that way," said 
 Norah in a tone of scornful superiority that was in a 
 measure pleasant because it showed the woman's ability 
 to rise above things that would be talked of all over the 
 world. "It's the way ye look at it that makes the differ- 
 ence. And now where are ye for at all?" she inquired 
 curiously. 
 
 "I don't know," said Maureen helplessly. "Keep walk- 
 in' till I can get a job." 
 
 "And far enough that'll be," said Norah cruelly. "If 
 people know ye for what ye are, God help ye. They're not 
 goin' to give ye board and money if ye '11 be tellin' on them 
 when their back's turned on ye." 
 
 A moment ago Maureen longed for her own townland, 
 or at least for the sight of a person from that arm of the 
 world. This was suddenly granted her, but now, her heart 
 swelling with rage and resentment, she looked Norah Bee- 
 ragh between the eyes. 
 
 "God forbid that I'd ever ask anything from the like 
 iv yerself, Norah Beeragh," she said. "If Dungarrow 
 people were all like you, I'd be pleased never to see one 
 of them again." 
 
 Norah was really in her way a generous and big-hearted 
 woman, ready to do a kindness even to Maureen 'Malley, 
 but she felt that this kindness would not be appreciated 
 at its just value if some opprobrium was not cast on its 
 recipient before given. In fact if Maureen showed that 
 she realized her own unworthiness as well as the superiority 
 of Norah Beeragh, Norah would have taken her into her 
 house and treated her well, hoping of course that the girl 
 would feel very kindly towards her as a generous person. 
 A certain fact should be mentioned here, as it may have
 
 MES. THORNTON 207 
 
 something to do with Norah Beeragh 's bearing at the 
 moment. When a young girl, Norah Beeragh and Kathleen 
 O'Malley were rivals on many a dancing floor, but Kath- 
 leen always came off victorious. In fact it was said that 
 Norah, though a comely girl, had nothing more to her 
 glory than the first pick of Kathleen O'Malley 's leavings. 
 Women never forget facts like these. 
 
 "And thank God that all the people from Dungarrow are 
 not like you, Maureen O'Malley," Norah returned spite- 
 fully. "Now ye 're off and away, but what ye 're up to is 
 sure not to be good." 
 
 Maureen, holding her head high, left the irate woman. 
 Once or twice she looked back impenitently, not a little 
 elated at what she had said. In fact she was glad at what 
 she had done. She had not asked anything from the woman. 
 She was as good as Norah, maybe better, if it went to that. 
 Maureen had not a penny, but that and all she owed no- 
 body anything. She was beholden to no one. People were 
 cruel when they might be kind. It costs nothing to be kind. 
 She looked back again, still impenitent, but when she saw 
 that a turn of the road cut her off from the house of 
 Norah Beeragh, she sat down, overcome, and started cry- 
 ing. 
 
 Late in the evening she reached the mouth of a valley 
 that ran into the hilly country. On the braes which rose 
 from the road on either side she saw houses, thatched and 
 limewashed, running in straggly lines almost as far as the 
 eye could reach. She rested on a dyke and took in the 
 scene in front of her, feeling somehow that here was a 
 place where refuge and rest would be hers. It looked in a 
 measure like a glen of the home country. A feeling of 
 safety welled up in her being, giving her a certain happi- 
 ness which had not been hers for many a long day. 
 
 A noise from the road behind attracted her attention, 
 and she saw a cart coming towards her, a man sitting on 
 the front board, his coat off and his hat pulled down well 
 over his head. 
 
 "Good evenin' to ye, decent girl," he said, stopping his 
 horse when he came abreast and looking at Maureen. He
 
 208 MAUREEN 
 
 was a tall man, squarely built despite his height, with a 
 short neck and a low forehead. His cheeks were brown 
 as old copper, a drooping mustache hid his mouth; his 
 eyes, bright and very clear, denoted kindness. 
 
 "Good evenin', sir," said Maureen. 
 
 "Are ye goin' my way at all?" asked the man, pulling 
 the reins tightly to take the horse back from the side of 
 the road where it edged in to crop the hedgerows. "If ye 
 are, get up here and I '11 give ye a bit iv a ride. ' ' 
 
 "Thank ye, kindly, sir," said Maureen, "but I don't 
 know where I 'm goin ' to at all. ' ' , 
 
 "Have ye left yer place?" asked the man. 
 
 "I have that," said Maureen. "I didn't like it at all, 
 and now I'm out iv it." 
 
 "Was it near-by here that ye were?" asked the driver. 
 
 "More than a day's walk away," said the girl. "Or 
 more anyway than a person would care to walk in a day, 
 for I've been on me feet since the shriek iv dawn." 
 
 "Walkin' all the time?" 
 
 "All the time." 
 
 "And what do ye intend to do?" asked the man in a 
 curious voice. "Nobody's wantin' people to work on their 
 land now as far as I know. The crops are in, and why 
 shouldn't they be with the good weather that God has 
 sent us this year? And where will ye be puttin' up for 
 the night with not a place to go to?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Maureen simply. 
 
 "Well, I don't know either," said the man in serious 
 tones, as if Maureen had asked him his opinion of her 
 plight and the best means of extricating herself. In fact 
 he spoke as if one point was clear anyway, that he must 
 help the girl by every means in his power. 
 
 "Well, I don't know at all," he said, after a moment's 
 silence, giving the reins a sharp tug as if the horse was 
 in some way responsible for Maureen's troubles. "I don't 
 know, but up on the cart behind me with ye and we '11 have 
 a talk about it." 
 
 He lowered the tailboard and helped Maureen to mount.
 
 MRS. THORNTON 209 
 
 Then he handed her a few bags which were lying on the 
 floor of the cart. 
 
 "Sit on these and it'll be aisier for ye," he said. 
 "There's a bad road in front iv us over Corngarrow, for 
 it's hilly and stony with little or no footin' for a horse 
 be day let alone be night, and it now getting dark on it." 
 
 He sat down, tied the reins round the thill of the cart, 
 and lit his pipe. 
 
 "Well, well," he said as a sort of preliminary sigh. 
 "And it was the grand day. I've been to Omagh and 
 back, and where have ye come from?" 
 
 "Newtonsmith," said the girl. 
 
 "And tramped all the way?" he ejaculated. 
 
 ' ' All the way, ' ' Maureen replied. " It 's far, isn 't it ? " 
 
 "Far," said the man with a mighty laugh. "If your 
 own feet can't tell the far it is, it's more than I can do 
 with me tongue. It's twenty-five miles, Irish. I know 
 the country well enough and I'm not going to hear any 
 one say that it's less than twenty-five miles, Irish. D-tui- 
 gean thi Gaelig?" 
 
 t( D-tuigen," Maureen replied. 
 
 "So you're Donegal," said the man, assured of this by 
 the girl's knowledge of Irish and her way of speaking 
 English. 
 
 "That I am," said the girl. 
 
 "And yer name will be?" 
 
 "Norah Cassidy," said Maureen, seeking security from 
 the papers which might even travel this far in a lie. 
 
 "Well, my name's McKenna," said the man, feeling that 
 he should show his courtesy by a return of confidence. 
 "I'm a married man and a farmer. I have a Donegal girl 
 in my employ now, and it's more than one iv them that 
 I've had. And good workers they are and they save their 
 money and send it home like decent cubs to their fathers 
 and mothers. Now," he said, feeling that he might ven- 
 ture another question, "now, is your father and mother 
 livin'?" 
 
 "Dead, God rest them," said Maureen.
 
 210 MAUREEN 
 
 "And you've brothers and sisters?" 
 
 "Not a one," said Maureen. 
 
 "Ah! dear me!" said the man. "It's hard to be with- 
 out a friend in the world at all. And what was the reason 
 ye left your last place?" 
 
 "I didn't like them that were there," said Maureen. 
 
 "Protestants?" asked the man. 
 
 "I don't think that he was one thing or the other," said 
 Maureen. "There was nobody in the house but a man, 
 and I ran away from him!" 
 
 "Ah, indeed !" said McKenna with a nod of understand- 
 ing. "There are men like that. And what is his name 
 at all?" 
 
 "Robert Baxter!" 
 
 "Ah!" said McKenna. "I've heard iv him, a man that 
 wants to get his neck twisted off iv him." 
 
 "And that woman about that district, too, Mrs. Thorn- 
 ton," said McKenna, after a short silence. "Never saw 
 her, did you?" 
 
 "I saw her," said Maureen, feeling suddenly warm, 
 though a moment before she shivered with cold. 
 
 "She was a bad woman," said McKenna. "I read all 
 about her in the papers and the way that the Donegal girl 
 showed her up. Bully on the girl!" 
 
 That morning when she disclosed the fact to Norah Bee- 
 ragh'that she was the girl in Mrs. Thornton's employ, 
 Maureen was charged with being an informer; now when 
 her action came in for approval she knew that in claiming 
 it as her own she would be charged as a liar. She was 
 Maureen OTMalley and not not 
 
 Her mind groped wildly after the name which she had 
 falsely given. But she could not remember it.
 
 WHEN I WAS WEE 
 
 'Twos me was the divil when I was wee, 
 Full iv capers and up for fun, 
 And there wasn't one in the parish like me % 
 And dear! how my two bare feet could run 
 When I was wee! 
 
 Fetch or fellow iv me to get 
 Ye'd wander far on either hand. 
 But that and all ye'd never set 
 Eyes on the bate iv yer own townland, 
 When I was wee! 
 
 Ah! sharp the tip iv the tongue that's old, 
 And white the laugh when the lips fall in 
 It's the young to laugh and the aged to scold, 
 The old to pray and the young to sin, 
 And I was wee. 
 
 And ye want to go out to the dance, avic, 
 As if ye have nothin' else to do? 
 And me the poor old man on a stick, 
 And once I could step on the floor like you 
 When I was wee! 
 
 211
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 SEIN FEINERS 
 
 THE time was late evening in early autumn, time for 
 those weary from one day's hard work and with a 
 day's heavy work facing them at dawn to be in bed. 
 The weather was standing good in Dungarrow, the turf 
 Crinkling on the spread-fields, the lush meadows calling for 
 the sickle and the heavy-eared corn turning brown on the 
 braes. The yield of the year promised well in Meena- 
 roodagh and Meenarood and in all the townlands of Dun- 
 garrow from Crinnan resting on the hills to Drimeeney 
 with its toes in Gweenora Bay. 
 
 But ten o'clock of this evening saw light in the home of 
 Condy Heelagh, the cobbler, and a number of the neigh- 
 bors were in there sitting on chairs and forms, their faces 
 dim in the smoke of many a pipe. Coy Fergus Beeragh 
 was there, Cathal Cassidy, Mr. Brogan, Columb Ruagh 
 Keeran, Corney McKelvie, the son of Hannah McKelvie. 
 This boy had been in the English Army but was now dis- 
 charged a victim of gas poisoning on the Somme. 
 
 Little had been changed in the appointments of the 
 house since the memorable evening on which Mr. Brogan 
 visited it twenty years before. An ancient fowling-piece, 
 rusty and cobwebby, which stuck between rafters and 
 scraws on that date was there still, but under it, pinned 
 to the wall, was something of newer date, which told of a 
 country becoming superbly conscious of its own nationality 
 and its own soul. New kindling was thrown on a dulled 
 fire and the kindling took flame. Public opinion was 
 moved. The people saw their way clear to something great 
 
 213
 
 214 MAUKEEN 
 
 and ultimate, the realization of an end, the freedom of 
 their country. The old language was now spoken in fair 
 and field, the feet timed to an ancient measure in their 
 national dances. The Sein Fein movement was destined 
 to mark a great epoch in the history of the ancient race. 
 
 Pinned to the wall under the fowling-piece was the 
 photo of the man, James Connoly, who gave his life for 
 an ideal in the Easter rising in Dublin. Under the photo 
 was a trenchant truth scrawled in ink: Murdered by a 
 foreign power to make the world safe for democracy. 
 
 Beneath this was a parody on a poem once written by 
 T. D. Sullivan: 
 
 "Freedom is a holy thing, 
 
 For so our gracious rulers say 
 
 And what they say it's me to sing 
 
 In quite a legal, proper way. 
 
 They praise it up with all their might 
 
 And praise the men who seek it, too, 
 
 Provided all the row and fight 
 
 Is out in Belgium. Thiggin 
 
 Peggy Ribbig sat in the corner, telling stories of cows 
 that were elf-shot, of churning that brought no butter, 
 of awlths that were haunted and raths sacred to the gentle 
 people. On her head she wore a white bonnet with a frilled 
 border; her supple hands with the black finger-nails and 
 clay-lined cuticles busy at the knitting. She rocked to 
 and fro, the stool beneath her creaking, and her voice 
 never a moment still flowed steadily out with her stories. 
 
 Thos-i around her listened attentively, the older people 
 nodding approvingly at times, while the young, sitting on 
 the hearth, kept looking upwards, their mouths a little 
 parted and their eyes alight with interest. 
 
 Cathal Cassidy was sitting near the wall, his chair tilted 
 back, resting against the whitewashed wall under the sooty 
 lamp, his legs stretched out straight from the knee down- 
 ward and the toes of his boots touching the floor. He had 
 a full pipe in his mouth, the taut skin of his face showed 
 like polished bronze in the reflection of the lamp. 
 
 ifhiggin tut Do you understand? Colloquially See my point T
 
 SEIN FEINERS 215 
 
 "I bet ye that ye don't hold with these ould stories iv 
 the times that wor," said Coy Fergus Beeragh, taking the 
 pipe from his mouth and spitting in the bowl. He looked 
 at Cathal as he spoke. 
 
 "I do and I don't," said the young man. "With all re- 
 spect to Peggy, 1 don't believe in the taking iv butter away 
 from the churn as she tells about it." 
 
 Coy pressed the tobacco down the heel of his pipe with 
 a miry thumb and put the pipe in his pocket. 
 
 "That's the way with the young nowadays," said the 
 old man, fixing one eye on Peggy. "They go on believin' 
 anything but what's right. Cathal Cassidy doesn't be- 
 lieve anything by the way iv him, and Corney McKelvie 
 believes everything that's not good for any one to give 
 an ear to." 
 
 "That's the truth," said Coy. 
 
 "There let them, then," said Peggy. "They'll one day 
 get past that if they live long enough. It's turning Sasse- 
 nach that every one is that's growing up now. Don't ye 
 think so yerself, Mr. Brogan?" 
 
 Eamon na Sgaddan, on a chair near the door, unable to 
 find a word suitable for the occasion at that moment, 
 nodded his head knowingly as a sign that without great 
 consideration he would not disagree with Peggy Eibbig's 
 assertion. 
 
 "Everything is changing, and for the worse," said young 
 Corney McKelvie, who, although having fought two years 
 for England was now a Republican in favor of Sein Fein. 
 "Even this sector that is so far away from the influence 
 of the Sassenach is getting into demned English ways. 
 It was different thirty years ago. Then there was some- 
 thing Irish about Dungarrow ; some customs of the ancient 
 Gaelic state remained here. People worked together to 
 do things and paid in kind. Neighbors helped one another 
 to cut turf; now a man pays so much- a day. You give 
 a man Sassenach money to thatch a house. Whoever paid 
 a man to thatch a house years back? Ye gave him a creel 
 of pratees or a load of hay or some souvenir like that. 
 Then a poor bloke got a bit and sup, and the door wasn't
 
 216 MAUREEN 
 
 hasped at night so that he couldn't come in if he was 
 passing. Now ye '11 not see a demned beggar on the road 
 at all" 
 
 "And thank God!" said Peggy with a sigh as if mourn- 
 ing for what the beggars had cost her in their day. "The 
 beggars were a curse on the place, gallivanting all over 
 the country and them up to all sorts iv capers. 'Twas 
 gowpins iv pratees, gugeens iv milk, meal and what not to 
 them at all hours iv the day. And not alone that, but 
 shakedowns at night and them scratchin' themselves under 
 the window the way that ye couldn't get a wink iv sleep 
 afeeard that they might go away with half iv the house 
 in their mauleen or else set you and yours on fire afore 
 they went. I couldn't stand them, the Friels with their 
 kettles and the McGrorys with their donkeys and maybe 
 them stealin' a young sucker or a bag iv turf under your 
 very nose. They were heavy on the goodwill iv the parish, 
 John the Jumper, Biddy Fly, Meehal Dearg, Hudy Sowans 
 and the rest iv them. Are you one of these Sein Feiners, 
 Fergus Donnel?" she asked, looking at a young boy of 
 seventeen who sat near her. 
 
 "I am," said Fergus. "And it's what everybody should 
 be now. All the young men in the parish are Sein Feiners, 
 every one iv them." 
 
 "But they weren't in the old times," said the woman. 
 "And they had more sense then than they have now, more 
 sense in every way. Maybe they hadn't as much money, 
 but they couldn't expect that with no war in foreign parts 
 to help them. But what they had they kept, and it's not 
 that that they can do now. Are we going to get the Old 
 Age Pension if they keep on in this way?" 
 
 "Of course you will," said Fergus. "It's not the Sasse- 
 nach that will pay it to you then, but the Irish." 
 
 "Then the back of my hand to it-," said Peggy. "If I 
 wait till the Irish people pay me anything I'll go down 
 into the grave without gettin * it. " 
 
 "The times that used to be were bad times," said Coy 
 Fergus Beeragh. "But now we're better off than we ever
 
 SEIN FEINERS 217 
 
 were in all our lives and 'leave well enough alone' is what 
 I say and not have this speech-makin ' and marchin' and 
 drillin' all over the country. A lot of plaishams is what 
 the young people are coming to. It's the war that'll come 
 to the parish iv Dungarrow afore they finish their capers. 
 As it is now they're at the back iv the hills at Clyarra 
 guarding the railway bridge at night with swords and 
 guns." 
 
 "And maybe it wouldn't do as much harm as all that," 
 said Condy Heelagh from the fireside. He spoke of war. 
 "If it comes at all the boys will be wantin' guns to fight 
 with, and I think that I might get rid iv that one that's 
 up on the rafters." He pointed at the ancient fowling- 
 piece. "It has been there in this house for long and 
 many's a day, and when it's used with a fistful of slugs in 
 it, and a plug iv paper, it can scatter death round it for 
 half a mile. And it's aisy to shoot out iv it, too. One pull 
 on the tricker and if the cap is a good one it can fill any- 
 thing that we fire at full iv lead. Now if the war comes, 
 Cathal Cassidy, how much could I get for that gun?" 
 
 "God save us from a war," said Peggy Ribbig, crossing 
 herself. "What would be the good iv sellin' that gun when 
 they would stop the Old Age Pension? And then we'd 
 have the beggars back here as well, rakin' all over the 
 country as bad as they were in the days that's past. Dirty 
 rascals they wor, them iv old times." 
 
 "They're gone and let them rest," said Condy Heelagh 
 from the fire, his coat off and his shirt riding up round his 
 neck where it formed in folds like a muffler. Out from the 
 folds rose his narrow, weasel-like head, the eyes blinking 
 craftily and his nose drooling. "They're gone, and let 
 them rest," he repeated in a squeaky voice. "We've got 
 to live, and that's what matters." 
 
 "Aye, we've got to live," said Cathal Cassidy. 
 
 "And maybe die if the war comes here," said Condy 
 Heelagh, his parchment face forming into a smile. "Do 
 ye think, Cathal, that the war will come here?" 
 
 "It may be that," said Cathal. "One never knows
 
 218 MAUREEN 
 
 what may come to pass now. One day it's shootin' here 
 and another day it's shootin' there, and one never knows 
 what's goin' to happen next." 
 
 "I know what would happen next if I got behind Ser- 
 geant Kinnear iv Stranarachary some dark night," said 
 Columb Ruagh from the corner where he was sitting near 
 the window. "It would be the Sergeant's death, the black 
 spawn iv the divil. It would be one blow on the back iy 
 the head, and his brains would be lyin' all over the road." 
 
 "Wouldn't ye give him a round iv shot?" said Condy 
 Heelagh, again fixing his eye on the ancient gun. 
 
 "Not me," Columb growled, shaking his head. 
 "Wouldn't waste shot on the bastard. A stick is too good 
 for him." 
 
 "But it's wrong, takin' a man's life," said Cathal Cas- 
 sidy in a low voice. "It won't help us if that's done. And 
 besides, the Sergeant is an Irishman. We want him with 
 us, like every other Irishman in the country. When we 
 succeed in our fight he will be with us, one of ourselves. 
 If we kill him it won't help us either in the eyes of the 
 world or in the eyes iv God." 
 
 "God will never blame a man for puttin' a policeman out 
 iv the world, ' ' said Columb fervently, spitting on the floor. 
 "Will he now, Eamon na Sgaddan?" 
 
 "I'm sure he won't," said Mr. Brogan with a nervous 
 smile. Mr. Brogan would not have come to Condy Hee- 
 lagh 's if he had known that Columb Ruagh was there. 
 Why Columb came that night to Condy Heelagh 's was not 
 known to Mr. Brogan. Columb seldom left his own town- 
 land in the hills where he carried on a great business in 
 illicit distillation. He was a Sein Feiner, and the Sein 
 Feiners bought the potheen. He was also a waterkeeper. 
 This was a blind, for a waterkeeper is above suspicion in 
 Governmental eyes. Columb was now a rich man, and the 
 Crinnan hills were white with his wool. 
 
 "There, now, what did I tell ye?" said Columb Ruagh 
 with the voice of a diplomat who has made a master stroke 
 in business and looking at Mr. Brogan. "There, now, 
 what did I tell ye?" he repeated, appealing to the house.
 
 SEIN FEINERS 219 
 
 "Didn't I say that Eamon na Sgaddan would be the one 
 to side with me? Ye are a man, Eamon, that's what ye 
 are, one iv the best, the best in the whole country. And 
 me, Eamon na Sgaddan, I always say what I think and 
 what more can a man do ? Can any man do more, Eamon 
 na Sgaddan?" 
 
 "Of course not," said Eamon, evidently ill at ease, but 
 smiling as he spoke. 
 
 "Iv course not, Eamon na Sgaddan," Columb went on, 
 remorselessly pursuing the subject. "We know one an- 
 other, the two iv us, and there's no secrets. Some call ye 
 Mr. Brogan, but I say, damn Mr. Brogan. Eamon na 
 Sgaddan 's good enough for me, as it should be, for we know 
 one another. We've done our graft like men where men 
 are needed for a job. It doesn't matter a damn where 
 we did it, whether it was throwin' dung off iv a wagon or 
 any other business. Isn't that right, Eamon na Sgaddan?" 
 
 "That's right, Mr. Keeran," said poor Eamon, his face 
 a pallid green. What Columb was driving at he could not 
 fathom. Mr. Brogan at that moment wished that he was 
 back home. Cassie Shemus Meehal, though quieter now 
 than in the early years of her married life, was yet a 
 force to be reckoned with. Still, Mr. Brogan feared Columb 
 Buagh even more than he feared his own wife. 
 
 "Iv course it's right, Eamon na Sgaddan," Columb said 
 maliciously. "I'm seldom wrong. I mind when I met 
 ye in Scotland for the first time, and me on the tramp 
 lookin' for a job and yerself strong in business, 'twas 
 'How are ye, Columb?' when ye clapped yer eyes on me, 
 and glad ye were to see a towney iv yer own. Every man 
 his due, Eamon, every man his due, and credit to them 
 that never turns their back on a towney. Ye were on yer 
 business, and what yer business was I'm not goin' to say, 
 but it was somethin' that brought ye in money, and ye 
 weren't slow in helpin* me. And I was wantin' help at 
 the time. Now where was it that we met?" Columb in- 
 quired, closing one eye and looking at Eamon. 
 
 Mr. Brogan winced, and a sickly smile overspread his 
 features. Peggy Ribbig, not as deaf as a woman of seventy
 
 220 MAUREEN 
 
 might well be, ceased her knitting and edged her stool 
 nearer to Mr. Brogan. 
 
 "And once ye were a great dancer," Columb went on 
 in the same slow tone of malicious banter, without waiting 
 for Eamon to answer his last question. "I mind the time 
 that ye could fut an Alaman with the best iv them, and 
 kick the riggin' off iv a house in a six-hand reel. Where 
 was it that I seen ye dance last?" queried the red man, 
 wrinkling his forehead as if a thought had escaped him. 
 "Oh! I mind it now," he went on. " 'Twas the night 
 the dance was givin' at Neddy Og's, nineteen years Can- 
 dlemas comin' " 
 
 ' ' Last Candlemas, ' ' Peggy Ribbig interrupted. ' ' I mind 
 the night well, and the boys comin' home in the mornin' 
 singin' as if they would pull down the sky with their 
 noise, the vagabonds." 
 
 "Some iv them went home singin', I'll allow that," said 
 Columb with the air of a man who is going to impart a 
 wonderful piece of news to his audience. "Some iv them 
 went home singin', and some iv them weren't able to go 
 home at all with the drink in them, and other iv them went 
 home with the girls." 
 
 "That's true," said Condy Heelagh, glancing in turn 
 at Eamon na Sgaddan and Columb Ruagh. "That's true 
 and goes without sayin'. Always the Dungarrow boys 
 were the divils for the girls whether they were drunk or 
 sober " 
 
 "A true word," said Columb Ruagh. "When they 
 were sober they could take care iv themselves and not run 
 into mischief. But if a man's drunk it's hard to know 
 what capers he's up to. Don't ye think so now, Eamon 
 na Sgaddan?" 
 
 "It's maybe true," said Eamon in a whisper, his hands 
 trembling and a moisture showing on his forehead. 
 
 "There, he agrees with me again," said Columb sweetly, 
 resting his elbows on his knees, gripping his stick with both 
 hands and fixing a scrutinizing glance on Mr. Brogan. 
 "He knows things just like me, for both of us have been 
 beyont the water and we've done business there. What
 
 SEIN FEINERS 221 
 
 the business was doesn't matter. But we've done it, and 
 that 's as much as any one can expect iv a man. Now isn 't 
 that right, Coy Fergus Beeragh?" 
 
 Columb appealed to the old man who now sat in a corner 
 near the kitchen bed, his close-set eyes, filmy with years, 
 fixed vacantly on the throng that sat round the fire. In 
 one trembling hand he held a spill and was on the point of 
 lighting the pipe which he held between his toothless gums. 
 
 ' ' What was it that ye said, Columb Ruagh ? " he inquired 
 in a wheezy voice. "It's hard iv hearin' that I am, and 
 who can blame me and me over eighty?" 
 
 "But there's life in the old dog yet," said Condy Hee- 
 lagh. ' ' It 's many years that 's in front iv ye this day, Coy 
 Fergus Beeragh. I saw ye yesterday out herdin' the cows, 
 and says I to Peggy, and the two iv us lookin' at ye as ye 
 ran after the old brannat meealan chasin' her from the 
 corn, 'Coy can shake his legs yet,' says I, 'just like a two- 
 year-old ! ' Them were my words, Coy, and Peggy can tell 
 ye the same. Ye can run as quick the day as ye did on the 
 day that we were chased by the gaugers up be the back 
 iv Binbawn." 
 
 "And that was on the year iv Dony Faddan's death," 
 said Coy, lighting his pipe and pressing the tobacco down 
 the bowl with his thumb. 
 
 "But it's not yerself that can call Dony Faddan's 
 death to mind, is it?" asked Peggy Ribbig. "It's long 
 gone the time since Dony, God rest him, died." 
 
 "I mind it as well as yesterday," said Coy, sitting back 
 against the bed. "It was Lammas night and me only a 
 wee boy, hardly the height iv two turf lyin ' flat one on top 
 iv the other. Well, as I was sayin', 'twas Lammas night, 
 the night iv the fair iv Doochary. A good fair it was, too, 
 I mind, not like the fairs that's in it nowadays, with ran- 
 nies iv stock, sheep with hair on their backs instead iv wool, 
 and cows with udders no bigger than bockans. Call them 
 cows, indeed. At the fair of Stranarachary six months 
 past come next Thursday I saw a comin' cow that I would 
 as soon look for the milk from her teats when she calved as 
 I would from the legs iv a pot. 'Twas Micky Hudagh Roe
 
 222 MAUREEN 
 
 that was selling her, too. But his holdin' could send out 
 cow beasts years back. I mind twenty years past the year 
 Searlas Dhu O'Friel was drownded " 
 
 ' ' But what about Dony Faddan ? ' ' asked Fergus Donnel, 
 who with face dark blue like a sun-burned potato was sit- 
 ting under the chimney brace, his chair tilted back against 
 the wall on which his head was resting. 
 
 "Ah! poor Dony, God rest him!" said Coy, slipping 
 easily back to the story which he had begun. " 'Twas 
 Lammas night. And the rain ! It was comin ' down heavens 
 hard, and the parish was one flood. The worst flood that 
 ever was, that one. Young Peadar Niall, him that died 
 three years ago, was almost drownded that night coming 
 home from the dance given by Shemus Phelim away back 
 behind Sliab League. He was on the way home in the 
 early morning afore it cleared, and comin ' across the Owen- 
 awadda at the Meenahalla Cloghan he slipped into the river. 
 How he got out bates me." 
 
 "I mind young Peadar and him almost gettin' lost in 
 the river," said Peggy. "And it's three years gone since 
 he died. One wouldn't think it, would they now? And 
 him that healthy on it, too, when he went, God rest him!" 
 
 "The time will come on every one iv us, no matter what 
 the health is," said old Coy. "The best thatchin' will go 
 with the years, no matter how it's done. It's the years 
 that always tell in the long run, and if a man lives well he 
 can die easy. That's me own opinion, Columb Ruagh, 
 if a man lives well and does his best to himself and neigh- 
 bors near and far he can die aisy." The old man recall- 
 ing the question of Columb Ruagh, five minutes previously, 
 had now given answer. 
 
 "There, ye see, Eamon na Sgaddan," said Columb, still 
 leaning on his stick and looking at Mr. Brogan. "There's 
 the answer to that question. Coy himself believes that whem 
 a man does his bit iv business and does it well it's as much 
 as any one can expect iv him. That's a fair answer to a 
 straight question, and the answer was made by a dacent 
 man. 'If he lives well,' says Coy, and that's the point.
 
 SEIN FEINERS 223 
 
 A man may do his best in a lot iv things and be far behind 
 the line with other things. I 've seen many a man like that 
 in me travels. There was one laddybuck that I knew, and 
 him and me worked on the same shift at the Glasgow dung- 
 coup. Maybe ye yerself saw that coup when ye were over 
 water on business. It used to stink like a privy, and ye 
 had to hold yer nose in yer finger when ye came next or 
 near it. Well, I worked there, for I was out on tramp at 
 the time and got a start on the job. But I didn't like it 
 at all, and that with me the rough customer that I am. 
 But I had to stick it and do me best, and this fellow 
 worked with me doin' the same sort iv job, and him a man 
 that had the learnin'. Where he came from I don't know. 
 Ye never ask questions to hear lies beyont the water. 
 
 "Well, this fellow that I'm talkin' about got into trou- 
 ble with a woman," continued Columb, his eyes still fixed 
 on Mr. Brogan. Condy Heelagh cocked up his ears, Peggy 
 Ribbig edged her stool still closer to Columb. Coy Bee- 
 ragh, hard of hearing, had dropped into the easy sleep 
 of age and was snoring loudly. "He got into trouble with 
 a woman, and ye know what happened?" 
 
 The man appealed to the house. 
 
 "Aye, Columb, aye," said Condy Heelagh, nodding his 
 head sagely and wrinkling up his eyebrows. "It means 
 only one thing that, and sometimes it's enough." 
 
 "Just so," said Peggy Ribbig, who by this time had 
 forgotten all about her stocking. While her ears were open 
 to every word which Columb Ruagh said, her eyes never 
 left the face of Mr. Brogan. Cathal Cassidy, Corney Mc- 
 Kelvie and Fergus Donnel, with pipes lit, were very quiet 
 but obviously interested. 
 
 The face of Mr. Brogan was alternately turning white 
 and crimson. He would have given a lot to be able to get 
 to his feet and make his exit. But this he was unable to 
 do. He seemed glued to his chair and sat there with his 
 mouth open, conscious of nothing save the staring eyes and 
 expectant faces. He could not budge an inch, move a leg 
 or raise an arm. To do either would have been torture.
 
 224 MAUREEN 
 
 In front of him the faces whirled, swept round and round 
 and formed into one face, red and hairy, the face of Columb 
 Ruagh. 
 
 "And that's what happened," Columb Ruagh droned 
 out, weighing every word as if each was of incalculable 
 value. "That's what happened, and he was a good fellow 
 in every other way. But it's funny the make-up iv a man, 
 isn't it, Cathal Cassidy?" 
 
 "Of some men, I'll grant ye," Cathal replied in a very 
 calm voice, taking his pipe from his mouth and tapping the 
 bowl on his hand. "But the man with the funniest make- 
 up that I know is yerself, Columb Ruagh." 
 
 "Me? How d'ye make that out?" asked Columb, scrap- 
 ing the floor with the tip of his stick while a wave of con- 
 flicting emotions sprang up within him, hatred, fury and 
 a sudden desire to do some wicked deed, to grip Cathal 
 Cassidy by the hand, twist the arm from the shoulder, 
 just to show him that he could trample him to the ground 
 like a worm if he desired. But the impulse was just of a 
 moment's space. It would not serve his purpose if he 
 fell foul of Cathal, the President of the Sein Fein Party 
 in Dungarrow. Cathal was too well liked by the people, 
 and at present he was worth keeping as a friend. But 
 should Columb ever get the opportunity he would show 
 him but at present . . . He glanced covertly at the 
 young man's face as if to read something from its expres- 
 sion, but there was nothing to be gathered from the calm, 
 frank glance which Cathal fixed on him. 
 
 "Well, ye 're a funny man the way ye take things," said 
 Columb, doing the utmost to hide the hatred seething in 
 his breast. "I just asked a question, Cathal Cassidy." 
 
 "Iv course ye did, Columb, and I answered it," said 
 Cathal. "And I don't see what's funny in that," he con- 
 cluded, shrugging his shoulders. 
 
 "Well, it was in the way ye said it," was Columb 's com- 
 ment as he got to his feet, pulled the hat down on his head 
 and placed his stick under his arm. "Well, good night to 
 all iv ye. It will take me the best part iv an hour to get 
 to the Crinnan cross-roads. Good night t'ye all." He
 
 SEIN FEINERS 225 
 
 went to the door which was open and stood there for a 
 minute looking out into the darkness. 
 
 "It's dark as the pit iv hell," he said, without looking 
 round. "And here's somebody comin'. Good night t'ye." 
 
 The last remark was addressed to some person coming 
 towards the house, a man with very heavy boots and a 
 scythe over his shoulder. 
 
 "Good night t'ye," was the reply in the darkness. 
 "Who's that that I hear speakin'? Not old Columb Euagh 
 surely." 
 
 "Aye, it's old Columb," said the red-haired man. "It's 
 old Columb, Liam Logan." 
 
 "Well, it's not every night that we see yerself down 
 here;" said Liam Logan, who had just come back from 
 the smithy of Stranarachary where he had got his scythe 
 hung for the morrow's hay-cutting. "And I thought that 
 every one was in their beds at this hour iv the night, too." 
 
 "There's a full house in Condy's here," said Columb, 
 pointing over his shoulder at the lighted interior. "They're 
 all in now, or most iv them, anyway." 
 
 "Indeed?" said Liam in a mysterious tone. "Corney 
 McKelvie and Cathal?" 
 
 "Aye," said Columb. 
 
 At this point a number of the young men came to the 
 door and accompanied Columb to the road. 
 
 "We'll go along a bit," said Cathal Cassidy; and Condy 
 Heelagh, who came to the door, saw all the separate entities 
 merge into one block of blackness as distance between them 
 and his home increased. Then the old man went back to 
 his room and sat down by the fire. Coy Fergus Beeragh 
 was still asleep, Mr. Brogan had disappeared and Peggy 
 Ribbig was on her knees saying her Rosary. 
 
 Coy Fergus Beeragh opened his eyes lazily and looked 
 round. 
 
 "It's time to be getting home," he said. "Are the rest 
 of them off?" 
 
 "They're that, and away up the road to talk about some- 
 thing," said Condy Heelagh. "And with the times that's 
 in it one never knows what they're up to."
 
 226 MAUREEN 
 
 "True for you, Condy," said Coy. "In the old days, 
 the time of the Molly Maguires, one never knew what they 
 were up to." 
 
 "I know what they're about now," said Peggy Rjbbig, 
 breaking a decade of the Rosary short and getting to her 
 feet. "It's the soldiers that they'll be after, them at the 
 back iv the hills that's watchin' the railway bridge of 
 Clyarra afeard that the Sein Feiners will blow it up with 
 dynamite. And that'll be the stoppin' iv the Old Age Pen- 
 sion, I'll warrant ye." 
 
 "Maybe they'll be wantin' to buy that gun from me," 
 said Condy Heelagh, his eye on the ancient fowling-piece. 
 
 Meanwhile those who had left Condy 's came to a halt 
 on the roadside and looked at one another. 
 
 "All know what's to be done," said Cathal Cassidy in a 
 low voice. 
 
 "As per instructions," said Corney McKelvie. 
 
 ' ' The morrow night in Micky Bawn Reedagh 's of Drima- 
 croom," said Cathal. "Meet at midnight, fully armed." 
 
 "Full fightin' order," said Corney McKelvie. 
 
 When Micky Bawn Reedagh died, old Micky Bawn Ree- 
 dagh of the townland of Drimacroom, he went to his last 
 home on the day that Hudagh Nelly Wor, borne, shoulder 
 high, was carried to the little graveyard of Stranarachary. 
 Micky Bawn was rich in stock and land, a man of sub- 
 stance, held in high respect by his neighbors. But he lived 
 all alone, did the work of the farm and household on his 
 own, washed his own socks, milked his own cows, did a 
 woman's work as well as a man's, and for all that he lived 
 to the ripe age of eighty-seven. 
 
 Dying, he left a farm of fifty-three acres behind him as 
 well as one hundred and twenty-seven pounds in gold. At 
 his funeral the offerings amounted to seventeen pounds, 
 ten shillings, a sure sign of the great regard in which he 
 was held. The farm passed to his cousin, a young man 
 named Andy Croagh, who looked on money as something
 
 SEIN FEINERS 227 
 
 round to go round, spent it on drink, sold the farm and 
 in the same manner spent the price it brought. 
 
 Hughie McGroary, merchant of Stranarachary, then be- 
 came the owner of the land and used it as a grazing-f arm. 
 The house was turned into a byre, and here, seventeen years 
 after Micky Bawn Reedagh's death, Micky walked the 
 same as when he was alive, carrying on the various jobs 
 of the farm. No person would visit the place in the dark. 
 All kept away from it, shunning it as a place accursed 
 and haunted. 
 
 On the night following the meeting in Condy Heelagh's 
 a number of men, carrying strange weapons that glinted in 
 the light of a growing moon, entered the byre, and pres- 
 ently the cows came out into the meadows. 
 
 The men, with the exception of one, sat down on the 
 floor indifferent to the filth of the place. The one who 
 stood upright, a tall, dark man with a mask over his face, 
 spoke. 
 
 "Eleven!" he said in a whisper. "Who's missing?" 
 
 "Corney McKelvie," was the answer. 
 
 "No idea iv where he is, any iv ye?" asked the tall man, 
 who was Cathal Cassidy. 
 
 "I met him goin' down to Stranarachary," said a voice 
 from the darkness. "He's drawin' his pension." 
 
 "How much is it?" asked Columb Ruagh, who was sit- 
 ting under the window, rubbing the nape of his neck with 
 a toil-thickened forefinger. 
 
 "Thirteen and nine a week," said Fergus Donnel. 
 
 "Well, whatever this gas is, it's worth gulpin' down if 
 it's goin' to bring a man in a salary like that," said Columb 
 Ruagh. 
 
 "Well, there he's comin' now," said a voice from a 
 dark corner of the byre as a step could be heard from the 
 darkness. 
 
 * ' Halt ! Who goes there ! ' ' called a man from the door, 
 Liam Logan, who was standing there with a rifle as sentry. 
 
 "A friend," was the answer. 
 
 ' ' Pass, friend. All is well ! ' ' 
 
 McKelvie came through the door, his form clearly out-
 
 228 MAUREEN 
 
 lined against the night. He brought a gun from his shoul- 
 der and thumped its butt on the floor. 
 
 "Where did you get that?" asked Cathal Cassidy, allud- 
 ing to the weapon which McKelvie brought in. 
 
 "From Condy Heelagh, sir," McKelvie replied. "Asked 
 Condy to give it me this mornin ', but the demned old wash- 
 out wouldn't. I told him I'd bring it back, but no bong! 
 Then he said he'd give us the lend iv it if I gave him half 
 a quid. Hadn't half a quid so I'd to go into Stranara- 
 chary and draw my blinkin' pension." 
 
 "Can it shoot?" asked Columb Euagh. 
 
 "The damned thing looks as if it might," said McKelvie. 
 "Now, what's doin'?" he asked, turning to Cathal Cassidy. 
 
 "The first thing to do is to get there," said a man sit- 
 ting on his hunkers in the center of the room, the light of 
 the moon streaming through the narrow window resting 
 on his shoulders. "It's a good four miles over the hill. 
 By the road six miles or more. And maybe it's the polis 
 we'd meet." 
 
 "Wish we did," growled Columb Ruagh. 
 
 "We'll have to get there before dawn," said Cathal 
 Cassidy. When he spoke all became silent. ' ' Who has the 
 time!" 
 
 A naked forearm stretched itself out on the floor; a 
 luminous watch attached to the wrist glimmered in the 
 darkness. 
 
 "Half -past twelve," said the man with the watch. 
 
 "What are we goin' to do with them?" asked Fergus 
 Donnel, in a nervous voice. His age was seventeen. 
 
 "Well, I'll tell ye what we'll do," said McKelvie in 
 short, sharp sentences, clipping his words, probably in 
 imitation of a Captain whom he knew in France and whom 
 he admired greatly. "We'll do the surprise stunt, get on 
 their bally necks. Whizz! Just like that." 
 
 "How?" asked Cathal with a smile. 
 
 "Damned simple, old man, damned simple," said Mc- 
 Kelvie. ' ' They come back from duty, morning, 6 :30 Brig- 
 ade time. Got this Mills grenade timed to it" he pulled 
 a gun-metal watch from his waistcoat pocket, looked at its
 
 SEIN FEINERS 229 
 
 face and put it back in his pocket again " timed to the 
 minute. Got it from a mate o' mine, Nobby Such, a good 
 boy keen as mustard, but no demned imagination. Hadn't 
 enough imagination to be funky, but a good beggar all the 
 same. Got knocked over on the Somme. A Boche done 
 him in. I done the Boche in." 
 
 "With the bay 'net?" asked Fergus Donnel, drawing his 
 breath sharply as if he felt the steel in his own body. 
 
 "Yes, God rest him!" said McKelvie. 
 
 "Wish I'd a bay 'net to shove through some iv the 
 damned polis down in Stranarachary, ' ' said Columb Ruagh 
 with a sigh. "Sergeant Keeran for choice." 
 
 "Well, we're not goin' to do these fellows any harm the 
 night!" said Cathal, alluding to the job in hand. "We'll 
 just disarm them, tie them up and leave them lying by the 
 road till some one finds them." 
 
 "That's the ticket," said McKelvie. "We'll need a 
 map to get the lie of the land and see the jumpin' off 
 position. ' ' 
 
 "Ye know the place as well as ourselves," said Columb 
 Ruagh. "We'll lie be the back iv Carrig-drim, where 
 Biddy Logan herds her cow and scratches herself all day. 
 Need a map to get there ! ' ' Columb 's upper lip curled to 
 the nose. 
 
 "Well, it's nearly time," said Cathal Cassidy, hitting 
 his pipe against the leaf of his hand. Outside the moon 
 was setting in the back hills, and sheaves of shadows crept 
 in from the fields taking up position behind clumps of 
 furze and whin as if they also were assembling for some 
 ghostly escapade. ' ' Fall in ! " said Cathal in a whisper. 
 
 The darker corner of the byre gave substance to their 
 shadows, and figures took shape in the gloom. Two lines 
 of men fell into place, the muffled thud of weapons touch- 
 ing the floor could be heard. The cabin, though a small 
 oneiy seemed to have taken on ominous depth. The outlines 
 of the men's heads showing against the window were dis- 
 torted in the dim, milky light, vague, indistinct, incor- 
 poreal. Now and again a gleam came from the darkness 
 from the weapons of the men. All were silent, waiting
 
 230 MAUREEN 
 
 for their leader to speak. He spoke in Irish, in a calm, 
 quiet, serious voice as if the business in hand, because it 
 was meet and right, required no justification and no 
 apology. 
 
 At 6:30 in the morning the sentries, now on guard at 
 the Bridge of Clyarra, would be relieved, five men and a 
 sergeant of the Army of Occupation. These would go 
 back to barracks by the public road, over the uplands of 
 Drimacroom. On their route they would pass Carrig-drim ; 
 here they would be in a very lonely part of the parish, and 
 here the Sein Feiners would wait for them, lying hidden 
 amidst the ferns that grew by the roadside. When the sol- 
 diers of the Army of Occupation passed, the Sein Feiners 
 would cover them with their rifles. On this being done 
 Cathal Cassidy would step out on the roadway and call 
 on the soldiers to surrender. 
 
 If the men in khaki showed fight, those in the ferns were 
 to fire, but fire high so that the enemy would understand 
 that the affair was not a joke. Only as a last extremity 
 were bullets to be used for the purpose of killing. Rifles 
 and ammunition were to be taken, and the soldiers were 
 to be tied and left by the roadside so that they would be 
 unable to disclose the fact of the raid before the raiders 
 could get away. 
 
 "Just a short prayer for our success," said Cathal when 
 orders were concluded. "One Pater and Ave." 
 
 The dark figures knelt in the obscurity, gripping their 
 weapons. Cathal gave out the prayer in a low, serious 
 voice deep with feeling, and, with the exception of one, 
 the whole, whose minds on the eve of a great incident were 
 as susceptible to impressions as a raw wound, responded 
 in solemn voices. The exception was Columb Ruagh. The 
 red-haired man, unmoved by any refining influence, knelt 
 because the others knelt, his head against the weapon which 
 he held, his face as expressionless and vacant as the wood 
 it touched. 
 
 At five o'clock in the morning the party arrived at Car- 
 rig-drim and sorted themselves out in the ferns. All wore 
 masks and all were armed, two with Army rifles, Lee En-
 
 SEIN FEINEBS 231 
 
 fields, Columb Ruagh with an Army revolver and a scythe, 
 straightened and set in a rough ash haft ; McKelvie, in ad- 
 dition to his fowling-piece, carried a revolver tied to his 
 waist, and Cathal Cassidy had a rifle with bayonet affixed. 
 This was the only bayonet in the party. 
 
 It was now dawn, the sky overcast with feathery clouds 
 and a wind rising. Carrig-drim, a lichen-clad rock bat- 
 tered by the storms of ages, stood by the roadway, under 
 its shade a well and a holly bush. Bound the rock was a 
 field of ferns, in which the men lay down and waited for 
 the dawn to break. Over the country was a white mist 
 beginning to rise and fade in the air. There was a strange 
 thrill in the dawn, something tense and striking. 
 
 The sky seemed to clear, and simultaneously all things 
 woke to life. A lark shot into the air caroling; a sheep, 
 its fleece wet with the dew, gazed inquisitively over a clump 
 of ferns at the men. It seemed as if it wanted to ask 
 something. The dawn brighteaed, and behind the dark 
 hills of the east the sky reddened to the rising sun. 
 
 "No firing if they don't make a fight iv it," said Cathal. 
 "And if ye have to fire at all fire low at their legs." 
 
 "But they're our enemies," said Columb Buagh omi- 
 nously, his eyes, which resembled tongues of fire, gleaming 
 with a ferocity which Cathal had seldom noticed in them 
 before. 
 
 "These are the orders," said Cathal Cassidy. "Ye don't 
 fire unless it's the last resort, and when ye fire ye 're to 
 fire high." 
 
 "But if the bullet goes low by mistake," Columb per- 
 sisted. 
 
 "If that happens," said Cathal in a low, decisive voice, 
 speaking to the company in general but addressing his re- 
 mark indirectly to Columb Buagh, "and if instructions 
 are not carried out to the letter, the man that disobeys 
 will never leave Carrig-drim alive." 
 
 "That's the ticket, old man," said McKelvie. "Damned 
 good sports most of these blokes. I 've shared rations with 
 them and I know." 
 
 They relapsed into silence. Donnel, the youngster of
 
 232 MAUREEN 
 
 seventeen, had been detailed off to watch the road leading 
 to Clyarra Bridge. When he sighted the soldiers coming 
 he was to crawl back through the ferns and report. From 
 time to time McKelvie drew out his gun-metal watch, looked 
 at it, put it back in his pocket again. His hand shook a 
 little as he did so. 
 
 Presently a rustling was heard in the ferns and Donnel 
 appeared. 
 
 "They're comin'," he said in a shaky voice and placing 
 his weapons on the ground in front of him. These were 
 two, a bill hook and a thick ash plant. 
 
 "How many?" asked Cathal Cassidy in a whisper. 
 
 "Seven." 
 
 "We're twelve," said Cathal, getting to his knees. His 
 voice was sharp and decisive. "Now, ye know what's to 
 be done. When they pass, I get into the road and call on 
 them to put their hands up. As I do so all of you stand 
 upright, cover them with your rifles, hold your pikes and 
 other weapons at the point and wait for orders. Ready!" 
 
 As they lay down again they could hear from the dis- 
 tance the steady tramp of ammunition boots on the road- 
 way. Going easy, smoking and carrying on a loud con- 
 versation, they swung into sight, their steel helmets atilt 
 and their unsheathed bayonets sparkling in the sun. They 
 marched in double file, their sergeant walking alongside 
 taking part in the conversation. Far from barracks, dis- 
 cipline was relaxed and they were marching easy. 
 
 "Halt!" 
 
 The command was given in such stentorian tones that 
 the men involuntarily stopped. The sergeant gave a 
 startled gasp; the first thought occurring to the man was 
 probably his own crime in allowing the party returning 
 from guard to march in such an unmilitary fashion. Turn- 
 ing round, he found himself gazing into the rifle of Cathal 
 Cassidy. 
 
 "What the hell!" he stammered. 
 
 "Hands up at once," said Cathal from the folds of his 
 mask, his eyes running along the sights of his rifle and
 
 SEIN FEINERS 233 
 
 coming to a stop on the sergeant's breast. "Every man! 
 Hands up at once ! ' ' 
 
 The sergeant became suddenly aware that Cathal was 
 not alone. The clattering of weapons from the ferns at- 
 tracted his attention. He gazed in that direction and saw 
 the growth bristling with weapons. Half-a-dozen weapons 
 were pointed at his face. 
 
 "Well, we're right in the soup!" he said, shooting both 
 arms over his head. "Up with your hands, boys. It's the- 
 only thing to do!" 
 
 Seven pair of hands went up in the air while from their 
 ferny fastness the masked figures looked on. 
 
 "Three of you men, out and take their arms away from 
 them," Cathal Cassidy ordered; and three men, the thick- 
 set Columb Ruagh, the lithe McKelvie and the young strip- 
 ling, Donnel, came out on the roadway and took the rifles 
 from the men in khaki. They placed these on the road then 
 stood to attention and gazed at Cathal Cassidy. 
 
 "That's right," said Cathal. "Three more men come 
 out and take these weapons away." 
 
 With these words he came forward and faced the sol- 
 diers. 
 
 "I'm sorry that we've to put you to all this incon- 
 venience, sergeant," he said. "But it's the fortune of war. 
 We have the upper hand to-day, to-morrow it may be 
 yours. You have the advantage, for though you have in- 
 vaded a country, its people treat you courteously when 
 you're in their power. To-day we put a rope round your 
 arms and legs but to-morrow if you grip one of us we get 
 the same kind iv a rope tied round our necks. ' ' 
 
 He turned round, looked at the masked figures in the 
 ferns. 
 
 "Tie up these men," he said in a brisk tone of command, 
 pointing at the soldiers. A bundle of ropes was carried 
 into the center of the road, and with these the Sein Feinere 
 proceeded to bind the soldiers of the Garrison. 
 
 McKelvie took a youngster in hand, a pale, flaxen-haired 
 boy, the down on a virginal chin free as yet from the razor,
 
 234 MAUREEN 
 
 wearing three chevrons of service on one arm and two 
 wound stripes on the other. McKelvie bound the two 
 arms together. 
 
 "If I'm squeezing too tight let me know, matey," said 
 McKelvie from behind his mask, an empty flour-poke with 
 two square holes cut in it for the eyes. "If ye've copped 
 a packet in yer arms or legs let me know." 
 
 "Got it in the back," said the youngster. 
 
 "Sniper?" inquired the voice behind the flour-poke. 
 
 "Shrapnel," said the boy. 
 
 ' ' Couldn 't work yer ticket on it ? " asked the flour-poke. 
 
 "They've stopped makin' tickets now," said the soldier 
 with a good-humored smile, looking at his thongs. 
 
 "No bong," said McKelvie. 
 
 "No bloody bong," said the youngster. 
 
 "Well, this is finee," said McKelvie, having finished rop- 
 ing the hands. "Now sit down on this hobeen and let me 
 do up yer legs." 
 
 The youngster sat down on a hob by the roadside and 
 gave McKelvie his legs, requesting the Sein Feiner to tie 
 the rope high up near the knee as the lower parts of the 
 legs had stopped a number of machine-gun bullets. 
 
 "What part iv the line?" asked the flour-poke. 
 
 "High Wood." 
 
 "Somme?" 
 
 "The Somme." 
 
 "Tough place, that," said McKelvie with the air of one 
 who knows. 
 
 "Were you there?" asked the soldier. 
 
 "Knew a fellow that was. That's all," said McKelvie, 
 suddenly realizing that he had spoken unwisely. 
 
 ' ' Fall in, . you men, ' ' said Cassidy when the job was 
 complete. 
 
 Forming up on the roadside, the Sein Feiners stood at 
 ease. 
 
 "Party!" Cathal ordered and the heels of the heavy 
 hobnailed boots (one pair military which had ground tht 
 cobbles of Picardy and Pas de Calais) clicked together. 
 
 "Right dress! Cover off, rear rank!"
 
 SEIN FEINERS 235 
 
 The masked figures sprang to it, assorting themselves 
 with the precision of men used to the tenets of drill; in 
 gait and attitude soldiers, in dress country yokels who had 
 just come away from the grind of husbandry. 
 
 "Number!" 
 
 "Ahn! Deoc! Trur! Carra! Cuigead! Seacktal" 
 
 "Move to the right in fours! Form fours!" 
 
 The men formed into fours, indifferent as wooden sol- 
 diers to the men who lay, tethered and spancelled, under 
 Carrig-drim. 
 
 "By the left! Quick March!" the leader ordered, and 
 the men marched off, shoulders squared, heads erect and 
 eyes to front. The soldiers of the Garrison writhed round 
 on their sides and watched the Sein Feiners depart. From 
 the distance came the order to slope arms and with a 
 simultaneous movement, the precision of a machine, the 
 weapons swung from the trail to the shoulder. 
 
 "Some soldiers," said a soldier, admiration in his voice. 
 
 "Posh wallahs!" said the youth whom McKelvie had 
 girt. 
 
 "Well, we couldn't do anything but what we done," 
 said the sergeant, who in anticipation was already in front 
 of a court martial giving an explanation of the incident. 
 
 m 
 
 Revolution, no matter what its end, aim or purpose, has 
 its deformities as well as its beauties, in the same way as 
 the choicest fruit has its worm and the snuggest roof its 
 downdrop. Just as war has its pillagers, profiteers and 
 sutlers, religion its quacks, shufflers and impostors, so 
 revolution has its tricksters, charlatans and knaves. To 
 this latter category of men belonged Columb Ruagh Kee- 
 ran. 
 
 With Columb greed was the predominant passion. To 
 this everything was subservient. He was the Grand Miser, 
 loving his money as a sensualist his mistress, a collector 
 of antiques his curios, a writer his books and a painter his 
 pictures, for after all most men are misers at bottom.
 
 236 MAUREEN 
 
 Everything done by Columb was towards a certain end, 
 and with one object in view he suited his moods to differ- 
 ent occasions and appeared in different form to all with 
 whom he had dealings. To Mr. Brogan Columb was a 
 blackmailer, to Cathal Cassidy not a bad stick but funny 
 in his ways, to Cassie Shemus Meehal an old vagabond, to 
 the tinkers who on one memorable occasion occupied the 
 house at Crinnan cross-roads Columb was a mad roaring 
 bull of a man, to Coy Fergus Beeragh a deep-dyed rascal 
 who embraced you like a brother while his hand was in 
 your pocket. But as Coy was old and doating no one 
 paid much heed to his talk. 
 
 However, despite the varied opinions held concerning 
 his character, Columb was now a man of money. His 
 wealth grew and grew; copper coin became silver and the 
 silver gold. And the more it increased the greater grew 
 the grip of greed. Money was everything to the man, his 
 labor and recreation, his food physical and spiritual. 
 
 With Sein Fein in the ascendancy, Columb felt that it 
 was wise to belong to the party. But to belong to this he 
 had to pay an entrance fee of one shilling, and a shilling 
 was a big sum. If he gave it the Sein Feiners would prob- 
 ably increase their custom. At present there was another 
 illicit distiller in Drimeeney, a Sein Feiner. This man was 
 not as good in the art as Columb. Still he was a Sein 
 Feiner, and those of his ilk went preferably to this man. 
 
 Columb took a shilling from his store, looked at it, felt 
 it between forefinger and thumb, put it in his mouth, ran 
 it between his teeth, took it out again, spittle wet, put it on 
 the leaf of his hand and surveyed it with a sigh. It was a 
 shilling, a disk with form, color, and outline. It would 
 certainly bring in others if given to the Sein Fein party. 
 But even then that shilling would probably never come 
 back again. It would go, and it would be lost forever. 
 Still, there was the Drimeeney man making money from 
 the sale of potheen, and if a shilling could turn trade in 
 Columb 's direction it was worth while speculating it. 
 Columb paid. 
 
 He was also a waterkeeper. But that was a blind. A
 
 SEIN FEINERS 237 
 
 waterkeeper was never suspect in the eyes of the Govern- 
 ment. Columb drew pay for this job, but never inter- 
 fered with the young men who burned the river in the 
 spawning season. 
 
 Following the incident of the raid, Crinnan, at the back 
 of Godspeed, a fastness beyond police reach, became the 
 depository of the rifles taken from the soldiers of the Army 
 of Occupation, and Columb was appointed warden of 
 the arms. 
 
 IV 
 
 The home of Coy Fergus Beeragh was some distance 
 back from the country road, so when the August fair of 
 Stranarachary came round he straddled down the brae in 
 the fall of dusk and came to the house of Condy Heelagh. 
 Here in the wayside cabin people would drop in for a 
 while on their way home from market, and here Coy, 
 whose legs were now too weak for a long journey, could sit 
 down and listen to the talk of the day. The older people 
 were coming back from the fair now, the young would not 
 be back for some time yet. The night was very wet, and 
 a heavy rain was splattering on the roadway. 
 
 Condy Heelagh and Peggy Eibbig were sitting by the 
 fire, the woman knitting a sock, the old bent-back husband 
 looking at the flames. He had now given up cobbling. His 
 eyes were getting weak and his age-gnarled hand had lost 
 its cunning. On the hob was a kettle singing wearily, and 
 a pot of stirabout simmered on the crook. 
 
 ' ' Coy it is ! ' ' said Condy, looking up when the old man 
 entered the door. "Ye must be hearty on it to sprawhle 
 down the knowes a night like this and it rainin' heavens 
 hard." 
 
 "Ah! it's a tough journey I've put over me coming 
 down," said Coy, wagging his coat like a pair of flight- 
 weary wings and splashing the rain to the floor. "It's 
 old bones that take hard to the knowes, Condy Heelagh." 
 
 "True," said Condy, doddering to his feet and holding 
 his hand to Coy. "We're gettin' on in years, the two iv
 
 238 MAUREEN 
 
 us, but all the same we've seen more than one bottle to 
 the bottom in our day." 
 
 "Aye, aye," said Coy, setting himself down in the chair 
 which Peggy Ribbig had ceremoniously placed at his back. 
 "We were once young on it, the two iv us, and now we're 
 old on it and, and " 
 
 A melancholy feeling welled up in his heart. He could 
 not finish his sentence, and a tear trickled down his face. 
 
 "Aye, we're all iv us old on it," said Peggy Ribbig sadly, 
 feeling that Coy would find some consolation in being in- 
 formed that his plight was common to others. A tear also 
 came from her eyes. 
 
 "It's always the same, always," said Condy, with a 
 philosophic nod of his head as he sat down again. "Peo- 
 ple will be for a wee while, and then they go like leaves iv 
 a tree. But anyway, sit down, Coy" Coy was already 
 sitting "and have a skinful iv stirabout and a ghabouge 
 iv milk and the boys will be in from the fair in no time 
 from now." 
 
 "Well, since ye ask me, Condy, I'll have a drop iv the 
 stirabout," Coy replied, a gleam of thanks lighting his 
 filmy eyes. "For mind ye, I'm not one for stirabout now 
 at all, but seein' that Peggy herself has made it I'll have 
 a sup. She's second to none with the pot-stick." 
 
 "Well, indeed, Coy!" said Peggy, accepting the com- 
 pliment, but by her tone implying that if she excelled in 
 the housewifely art of making stirabout it was only as it 
 should be. ' ' Some women make it one way, ' ' she went on, 
 "and some another. But it's like anything else, for there's 
 only one way iv doin' it right, and if it's made any other 
 way it's wrong." 
 
 "True," said Coy, "and very true. But they've got out 
 iv the way iv makin' it now. In the old times " 
 
 "There were never times like them," said Condy Hee- 
 lagh, taking a pipe from the bowl in the chimney brace and 
 emptying the heel tap on the floor. 
 
 "Never times like them," said Coy sadly. 
 
 "And what would ye like best?" asked Peggy as she
 
 SEIN FEINERS 239 
 
 lifted the pot from the crook. "Butter-milk, or thick milk, 
 or skim milk, or sweet milk?" 
 
 She spoke with pride. So many varied milks spoke of a 
 full house. 
 
 "Whatever ye like," said Coy gallantly. "Whatever 
 ye put down afore a man is always the best. ' ' 
 
 "But there was no times like the old times," said Condy 
 Heelagh, who still was pondering over a subject which 
 Coy had now probably forgotten. "Not the times that we 
 saw, maybe, but the times that them that was afore us 
 saw." 
 
 "Ah, them were the times," said Coy. "Them that had 
 my own name and are no more were in their days men of 
 consideration and great power, with lands without stint 
 and houses iv free hospitality. Muiris Dunleavy and Cor- 
 mac Dunleavy and Dony Dunleavy, all great doctors, and 
 what they couldn 't cure nobody else in Ireland could cure. ' ' 
 
 Here it may be explained that Beeragh was not Coy's 
 family name. His father, Hugh Dunleavy, married a 
 widow named Mary Fergus Beeragh, so called after her 
 man that was. Three weeks after the second marriage 
 her fresh husband died, and that before Dungarrow could 
 accustom itself to call the woman Dunleavy. When the 
 second husband was buried the woman was still known as 
 Mary Fergus Beeragh, and Coy, who came after, was from 
 his youth upwards known to the people by the name which 
 he bore now. 
 
 "They were doctors in the old times," Coy continued, 
 in his hoarse, wheezy voice. "I mind one day thirteen 
 years back come next Hall 'eve and me comin' along be the 
 road from Stranarachary, I met Doctor McHugh, the doc- 
 tor that then was, God rest him!" 
 
 ' ' ' Good day to ye, Coy Fergus Beeragh, ' says he, in his 
 free and easy way with his clay pipe in his gob just like 
 one iv ourselves. 'One iv the Dunleavy 's ye are,' says 
 he; 'and an old family that was not without merit in the 
 days that were long, long ago.' 
 
 " 'And is to this day,' says I. 'For in land and stock
 
 240 MAUREEN 
 
 we can show a holdin' as big and bigger than many's a 
 one in the parish.' 
 
 * ' ' But I don 't mane in that way, ' says the doctor. ' What 
 I mane is this. The men iv yer name were once equal to 
 the great O'Donnels themselves.' 
 
 " 'And are to this day,' I cut in with. 'I never knew 
 an O'Donnel yet that could spit across my arm at fair or 
 market. ' 
 
 "As I said this he looks at me. 'Why don't ye wait till 
 I finish what I'm goin' to say?' says he. 'The Dunleavys 
 were great doctors iv medicine in the old days. And even 
 now there's more than one book to be seen in the world 
 that was writ by them about physic and cures for decline, 
 ringworm and what not.' 
 
 " ' 'Twas the first I ever heard iv it, doctor,' says I. 
 'But that and all I'm not surprised, for is not a woman 
 that's sib iv me own, Sally Rourke iv Meenaroodagh that 
 knows all the cures iv the world for warts and sprains and 
 beelings, the greatest doctor that we've got in the parish, 
 and her mother, cousin iv me own but far out, a Dun- 
 leavy?' " 
 
 "Well, that's true," said Peggy, handing Coy a bowl 
 of stirabout drowned in milk. "Just put this inside iv ye 
 now and it will warm ye up. ' ' 
 
 "Thank ye, Peggy, thank ye," said the old man, catch- 
 ing the bowl of porridge, placing it on the floor and getting 
 to his feet. He gripped the woman's hand. "Thank ye, 
 Peggy, thank ye," he said, the easy tears of age welling 
 in his eyes. "Thank ye kindly, and may ye have many a 
 long and hearty day in front iv ye yet, with the Pension 
 comin' every Friday, and the purse in the petticoat get- 
 ting bigger on it every week iv the year. ' ' 
 
 "They'll soon be no pensions at all if they keep on as 
 they're keepin* in Dungarrow now," said Peggy with a 
 mournful shake of her head. "It's drillin' and marchin' 
 and tyin' up the poor soldiers behind the hills, and them 
 comin' home from a night's heavy work at the railway." 
 
 "And serve them damned well right," said a voice from 
 the doorwa7.
 
 SEIN FEINERS 241 
 
 Peggy, Coy and Condy fixed a startled glance on the 
 door to see Corney McKelvie standing there, the rain seep- 
 ing from his clothes to the floor. The youngster wore no 
 cap, his waistcoat was open in front, its buttons gone as if 
 it had been pulled apart with violent hands. In his fist 
 he carried an ash plant. 
 
 "Serve them damned well right," he repeated. "The 
 Army iv Occupation! What right have they to be here? 
 That's what I'd like to know! What right have they to be 
 here?" 
 
 "Was there a fight?" asked Condy from his corner. 
 
 "A damned political do," said Corney, sitting down on 
 a near chair and getting to his feet almost as soon as he 
 sat down. ' ' We drew it across them ! ' ' 
 
 "God help us all!" exclaimed Peggy. "What was it?" 
 
 At that instant Anne, the unmarried daughter, came 
 in, her shawl drawn tightly round her head and the hair 
 that hung loosely over her brow beaded with raindrops. 
 
 "They're killin' one another all over the parish," said 
 the girl angrily. "It's out with sticks they are, all the 
 way from here down to Stranarachary and goin' for one 
 another like wild bulls. Yerself, ye fool, was in it, too, 
 I'll bet," said Anne, fixing her eyes on Corney. 
 
 "The order was 'Over the top and the best of luck'!" 
 mumbled Corney. "And over we went " 
 
 "Ye 're drunk, ye omadhaun," said Anne with a scorn- 
 ful curl of her lips. 
 
 "Drunk," said the boy. "Vin rouge no long. But or- 
 ders are out on the polis barracks!" 
 
 "What orders?" asked Condy. 
 
 "They're lookin' for informers," said Corney in a thick 
 voice. "Three pounds for an informer, for a Carey." 
 
 "Once upon a time in the days that used to be," said 
 Coy Fergus Beeragh, who was again sitting down, "there 
 was more than one that would turn traitor " 
 
 "What kind iv informers?" asked Condy Heelagh, cut- 
 ting across the preliminaries of Coy's narrative. 
 
 "It's about the guns that were took off iv the soldiers 
 at Drimacroom," said Anne as she took off her shawl and
 
 242 MAUREEN 
 
 hung it on the beam that stretched across the kitchen. 
 "The polis have a notice out savin' that they'll give three 
 pounds for every gun stole from the red coats. No ques- 
 tions will be asked, and all that's to be done by a man is 
 to hand them in." 
 
 "They're on the look-out for traitors," said Corney. 
 "But they look in the wrong shop when they come to Dun- 
 garrow." 
 
 "They'll stop the Pensions, anyway," said Peggy with a 
 sigh, anticipating the worst. 
 
 At that moment several newcomers entered. They were 
 mostly young men, all more or less disheveled and all drip- 
 ping with wet. Cathal Cassidy was there, Liam Logan, 
 and Fergus Donnel. All looked excited, their eyes lit with 
 an uncommon brightness and all armed with sticks. The 
 last to enter was Mr. Brogan. On seeing him Peggy Rib- 
 big gave a loud shriek and sank on the kitchen bed. And 
 no wonder! A streak of blood showed on the face of the 
 scholar, running from temple to lip, and dripping on the 
 lapel of his coat. 
 
 Mr. Brogan, with drooping head, staggered to a chair, 
 sat down and stared wearily at the floor. After a moment 
 he raised his eyes and fixed a puzzled look on the assem- 
 bled company with an absent air as if he did not recognize 
 anybody. 
 
 "I would like to know what's comin' over the people iv 
 the place at all," said Peggy, getting to her feet and look- 
 ing helplessly at the crowd steaming with rain. "What's 
 comin' over everybody? And yerself above all, Eamon na 
 Sgaddan. An old Shanachie and out fightin '. And there 's 
 blood on yer face, too ! Put a cobweb on it and it '11 stop 
 it. Every one's mad. Sit down, the whole lot iv ye, and 
 have a drop iv tay! Put the kettle on the crook, Anne. 
 Ye should have put it there half an hour ago. You're 
 white, Eamon na Sgaddan! Who struck ye?" 
 
 "I was impeded in the vicinity of Mull a Rudagh," be- 
 gan Eamon. "My curiosity was aroused " 
 
 "Ye got a crack on the nose because ye stuck it into a 
 business that had nothing to do with ye," said Corney Me-
 
 SEIN FEINERS 243 
 
 Kelvie angrily. "It's into yer house, to old Cassie, that 
 ye should have gone hours ago. Comin ' out with us young- 
 sters ! Ye should have more sense in yer head than be out 
 at this hour. What do ye think iv him, Peggy ? ' ' 
 
 The old woman was now perched on a rickety chair grop- 
 ing with the stock of the old gun, which was again behind 
 the rafters, pulling off cobwebs. 
 
 "Poor old Eamon 's all right on it if he gets this cob- 
 web on his cheek," said the woman. "It'll stop the bleed- 
 in'. But it's newins for him to be out'caperin' about like 
 a youngster. Now" she went on, coming down from 
 her perch, the sooty cobweb between her .finger and thumb, 
 and approaching Eamon na Sgaddan "now hold yer head 
 on one side and let me see where the rascals have hit ye." 
 
 "A slight concussion iv the head," said Eamon, bend- 
 ing towards Peggy. As he did so the blood dropped in a 
 stream to the floor. "It's of no consequence. I should 
 have remained indoors." 
 
 "Well, nothin' will ever put the big words out iv yer 
 head, Mr. Eamon," said Peggy, relieved to find that a 
 blow on the head had not interfered with Eamon 's schol- 
 arly attainments. ' ' Musha ! I don 't know what ye 're talk- 
 in' about! It's not a big cut at all. Just sit down and it 
 will be all right. There, the cobweb's on! Poor dear, 
 they shouldn't have hit ye and ye so simple!" She spoke 
 as if to a child with a cut finger. ' ' Sit down, sit down, and 
 there'll soon be a drop iv tay that ye can put down into 
 yer belly and that will warm ye." 
 
 Eamon sat down with a groan and looked at the woman. 
 His face was very white, and a queer, pained expression 
 had settled in his eyes. The cobweb roll, black and en- 
 crusted with soot, looked like a scab. The blood, still flow- 
 ing down the man's cheek, gleamed like a dark blue livid 
 streak as the light caught it. 
 
 "Thank ye very much, Mrs. Heelagh," he said in a low 
 voice, staring at the woman as if trying to recall some- 
 thing. "Thank ye very much for what ye've done to help 
 me. I don 't deserve such kindness. . . . Now I '11 get home. 
 Herself will be waitin' for me and I'm late. Thank ye
 
 244 MAUREEN 
 
 again, Mrs. Heelagh, and thank ye all at the same time. 
 Good night t'ye and thank ye all." 
 
 He got to his feet and made his way unsteadily towards 
 the door. 
 
 "Wait for the tay, Eamon," said Peggy Eibbig. "It's 
 on the fire and it'll soon be on the boil. Is it on the boil yet, 
 Anne? Ye should have it on all night. Ye 're always 
 slow." 
 
 "Don't trouble about me, Mrs. Heelagh," said Eamon, 
 leaning against the wall as if unable to proceed any fur- 
 ther. "I'll get up the brae and get to bed. Good night," 
 he mumbled. "Good night to all iv ye." 
 
 "It's not out iv this house that ye 're goin' the night till 
 ye have at laste one drop iv tay, ' ' said Peggy. ' ' What are 
 ye lookin' at, Anne ! Put some more turf on the fire. And 
 yerself come up be the fire and sit down again, ' ' the woman 
 went on, gripping Eamon by the shoulder and gently pull- 
 ing him back. "D'ye think that we're goin' to let ye out 
 iv the house that way ! Come, sit down and make yerself 
 at home!" 
 
 "Cbme, Eamon, and sit down and have the drop iv tay," 
 said Cathal Cassidy, catching Eamon 's arm. "Ye don't 
 look at all well, but if ye have a drop iv tay it'll warm ye, 
 man ; and ye '11 be all right. ' ' 
 
 "Just as much as will wet the lips even," said Corney 
 McKelvie feelingly. The young man seemed suddenly to 
 realize that Mr. Brogan was in a serious state. 
 
 "There's nothin' like tay," said Fergus Donnel. "And 
 on a night like the night, anyway!" 
 
 "Anne, Anne, hurry up and pull out the greeshaugh 
 from the hob," Peggy wailed, placing Mr. Brogan on the 
 chair and looking at her daughter. "Pull the greeshaugh 
 out with the tongs and put the taypot on it." 
 
 Mr. Brogan looked round the kitchen again, touched the 
 cobweb tenderly with his forefinger and shivered. 
 
 "Who hit him?" asked Condy Heelagh and fixed his 
 eyes on Cathal Cassidy. 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know," said Cathal. "The last I 
 saw of him was comin' from Stranarachary. He was walk-
 
 SEIN FEINERS 245 
 
 in* along by himself, and the Drimeeney boys were wantin* 
 to fight everybody, and there was no time to spare for 
 anybody. They will want to fight!" 
 
 "They were to clear the town iv Sein Feiners, by their 
 way iv talkin','' said Corney McKelvie. "But did they?" 
 
 As he spoke he got to his feet, waved his stick in the 
 air and sat down again. 
 
 "But did they?" he repeated. 
 
 "Why will the people keep fightin' one with the other?" 
 asked Cathal Cassidy sadly. "No good will ever come iv 
 it if they go on like this. . . . Do ye know who hit ye at 
 all?" he asked, looking at Mr. Brogan. 
 
 "I don't know at all," said Eamon with a shake of his 
 head. "I was proceedin' past Mull a Rudagh and some- 
 thing came out from the side of the road, from the bushes, 
 and I was hit, I suppose. Anyway the next thing I mind 
 was to find meself lyin' in the ditch with a pain in my 
 head and the blood runnin' down." 
 
 "The vagabone, whoever it was!" said Condy Heelagh. 
 
 "God knows what the place is comin' to," said Peggy 
 Ribbig, lifting the teapot from the hob. 
 
 " 'Twas a wild night with the fightin', anyway," said 
 Fergus Donnel. "The man that was after the Drimeeney 
 ones, and after them well was Columb Ruagh." 
 
 Mr. Brogan gave a slight start and a tremor shook his 
 frame. 
 
 "It's the shivers that ye have," said Peggy Ribbig, hand- 
 ing Eamon a bowl of tea. "Put this down ye and it'll 
 warm the inside iv ye." 
 
 He took the bowl, drank the tea and then got to his 
 feet. 
 
 "Good night to all iv ye," he said. "Slan leath, Mrs. 
 Heelagh, and thank ye." 
 
 "I'll see ye up the brae," said Cathal Cassidy, also get- 
 ting to his feet and going to the door. The two men went 
 out together into the rain.
 
 QREEN RUSHES 
 
 It's now for me a petticoat red 
 And a whip of green rushes, 
 So out on the road with my eyes ahead 
 For the lane of the wild thrushes. 
 Who was it saw my good red dress f 
 And who was it saw me dressing? 
 'Twas himself, indeed, and none the lest, 
 And that was a great blessing! 
 
 There's many the rush in a whip that't long, 
 
 In a whip of green rushes! 
 
 There's many a song and them all in song, 
 
 In the lane of the wild thrushes. 
 
 What wouldn't they give for a petticoat red? 
 
 And wouldn't they call me funny 
 
 That's more for the dreams that's filling my 
 
 Than a crock of good red money f 
 
 347
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 EILEEN CONROY 
 
 THE fair, the raid and other events which came to dis- 
 turb the calm of the parish gradually became things 
 of the past. Dungarrow had told of itself again, and 
 the ordinary tenor of life pursued its sober way. 
 
 The weather cleared, became warm and dry, and the 
 mown hay was browning in the holms and rising in hand- 
 shakings and trampcocks. The trout died at the bottom 
 of thirsty wells, the big brook which ran down the braes 
 of Meenaroodagh had no longer a head of water to foot 
 the steepest fall; the River Owenaruddagh was a trickle, 
 running lazily as castor-oil under its hazel-lined broughs. 
 It was a drouth of uncommon severity, but meet for the 
 season and beneficent for the corn and hay. 
 
 Even the paste of the notice gummed on the barracks' 
 wall, offering a reward for returned rifles, dried. The no- 
 tice fell off but was not put up again. Why this notice 
 was not replaced gave rise to a little conjecture. One said 
 that the police were short of paste, another that Dungar- 
 row could not be bought, so it was hardly worth while put- 
 ting such notices up, and a third suggested that there was 
 a traitor, which remark was laughed to scorn. But pres- 
 ently discussion of this affair lapsed. The people were too 
 busy and had no time for idle conjecture. Good weather 
 must not be put to loss in the harvest time. 
 
 Cassie Shemus Meehal was at work in the fields with her 
 scythe, mowing sward on sward in the holm which bounded 
 the river. Even now, despite her years, she was as good 
 
 249"
 
 250 MAUREEN 
 
 as a man on the sned and could set her blade to a finer 
 edge than many a trousered mower. 
 
 Mr. Brogan did not mow; in fact since the night of the 
 Stranarachary fair he did very little. About ten in the 
 morning he appeared, walked to the fields with unsteady 
 gait, busied himself for a while shaking the newly mown 
 hay. Then he would sit down on a sward, rest there for a 
 long time, while the swish of Cassie's scythe cut through 
 the stillness of the field. The woman took no notice of her 
 man; did not even reproach him for his idleness. The 
 spancells that chafed his limbs for the first seventeen years 
 of his life were things of the past now. Mr. Brogan, since 
 the night on which he tempered a razor by Cassie's bed- 
 side, was a free man, and master in his own house. 
 
 But things of even greater gravity than the ties of mar- 
 riage were now troubling the poor man. He was wasting, 
 losing weight and vitality. The sickness had laid its hold 
 on him. Since the night of the Stranarachary fair he had 
 not been the same man. It was not the blow on the temple 
 that mattered so much. A queer sensation, something like 
 a little feather tickling, was now making itself felt over 
 the right kidney. This tickle ceased when he moved about 
 in the open, but when he lay down at night it increased. 
 He scratched the skin without easing the irritation. 
 
 After a while he dropped off to sleep, but the slumber 
 was a troubled one, filled with nightmares. In the morn- 
 ing there was a peculiar taste in the man 's mouth, a weak- 
 ness in his spine which kept him to his bed for a good 
 three hours after his woman had got up to her work. 
 
 "When he examined the skin which hid the itch in the 
 morning, he found that it was scarred and scored a little, 
 which showed that his fingers had done something towards 
 easing the irritation while he slept. 
 
 Never before the fair of Stranarachary had the man 
 suffered from any ailment like this, and as to its cause he 
 had not the slightest theory to give. What gave him pain 
 after the assault was the blow on the temple ; this now had 
 practically become well, but the other injury, the one which 
 caused him to itch under the skin, did not make itself felt
 
 EILEEN CONROY 251 
 
 at the beginning, though now it was gradually growing 
 worse. Probably he had fallen on a stone, possibly he had 
 been kicked in the kidney. Anyway, whatever happened, 
 Mr. Brogan 's right kidney was now out of order. The itch 
 went at last, only to be replaced with a dull pain which 
 gave the man the impression that some foreign substance 
 had been stuffed into the corner of his belly. 
 
 But who was the man who had attacked him ? Mr. Bro- 
 gan did not know; a blow came out of the night, felling 
 him, and he lost tonsciousness, unaware who dealt the 
 blow. 
 
 Here events which occurred on the day preceding as 
 well as the day on which the fair was held in Stranarachary 
 may be given. 
 
 It was on the evening preceding the day of the fair that 
 the Stranarachary police pinned the notice on the bar- 
 racks' wall offering a price for the rifles taken from the 
 Army of Occupation. Columb Ruagh, who happened to 
 be in the village buying meal seed for his vat, was passing 
 the barracks when the sergeant and two men were pasting 
 the paper to the wall. 
 
 "What's it that ye 're puttin' up there?" asked Columb. 
 
 The sergeant read out the notice to the man, and nobody 
 being about at the time Columb caught the sergeant by 
 the sleeve and told him to come inside as he had something 
 to say to him. The interview was a long one, and when 
 Columb went home at midnight across the hills he was ac- 
 companied by a man in plain clothes, and this man hap- 
 pened to be a constable from Stranarachary. 
 
 Columb Ruagh and the constable went back to the police 
 station in the morning, crossing the hills, and Eamon na 
 Sgaddan saw them. He had got up early and went to look 
 for sheep, stock for the fair, that had broken their tethers 
 and went back to the hills. The dawn was rising dully, 
 its cold glare as yet unlit by the luster of the sun. Blocks 
 of night mist lay on the surface of the bogs. Mr. Brogan
 
 252 MAUREEN 
 
 was standing on the lap of the Meenaroodagh bog, his eyes 
 taking in the near distance on the look for his sheep, when 
 a sound startled him, the sough of a foot sinking into the 
 marsh. 
 
 Presently out from a block of mist came two men, Columb 
 Ruagh and a constable in plain clothes, both carrying rifles. 
 
 Eamon looked another way as if he did not see the men 
 and allowed them to pass in silence. That night when re- 
 turning from the fair, Eamon met with his accident. Pos- 
 sibly the scholar knew too much. 
 
 m 
 
 It was a Sunday morning, three weeks following the fair 
 of Stranarachary, and when Mr. Brogan woke from his 
 sleep and saw the sun shining through the window he had 
 no desire to rise from his bed. He now slept by himself in 
 the room adjoining the kitchen. Cassie Shemus Meehal 
 slept in the other room. 
 
 The woman was about and busy straining the milk and 
 preparing breakfast before going out to church. The hay 
 on the farm was all lifted, and the corn was in stooks. The 
 weather was admirable. 
 
 Mr. Brogan turned on his side, and with the sound of 
 the activities of the next room in his ears he looked round 
 his own apartment. At one angle of the room lay a pile 
 of turf piled up against the wall, near it was a chair, with 
 bottom splintered and back broken. He looked at the bed 
 with the varied assortment of rags which made a covering 
 for him and then took out a pair of long, bony arms from 
 beneath the blankets and looked at them. Their thinness 
 was appalling. Another month's sickness and the skin 
 would be withered away, he thought, leaving nothing but 
 the bones. 
 
 As he looked at the arms, Mr. Brogan suddenly realized 
 that he was going to die. There was something novel in 
 the thought. It opened up a wide field which he could 
 cross to something definite. Up till now he was ailing, a 
 man who merely had the sickness on him, who might get
 
 EILEEN CONROY 253 
 
 better and might get worse. In this range of possibilities 
 there was nothing certain and assured. But now with the 
 knowledge of death in his head there was a certain relief. 
 Actions if any which he dreaded before could be performed 
 now. 
 
 ' ' Cassie ! " he called, resting his elbow on the pillow and 
 his face in his hand. 
 
 "Well, what's up now?" asked the woman, coming to 
 the door. 
 
 "Are ye goin' to Mass?" asked Eamon. 
 
 "Not this mornin'," said Cassie. "I'm just goin' down 
 to Paddy Friel 's for starch and soap and candles and flour. 
 The morrow's the day iv the washin'." 
 
 "Ye '11 pass Cathal Cassidy's house on the way," said 
 Eamon. 
 
 "Aye." 
 
 "Tell Cathal if ye see him that I want to speak to him," 
 said Eamon. "If he'll come up this way till we've a talk." 
 
 "What d'ye want him for?" asked Cassie. "Be the way 
 iv it ye '11 have all the people iv the parish stravaigin' all 
 through the house." 
 
 "If ye don't tell him to come up, I'll get from my bed 
 and go down myself," said Eamon in a weak voice. 
 
 "All right, ye plaisham, lie down and I'll tell him to 
 come up," said the woman. 
 
 IV 
 
 On the bed lay a varied assortment of rags, bottom-worn 
 trousers, draggle-tailed skirts, petticoats of many colors, 
 crottle-gray, bog-brown and sunburn-blue, all thinned to 
 such threads by years of wear that they could no more 
 support a patch than a rungless ladder could support a 
 thatcher. Eamon 's everyday clothes were there, his woolen 
 wrapper, his shirt and corduroy trousers, even his socks, 
 worn at heel and toe, were woven into the ragged web. But 
 despite the poverty of the room, the dishevelment of the 
 bed and its drab surroundings, there was something which 
 caught Cathal 's eye the moment he entered, something that
 
 254 MAUREEN 
 
 shone in the obscurity as a lone star often shines in the 
 darkest night when all other lights heavenly and earthly 
 are steeped in gloom. This was Brogan's dicky and tie. 
 They lay at the bottom of the bed, both together, a symbol 
 of glory that was gone and greatness that had departed. 
 And under this heap of rags, petticoats and patches, which 
 had only one relieving feature, the tie and dicky, lay the 
 owner of the tie and dicky, Mr. Brogan. 
 
 On hearing the door creak he sat up in bed, and looked 
 at the visitor. 
 
 "Mr. Cassidy?" he inquired in a weak voice. 
 
 "It's me, Eamon," said Cathal with a smile. "Are ye 
 gettin' better?" 
 
 "I'm progressing," said Eamon quietly. "I feel empty 
 inside iv me somehow, but I've no desire for beverage. 
 Cathal, I want to ask ye something, ' ' he said. ' ' Come over 
 here to the bed, please." 
 
 "Iv course," said Cathal, going across to the bed, lean- 
 ing both hands on the stock and looking at Eamon. "I'll 
 do anything in me power to help ye, Eamon." 
 
 ' ' Well, I want to know one thing before we proceed with 
 others," said Mr. Brogan, fixing a timid glance on Cathal. 
 "And that is, did you see her?" 
 
 "Who?" asked Cathal. 
 
 "Herself!" 
 
 As Eamon said this something in his tone reminded 
 Cathal of Peggy Ribbig speaking of the Deity whom she 
 feared more than she loved. 
 
 "Cassie Shemus Meehal!" said Cathal. "I've just met 
 her and her on her way, be the look of it, to the shop for 
 something. ' ' 
 
 "Did she look as if she was in a hurry?" asked Eamon, 
 in a tone of mystery. 
 
 "Just much as usual," Cathal replied. "She's always 
 in a hurry when she's doing anything." 
 
 "True, true, Mr. Cassidy," said Eamon with a sigh. 
 "Now we'll proceed to business." 
 
 On saying this the invalid sighed several times.
 
 EILEEN CONROY 255 
 
 "But afore that, will ye look out be the window and see 
 what 's to be seen on the road ? " he inquired. 
 
 Cathal did as he was directed. Then he came back to 
 the bed. 
 
 "Nothin' to be seen," he said. 
 
 "Nothing!" 
 
 "Not a soul about." 
 
 "Herself isn't on the way back yet?" asked Eamon in 
 a whisper. 
 
 "No, she's not down at the shop yet," said Cathal, won- 
 dering what Eamon was about. True, report had it, and 
 not without grounds, that Cassie had the life and soul 
 scared from her husband. However, she would surely not 
 be hard on a sick man. But probably Eamon was suffer- 
 ing from delusions. Sickness so often makes a man queer 
 in the head, Cathal knew. "She'll not be back here for 
 an hour at least," he assured the invalid, who now, appar- 
 ently deep in thought, seemed to be paying no heed to 
 Cathal. 
 
 "An hour," said Mr. Brogan, awaking after a lapse of 
 five minutes from the reverie into which he had fallen. 
 "An hour! Then the course is clear! Listen! . . . Come 
 closer and listen ! ' ' 
 
 Cathal drew a chair to the bed and sat down. Mr. Bro- 
 gan eased himself upon the pillows, stretched his neck 
 forward till his lips rested on the ear of Cathal Cassidy. 
 
 "It's a matter that has been the curse of my life and 
 the curse of more lives than mine of which I'm going to 
 speak, Mr. Cassidy," said Eamon in a low, mysterious 
 voice. "The ways of Providence are strange and beyond 
 the ken of our philosophy. Mr. Cassidy," he suddenly ex- 
 claimed, turning from a deeper subject to a lighter one, 
 "what is your opinion of dancing?" 
 
 "I think there's no harm in it," said Cathal. "It's a 
 good pastime." 
 
 "I grant you that, Mr. Cassidy," said Eamon. "It's a 
 good pastime while it is a pastime, but there are times when 
 it leads a man into sin "
 
 256 MAUREEN 
 
 "We are all weak, Mr. Brogan," said Cathal. 
 "But some are weaker than others," Eamon replied. 
 "Just have another look through the window, Cathal, will 
 
 The young man rose from his seat, went to the window, 
 gazed down the road for an instant, then came back to his 
 chair again. 
 
 "She's not in sight yet, Mr. Brogan," he said. 
 
 "That is excellent," said the man in the bed, again sit- 
 ting up and bringing his mouth close to CathaFs ear. 
 "That is good . . . the course is clear. . . . The man who 
 has fallen may raise his head from the mire, but not me, 
 Mr. Cassidy. In my youth I committed a grave error, a 
 crime against God and man. Passion seized me and I fell. 
 I dropped from an altitude and wallowed, Mr. Cassidy." 
 
 Cathal's gravity gave way a little. Putting his hand 
 on his mouth he feigned a burst of coughing. 
 
 "A cold has caught me," he said as he battled with the 
 rearrangement of his features to a pose of requisite gravity. 
 There was something exceptionally funny in Mr. Brogan 's 
 confession as he lay there, curled up in the huddle of rags, 
 his head wobbling on his wizened neck like a big cabbage 
 on an attenuated runt.* 
 
 "I have fallen," Eamon proceeded as if he had not heard 
 the remark made by Cathal. "I have fallen far, and by 
 that fall many have suffered. If I was the only one who 
 suffered I would not mind, but there are others. . . . There 
 are others, Mr. Cassidy ; there are others ! ' ' 
 
 "Don't be getting into a flurry, Eamon," said Cathal in 
 an effort to calm the man who was now in a great state of 
 excitement. "Just lie down and take yer aise. Come 
 the morrow you '11 be all right and able to get up and about 
 with the best of them. Everybody that I know, Eamon, 
 has the best opinion of ye. Not a one in the place has ever 
 a hard word to say against ye, at all." 
 
 "That's because they walk blindly," said Eamon. "I'm 
 a man of sin, Mr. Cassidy, a' man of sin. And I have money, 
 too, so much, and it's there! Give it to me, Mr. Cassidy. 
 It's there!"
 
 EILEEN CONROY 257 
 
 He raised his hand and pointed to a corner of the room 
 where the heap of turf was piled in an angle of the wall. 
 
 "It's there!" he said. "Turn over the turf and yell 
 get it in under and it in a box with an old shirt 
 over it. Just look and see, Mr. Cassidy. But mind the 
 window first and tell me if herself is on the road back 
 yet!" 
 
 After looking out and assuring Mr. Brogan that Cassie 
 Shemus Meehal was not yet in sight, Cathal proceeded to 
 turn the turf over. He did the work mechanically, with 
 the sole idea of humoring the sick man, and was surprised 
 when he came to the bottom of the heap to find there a 
 bundle wrapped in a piece of rag. 
 
 "Is this what ye mane?" he asked, showing it to the 
 sick man. 
 
 "That's it," said Eamon in excited tones. "Open it 
 now, and see what's inside." 
 
 Cathal took it up to the bedside, unshirted the parcel, 
 and disclosed to view a little tin box which had once been 
 used by Cassie Shemus Meehal to store tea. He had seen 
 this box on the last occasion that he visited the house, nine 
 years before. 
 
 "Open the box and disclose the treasure," said Mr. Bro- 
 gan. 
 
 Cathal raised the lid. Under it was a pile of wool packed 
 tightly. He lifted the wool, to find beneath it a nest of 
 sovereigns. 
 
 "All my own," said Eamon excitedly, reaching for the 
 box. "Fifty pounds here. Fifty pounds in gold." 
 
 He emptied the money in his hand, then without count- 
 ing it he put it back again in the box and replaced the 
 wool. 
 
 "Put it in yer pocket, Mr. Cassidy," he said. "Plank 
 the lid on and put it in yer pocket, in yer breast pocket, 
 and put a safety pin if ye have one, and keep it from fall- 
 in' out." 
 
 "But I don't want to keep this," said Cathal. "I may 
 lose it and then when you want it back I'll not have it to 
 give you. I '11 tell yer what I '11 do, Mr. Brogan. I '11 keep
 
 258 MAUREEN 
 
 it till Cassie Shemus Meehal comes back from the shop 
 and then I'll give it to her." 
 
 "Put it in yer pocket to please me," said Eamon in a 
 hoarse voice. "Into yer pocket and I'll tell ye who ye 're 
 to give it to. I'm a vile man, Mr. Cassidy, and Fate was 
 hard on me, but harder on others ! ' ' 
 
 He paused, shook himself, and lay down. His face was 
 strangely white, and beads of sweat stood on his forehead. 
 His eyes closed as if shutting out the world for a moment 
 while he contemplated the meaning of his last utterance. 
 Cathal held the box in his hand and stared at the lid. Mr. 
 Brogan was delirious, he thought, and recollected that the 
 whims of a sick man should be humored. Mr. Brogan sat 
 up again and glanced at Cathal. 
 
 "Mr. Cassidy," he said abruptly, as if he had suddenly 
 come to a vital decision. "Mr. Cassidy, I have something 
 to tell you. I trust you more than any man in the parish, 
 than any man in the world, if it goes to that. I have a 
 bad sickness on me and maybe it's not long for this world 
 that I am. I see everything clear as day now. I know 
 what to do, and if you help me I '11 die easy. Cathal, that 
 fifty pounds, all that I can get my hands on, I've handed 
 to you and I know that you'll do with it what I ask. When 
 I'm dead I'll rest easy " 
 
 "But you're not going to die, Eamon," said Cathal. 
 "The morrow ye '11 be up and able to get about just the 
 same as any one." 
 
 Eamon shrugged his shoulders with the confidence of a 
 man who knows that his own prophecy is certain. 
 
 "When I know that I helped her in some way," he con- 
 tinued, taking up the thread of speech where Cathal had 
 interrupted him. " Go to her and hand her the fifty pounds 
 and tell her that it was from a man that owed her as much 
 and a million times more. But don't give her my name. 
 It's anonymous." 
 
 "But who is it?" asked Cathal. 
 
 "Maureen O'Malley," said Eamon. 
 
 "But where is she and why?" asked Cathal in a startled
 
 EILEEN CONROY 259 
 
 whisper. "She left here and no one knows where she is 
 and for what are ye giving her this money?" 
 
 " 'Twas a dance at Neddy Og's, one Candlemas nineteen 
 years ago, and I had a drop too much," Eamon said in a 
 droning voice as if he were reciting something which he 
 prepared long beforehand. 
 
 " 'Twasn't her fault and it wasn't mine. Kathleen Mai- 
 ley, so proud and high spirited, would have nothing to 
 do with me. Many's the time she called me a plaisham, 
 and what did it matter with a drunk fool that had no 
 sense in his head. There are people who will get drunk 
 by mistake and them havin' no taste for whisky. That 
 was Kathleen O'Malley the night iv the dance at Neddy 
 Og's. And I didn't know anything about it till the child 
 was born." 
 
 "Maureen O'Malley!" Cathal exclaimed. 
 
 "Maureen O'Malley," Eamon assented in a whisper. 
 
 "You?" Cathal inquired, but to this question the man 
 gave no answer. He turned his back to Cathal, pulled a 
 crottle-gray petticoat round his neck and burst into tears. 
 Cathal placed the box on the bed beside the dicky and tie 
 and went to the window. He looked along the road where 
 it stretched over the brown moor towards the sea. On it 
 he could see a figure in gray coming towards the house. 
 Cassie Shemus Meehal was coming back. Cathal returned 
 to the bed. 
 
 "Is it the truth that ye 're telling?" he asked in a falter-, 
 ing tone as if something was choking him. 
 
 "The honest truth," said Eamon without turning round. 
 
 "And Searlas Dhu O'Friel?" 
 
 " 'Twas only the people's talk, that." 
 
 "But are ye sure?" 
 
 "Sure as I'm lyin' here, Mr. Cassidy," said Eamon, 
 twisting his neck and looking at Cathal over his shoulder. 
 
 "And ye let her go out into the world without one penny 
 piece to help her and her yer daughter, ' ' said Cathal, his 
 voice rising in anger. "And ye held yer head up all the 
 time and never made an effort to save her, to do the right 
 thing. And now ye come up with this dirty box of gold.
 
 260 MAUREEN 
 
 Will it pay the girl for what she has suffered, and for what 
 she is suffering wherever she is now?" 
 
 "It took me nineteen years to save the money," said 
 Eamon in a piteous voice. "I gave up the smoking* for to 
 make a penny here and a penny there. And then I had 
 other money goin' out to somebody that knew me to be 
 what I am and blackmailed me." 
 
 "And served ye damned well right," thundered Cathal. 
 "Pretending that ye were this and that and what not and 
 now to see what ye are. Oh ! Mother iv God ! Mother iv 
 God!" 
 
 "I make no excuses," Eamon mumbled. "I'm a scoun- 
 drel, but I would like ye to take that money with ye to 
 her. She's beyond the mountains, and maybe if ye go to 
 the next Strabane fair comin' yell see her there and give 
 it to her. Say nothin' at all, but hand it to her. There, 
 I hear a foot on the street. It's herself, Mr. Cassidy. Put 
 it in yer pocket and quick, Mr. Cassidy, there she is, there 
 she is!" 
 
 With a movement almost mechanical Cathal grabbed the 
 box and shoved it into his pocket as Cassie Shemus Meehal 
 opened the door. 
 
 In the corner of the boreen where on one momentous oc- 
 casion nineteen years before Mr. Brogan saw the light 
 gleam through the blind of the Meehal 's house, Cathal sat 
 down and rested his head in his hands. Along the road 
 he could see the people on their way to Mass, some in 
 groups, others singly, all bound for the chapel of Stranara- 
 chary. An hour ago Cathal had dressed with the intention 
 of going to the service, but now, a prey to irritation and 
 anguish, he decided not to go. 
 
 His heart was filled with an intense repugnance towards 
 Eamon na Sgaddan. That this pitiable fool, this spineless 
 creature, should be the father of Maureen! There was 
 something so utterly repulsive in the confession made by 
 the sick man, something so humiliating for Maureen, so
 
 EILEEN CONROY 261 
 
 maddening for Cathal that it was with difficulty he kept 
 himself in the shackles of restraint. Mr. Brogan, the laugh- 
 ing-stock of the parish, the butt of the ribald, the slave of 
 a mannish wife, and the father of Maureen! Better any- 
 body than he. Maureen was put to shame and humiliated. 
 The harassing impression that weighed on his mind caused 
 Cathal to groan with anguish. He took the purse of money 
 from his pocket, gazed at it with a shudder, then threw it 
 into the undergrowth that lined the lanes. 
 
 Cathal knew from his school days that Maureen O 'Mai- 
 ley was an illegitimate child and placing his faith on com- 
 mon report believed that Searlas Dhu O'Friel was the 
 father of his sweetheart. 'That Searlas would have married 
 Kathleen if Fate had spared him was a common assump- 
 tion, but Searlas died, and the mishap, a committal of two, 
 became the sufferance and dolor of one. Obloquy satisfies 
 no instinct, even the vilest, when thrown at the indifferent 
 dead. It needs something living, something which it can 
 tear and lacerate, which quivers in sensitive anguish at a 
 stroke or scratch! Such vituperative contumely fell on 
 Kathleen O'Malley and through her on the girl, Maureen, 
 and for all this Mr. Brogan was responsible. But could 
 it be possible ? Cathal questioned. That Mr. Brogan could 
 be" guilty of such a misdemeanor savored of the grotesque, 
 but it must have been true. Else why this astounding 
 confession, this purse of fifty pounds? Was Mr. Brogan 
 delirious ? 
 
 The thought of the scholar became suddenly odious to 
 Cathal Cassidy, and the heart of the young man was filled 
 with bitter resentment. Searlas Dhu O'Friel he never 
 condemned, firstly because the man was dead and secondly 
 because he had never known him. In the third place, Mau- 
 reen was something which existed for Cathal since the 
 beginning of things. Knowing everything, as he thought, 
 he fell in love with her, accepting her for what she was, 
 because he wanted her. 
 
 Now Mr. Brogan, the father of the girl, came in on 
 Cathal's consciousness in a strange, unexpected form. 
 Here was the man to be blamed, the man whose action was
 
 262 MAUREEN 
 
 in a measure responsible for Cathal's unhappiness, and 
 the unhappiness of Maureen. If Mr. Brogan had married 
 Kathleen, Maureen would never have run away and hid- 
 den herself in the obscure corners of the world. Perhaps 
 even now she was suffering with pain that might have been 
 averted if Eamon Brogan had done the right thing. 
 
 "I should have pulled him from his bed and strangled 
 the swine!" said Cathal furiously, rising to his feet and 
 fixing an angry gaze on the house that he had just left. 
 Then turning round he saw the purse which he had thrown 
 away. Touching it mechanically with his boot he turned 
 it over, then bent down, lifted it and put it in his pocket. 
 
 At that moment he heard a light footstep behind him. 
 It was Eileen Conroy on her way to Mass. 
 
 "Cathal," she said in a low, self-conscious whisper, 
 "who'd have thought iv meetin' yerself here ! I'm late for 
 chapel and came down the near cut." 
 
 "Aye, Eileen," said Cathal absently, a strange ring of 
 anguish in his voice. "But ye 're not as late as that." 
 
 "Ye 're comin', too, aren't ye?" asked the girl. 
 
 "Not the day," said Cathal, looking at Eileen with child- 
 like directness, though his words seemed to be sticking in 
 his throat. 
 
 "Not the day," repeated the girl. "And ye 're lookin' 
 that funny on it, Cathal," she went on, noticing his trou- 
 bled expression. "There's nothin' wrong with ye at all?" 
 
 "Nothin'," said Cathal in the same troubled voice. 
 
 "But ye 're not comin' down the road, then?" asked the 
 girl. 
 
 "Yes, I think that I'll go," said the young man, shak- 
 ing himself, as if waking up to the performance of a neces- 
 sary duty. "It'll be a nice walk with the day so good." 
 
 "It's the grand weather and all that we're havin' now," 
 said Eileen. "All the hay in in the parish, bar that iv 
 Sally Rourke, poor woman, with nobody to help her, and 
 maybe it's the wet weather that'll come before she has any 
 iv hers saved." 
 
 "But some iv us will get on the job the morrow," said
 
 EILEEN CONROY 263 
 
 Cathal, struggling to evince an interest in something which 
 would keep his mind off the confession which Mr. Brogan 
 had made. ''Three days of this weather will help to save 
 all her hay, once it 's cut down. ' ' 
 
 "That it will," said Eileen, who seemed, like Cathal, to 
 be under the stress of some peculiar feeling. When she 
 spoke her voice sounded husky, the words it fashioned of 
 no import but seeming to be squeezed out from others to 
 which she dared give no utterance. 
 
 "Well, I hope it doesn't rain, anyway," said Cathal, 
 fixing an awkward glance on the pretty, wavy hair of the 
 girl. 
 
 "I hope the same," said Eileen. 
 
 They followed the boreen to the main road. The church- 
 goers, the last save Cathal and Eileen, could be seen turn- 
 ing a corner half a mile in front. 
 
 "We're very late," said Eileen. "The Prayers before 
 Mass will be past be the time we get there." 
 
 "I suppose they will," Cathal replied, with a gesture 
 of indifference. "I'm nearly always late, anyway." 
 
 They walked half a mile in silence. From the distance 
 came the sound of the waves breaking over the rocky teeth 
 of Gweenora Bay, and suddenly nearer came the sonorous 
 ring of the church bell. 
 
 "We'll hardly be in time for the first Gospel," said 
 Cathal. "I never care to go in this late." 
 
 "Then if we go back?" said Eileen, drawing in a deep 
 breath. 
 
 "But I must go," said Cathal, quickening his step. 
 
 "And ye weren't wantin' to go much at all when we 
 were in the boreen," said Eileen in a petulant tone. 
 
 For a moment Cathal dropped thought of the confes- 
 sion which Eamon na Sgaddan had made that morning. 
 He looked at Eileen and fancied he saw something strange 
 in her demeanor. Her eyes were fixed on him, and she 
 panted a little as she tried to keep pace with Cathal. 
 
 "Am I goin' too quick for ye?" he asked, slowing his 
 pace. "It doesn't matter, Eileen. We'll be in plenty ir
 
 264 MAUREEN 
 
 time, anyway. . . . Won't we now?" he added, seeing 
 that the girl did not answer him. 
 
 She came to a dead stop, looked on the road as if in 
 quest of something which she had dropped and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 "What's wrong, Eileen Conroy?" he asked, a look of 
 concern mantling his face. "Has any one done anything 
 to ye?" 
 
 "No one," she stammered. "Cathal Cassidy!" 
 
 "What is it, Eileen?" 
 
 "I want to tell ye something" she said in a choking 
 voice, fumbling with the corner of her shawl. 
 
 "Yes, yes, iv course, Eileen. Whatever it is," he stam- 
 mered in a helpless voice. 
 
 "I'm goin' away the morrow," said Eileen. "I'm goin' 
 away to Strabane, beyont the mountains. I had word from 
 Maggie Kurnew and her place is a good one and they want 
 another servant. They bought a new farm, the people 
 that she's with, and . . . and I'm goin'." 
 
 "It'll be better there than here," said Cathal, relieved 
 to know that Eileen's sorrows were of such light character. 
 "Maggie Kurnew has stopped two years in the place," he 
 said, "and if, when you're there " 
 
 He stopped, the words dying on his lips, but Eileen 
 guessed what he was going to say and a look of intense 
 agony showed on her face. 
 
 "But that wasn't what I was goin' to tell ye," said the 
 girl. "It was somethin' else, and I'll not tell ye now, 
 Cathal Cassidy." 
 
 "Tell it to me, whatever it is," he said in a coaxing 
 voice. 
 
 "Never, never," said the girl, in an emphatic tone. 
 "Never at all because, Cathal Cassidy, ye 're as cruel and 
 cold as a mountainy stone. Ye've no heart at all in 
 ye!" 
 
 As she spoke she looked at him for a moment, burst into 
 further tears, and turning, went back the way she had 
 come.
 
 EILEEN CONROY 265 
 
 VI 
 
 The congregation was rising to the first Gospel when 
 Cathal, unobserved, entered the church. The white-haired 
 Father Dan officiated. The Gospel finished, all knelt again. 
 Though Cathal knelt in the hind seat, the near worshipers, 
 conscious of a strange presence, turned round, and their 
 curious eyes set in moist, swarthy faces made him feel 
 very uncomfortable. It seemed as if these were aware of 
 all that had taken place that morning. 
 
 He turned bead after bead of his Rosary mechanically, 
 his mind a whirlpool of complexity. He moved his lips 
 in the formality of prayer, but his thoughts were dwelling 
 on things beyond the ken of explanation. Everything in 
 the church was to Cathal mysterious, fantastic and for- 
 eign. Confusion and mystery had broken down Cathal's 
 world of verities. There was nothing true and stable. 
 He placed his Rosary in his pocket and fixed his glance 
 on the priest who in the incense-laden atmosphere seemed 
 an immeasurable distance away. 
 
 He looked again at the people near him. All were happy 
 and hearty, and their very sighs seemed to express a cer- 
 tain thankfulness for some luck which had befallen them. 
 It was a day of thanksgiving to God for the weather which 
 he had sent them, for the corn stacked and the hay saved. 
 All the harvest in the parish with the exception of Sally 
 Rourke's was garnered. 
 
 The Gospel of the Day was read, the prayers for the 
 living and the dead of all nations and in particular for 
 those lately dead in the parish. Followed a short sermon 
 by Father Dan who took for his text the third Command- 
 ment: "Remember thou keep holy the Sabbath Day." 
 
 "A Cara Yeelish," said the priest. "This is a story of 
 a thing that happened once on a time when the Son of God, 
 Jesus Christ, walked this earth like an ordinary man, when 
 he healed the lepers, comforted the afflicted and had the 
 kind word for everybody, even for those that were taken 
 in sin. It was on the Sabbath Day and He went into a
 
 266 MAUREEN 
 
 house where the Jews gathered together on the Sabbath. 
 Amongst the crowd there was a man with his hand withered. 
 And the people gathered round Christ and asked him: 
 'Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath Day?' They were 
 wanting to get the Son of God into a corner so that they 
 might accuse Him if He acted contrary to the law of 
 Moses. Christ when he heard their question, answered 
 saying: 'Now if any of you had one sheep and it fell into 
 a hole on the Sabbath Day would you not take it out? 
 Then if you could take a sheep out, why not help a man, 
 for he's of much more account than a sheep? So there- 
 fore it's quite lawful to do well on a Sabbath Day.' "With 
 these words the Son of God looked at the man and said, 
 'Hold out your hand/ and the man did so and Jesus Christ 
 made it as well as the other. 
 
 "But on the other hand if a man wanted to go out into 
 the market and sell a sheep at a good profit on the Sabbath 
 Day, do you think that Christ would look with favor on 
 the job? No fear. You can help a neighbor on the Sab- 
 bath Day, but you are not allowed to trade with him, for 
 that is a sin, a mortal sin. But on the other hand it is 
 lawful to do well. 
 
 "Even to-day you can see a chance of doing well to a 
 neighbor, especially you young men from the townlands 
 of Meenarood and Meenaroodagh. You all passed the holms 
 and braes on Widow Bourke's farm, and you all saw that 
 the good woman hasn't a cock of hay up or a stook of corn 
 down. Here's a chance for ye all to get your scythes and 
 reap a path to Heaven. 
 
 "Go home now, when this wee sermon is at an end, get 
 your scythes, thrust up yer sleeves, you young men with 
 shoulders as broad as a half-door, and set to work on 
 Widow Rourke's farm, and cut down her hay and corn. 
 I'll be with you at the job, for I'm goin' to have a hand 
 at the mowing myself, just to show you that your old parish 
 priest can sharpen a scythe and cut a sward with the best 
 of them!" 
 
 Across the dyke that surrounded the church was the 
 home of Father Dan. When Mass was at an end he went
 
 EILEEN CONROY 267 
 
 towards the door, but on seeing Cathal Cassidy following 
 him he stopped and waited till the young man approached. 
 
 "And how are ye, Cathal Cassidy?" asked Father Dan. 
 
 "Rightly, father, thank you," Cathal replied. 
 
 "And Sein Fein?" asked the priest with a smile. "Is 
 it getting on well?" 
 
 "It's a good horse, father," said Cathal symbolically. 
 
 "But will they not break it in?" asked the priest in a 
 tone of banter. The old man kept aloof from politics. A 
 fourth of his parishioners were not Sein Feiners. On prin- 
 ciple he refrained from showing sympathy to any particu- 
 lar party. 
 
 "They're tryin'," said Cathal, "with one hundred 
 thousand bayonets. It is the kind of self-determination 
 that they allow a small nationality. . . . But there 's some- 
 thin' else that I'd like to talk to you about, father," said 
 Cathal. ' ' That 's if you have the time to spare. ' ' 
 
 "Come in then, and sit down and have a smoke," said 
 the priest, opening the door and ushering Cathal in. He 
 showed the young man into his study, where a number of 
 books were piled in all conceivable corners and where the 
 plates for the man's dinner were laid out on a table in 
 the center of the room. The old man placed a chair for 
 Cathal and asked him to sit down. 
 
 "And have a smoke, too," he said, putting a tobacco 
 pouch on the table opposite the young man. 
 
 "I've come to talk t'ye about somethin'," said Cathal, 
 taking his pipe from his pocket and holding it in the fork 
 of his hand. "I want your help in a matter." 
 
 ' ' Tell me everything, Cathal, ' ' said the priest, his kindly 
 voice grave and quiet. "Just speak to me as you would 
 to yerself. Whatever ye say is between the two of us." 
 
 He looked at the young man as he spoke. Cathal's nos- 
 trils quivered, the hand which held the pipe shook, and 
 he seemed to be undergoing some great internal conflict. 
 All at once, and without saying another word, he got to 
 his feet, put his pipe back in his pocket, took out the ragged 
 spring purse and put it down on the table in front of the 
 priest.
 
 MAUREEN 
 
 "What's in there ?" asked the old man in a voice streaked 
 with curiosity. 
 
 "Fifty pounds," said Cathal. 
 
 "Then you're going to get married," said the priest, 
 jumping to a pert conclusion. "It's the way with boys." 
 
 "I'm not going to get married," said Cathal. "That 
 money is not mine. ... It 's money for Maureen 'Malley, 
 wherever she is." 
 
 Then with some effort at the start, but with a growing 
 sense of relief, inspired by the confidence and sympathy 
 of the old man, Cathal told in brief the confession of Mr. 
 Brogan, dwelling at some length on the pain which rankled 
 in his heart at the duplicity of the scholar. When Cathal 
 had finished, Father Dan rose to his feet and with his 
 hands behind his back paced up and down the room several 
 times. Having known for years the mishap and those re- 
 sponsible, the boundaries of the net in which they were 
 held and the circumstances of the occasion, Father Dan 
 had long since arrived at a certain tolerant decision, which 
 though not righting a wrong did much towards limiting 
 its effects. The results of a mishap were in a measure 
 modified by keeping Cassie Shemus Meehal in ignorance. 
 Nothing could be served by letting the woman know of her 
 husband 's delinquencies. 
 
 The priest seated himself again and looked at Cathal. 
 
 "If we consider this case from what is known to all, 
 what do we find?" he asked, then continued without wait- 
 ing for an answer: "Eamon was away in Scotland, the 
 last time he ever went there ; and when he came back, what 
 happened ? ' ' 
 
 "The dirty scoundrel was drunk and Cassie Shemus 
 Meehal got her claws on him," said Cathal angrily, whether 
 with Mr. Brogan or his wife it was impossible to say. "One 
 of them 's bad and the other worse, ' ' he went on in an angry 
 voice. "The woman greedy as the devil and the man sly 
 as Satan. A crawlin' snake, that's what he is, making the 
 life of Maureen that's gone, God knows where, a misery, 
 a hell on earth!'*
 
 EILEEN CONROY 269 
 
 Father Dan listened, one elbow on the table, his head 
 resting on his hand. For a moment he was silent. Then, 
 raising his head, he glanced at Cathal, his eyes almost stern 
 in their gravity. 
 
 ' ' Do you know the Lord 's Prayer, Cathal ? " he inquired. 
 
 "I do," said the young man bluntly. "But in this case 
 it serves no purpose." 
 
 "... forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who 
 trespass against us, ' ' said the priest in a calm, grave voice. 
 ' ' Has it ever struck you what that means, its inner signifi- 
 cance?" 
 
 ' ' Of course it has, ' ' was the obstinate assertion of Cathal, 
 who felt somewhat annoyed at being catechized in this man- 
 ner. "But what has it at all to do with the man up 
 there?" 
 
 "This," said the priest. "You go down on your knees 
 every night and say the Lord's Prayer. You ask God for 
 pardon of your own sins and promise in recompense to 
 give forgiveness to those who have sinned against you. 
 Call it a contract if you like, and if you do, ask yourself 
 how do you keep your part of the bargain. If you give a 
 man your word at the Fair over the sale of stock, you'll 
 keep it, but when you give your word to God you don't 
 keep it. Do you know, Cathal Cassidy" Father Dan got 
 to his feet "do you know that Mr. Brogan shows more 
 Christian feeling than you do? There's proof of it" he 
 pointed at the purse which lay on the table. "He has 
 scraped and pinched to gather this money to make amends 
 to one whom he has wronged. He is conscious of the wrong 
 that he has done, and he would do anything to right it!" 
 
 "He has been a long while in righting it," said Cathal. 
 
 "Maybe he's like the rest of us in many ways," said 
 Father Dan quietly. "So many of us are going to do the 
 right thing. We're going to do it to-day, but we leave it 
 off till to-morrow, and when the morrow comes we leave 
 it off till the day after. But I think Eamon Brogan had 
 more backbone than most people. He was certain of his 
 way. He gave up his tobacco, even, and that for nineteen
 
 270 MAUREEN 
 
 years to do the right thing to the girl whom he was re- 
 sponsible for. Wouldn't you call that something towards 
 making amends for a transgression, now?" 
 
 "If a man's in my position, he cannot reason as calm 
 as you can, father," said Cathal resentfully. 
 
 "Are you in love with Maureen?" asked the priest. 
 
 "I am, father," said Cathal with open frankness. 
 
 "And you don't know where she is?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And you've never had word from the ones that goes 
 to Strabane to the hiring-fairs of ever seeing her there?" 
 inquired the priest. 
 
 "I've never seen her," said Cathal. "And I go to the 
 fair three times a year, always on the look-out for her. 
 She's lost, gone into the darkness like a spark up a chim- 
 ney." 
 
 Cathal got to his feet, looked at Father Dan, then with- 
 out taking the purse from the table, without even saying 
 a word, he went out and made his way up the road home. 
 
 When he reached Meenaroodagh he found that a num- 
 ber of people were already at work on the lift of the brae 
 behind Sally Rourke 's house, swart men, coatless and elbow- 
 free, breaking the front of the meadow with gleaming 
 scythes, in their train the couchant swaths of lush grass. 
 A number of girls who had come out to shake the hay were 
 seated at the butt of the field, chattering, laughing and 
 making merry. One was singing, and Cathal as he strode 
 along could hear the words of her song : 
 
 "The nations have fallen and thou still art young, 
 
 Thy sun is but rising when others have set, 
 
 And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung, 
 
 The full noon of Freedom shall beam round thee yet I 
 
 Erin, my Erin, though long in the shade, 
 
 Thy star shall shine out when the proudest shall fade!" 
 
 The song was one of bitter import, of wrongs unforgot- 
 ten, of indignities which the body forgets but the soul 
 remembers; the lash which lacerated a nation's husk but 
 fanned the vitality of her soul. 
 
 The song that brought back memories of the past to the
 
 EILEEN CONROY 271 
 
 people, spurring them forward to the new day, the fresh 
 renascence, gladding their hearts towards a future, struck 
 a chill into an empty void when it fell on Cathal's ears. 
 A past recent but fearfully remote came to his mind, chill- 
 ing him with the gloom of despair. The song was one 
 which he had often heard sung by Maureen O'Malley. . . .
 
 THREE ROSES 
 
 On her breast were three roses, 
 And she stirred the stirabout-pot. 
 "Where have you got the roses, 
 And are you married or notf" 
 
 The sparks sang up the chimney ; 
 Her brave eyes were so bright. 
 A pink rose and a red rose 
 And a rose bog-blossom white. 
 
 "Where did I get the roses? 
 That's what I'll tell to none, 
 And how can a girl be married, 
 And her by herself alonef" 
 
 The white neck in my elbow 
 The tumbled breasts of desire! 
 And the roses petal by petal 
 Dropping into the fire. 
 
 The white and the pink and the red rote 
 Sobbing into the flame, 
 One couldn't tell where they went to, 
 One couldn't tell whence they came. 
 
 273
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 THE Two GIRLS 
 
 TWO years passed, and in the house of the Fanner Mc- 
 Kenna lived the girl Maureen, her former depression 
 gone, leaving in its stead the dreamy hopes of youth 
 and the vague desires of healthy girlhood. She had now 
 grown to her full height, a comely lass, bright and agree- 
 able, the talk of the Glen of Corngarrow in which she 
 found herself and an object of admiration for all the boys 
 of the place. 
 
 The steading was a good one, with a kind mistress and 
 a frank, good-hearted master. When Maureen came there, 
 having no roof for her head otherwhere, the master told 
 her to remain until such time as something better turned 
 up. She could help the Donegal girl already there to do 
 the housework, but of course she would not be paid any 
 wages. McKenna was a poor man. One servant girl was 
 sufficient for the household, so as a temporary measure he 
 offered to keep two, feed them and pay wages to one. But 
 at the end of the summer term the girl who was hired 
 went back to her home and Maureen stepped into her shoes. 
 From then she had remained in the place. 
 
 The farm was excellent, so much superior to the houses 
 of Thornton and Baxter that Maureen, accustoming her- 
 self to the place, felt quite happy, and her mind pictured 
 a future free from remorse and care. The past, so cold 
 and gloomy, made way for a present life so full of hope that 
 the girl's imagination overflowed with life and light. It 
 was good to be alive, to be young and happy. 
 
 Betty McKenna, the mistress, took to the girl, watching 
 
 275
 
 276 MAUREEN 
 
 over her as a mother might do. In the evening the house- 
 hold went down on its knees praying together in Irish. 
 The farmer was proud of his knowledge of the ancient 
 tongue. 
 
 ' ' Not many bar me and herself, ' ' he often said, ' ' knows 
 the old tongue in Corngarrow. It is fast dying out, and 
 that 's a bad thing. A country without a tongue of its own 
 is like a man that hasn't a voice. He's dead, and a coun- 
 try that can't speak its own tongue is dead, dead as a 
 nail." 
 
 In the summer Maureen got up at seven, in winter she got 
 up at eight. Then she milked the cows, made the byres 
 and did the various odd jobs of the farmyard. Betty 
 McKenna did the work of the household, the cooking, wash- 
 ing and darning, always on her feet early and late, a 
 hearty woman, vital as a schoolgirl. 
 
 Sunday was the day that Maureen loved. Then she 
 could go to Mass, over the hills to the little chapel of Clid- 
 dagh, where the country girls gathered together and spoke, 
 as girls will do, of their various love affairs, the dances 
 they attended, and the boys whom they knew. In their 
 company, with her past a secret, the girl felt free of that 
 restraint which cast its chill over her when she lived in 
 Dungarrow. 
 
 Still, she never forgot her native place. It constantly 
 recurred to her, the life she had known there, her mother 
 who was so good and kind and unhappy, her, friend Eileen 
 Conroy, and her lover Cathal Cassidy. She had never 
 heard from him since she left, since she disappeared from 
 his life. Probably he did not know what had happened to 
 her. There was no one to tell him of her whereabouts and 
 her life beyond the mountains. 
 
 Since she had come to McKenna 's she had never left the 
 place, never gone beyond the boundaries of the parish. 
 When other girls went away from their places to the hiring- 
 fairs of Omagh and Strabane she remained in her house. 
 She did not want to see the Dungarrow people if any of 
 them happened to come to the fair. Old acquaintanceship 
 was not to be renewed. She had cut herself off from the
 
 THE TWO GIRLS 277 
 
 friends and enemies of her youth for good, and forgetful- 
 ness slow but sure nipped at the fabric of sorrow, tearing 
 it away bit by bit until scarce a trace remained. She still 
 prayed for her mother, but the keen anguish and bitterness 
 of two years ago had become dulled and insensible. Even 
 Cathal was now nothing more than a sweet remembrance. 
 Grief and love need their fuel or both die out and are 
 obliterated. 
 
 The girl was known to the McKennas as Maureen O 'Mai- 
 ley. She had been in the house for a week, living under an 
 assumed name, when the wrong of her falsehood struck her 
 forcibly and she went to the good woman of the house and 
 confessed her pardonable duplicity. When the confession 
 came to an end the woman caught the girl to her bosom 
 and burst into tears. Then Betty McKenna went to her 
 husband and told him the true story of the unhappy girl. 
 He listened in silence until the woman had finished, then 
 getting to his feet he struck one toil-bitten hand against 
 another and exclaimed: 
 
 "That Donegal girl goes out from this house when she 
 wants to go and not before. I like the look of the cub's 
 face." 
 
 It was coming near the end of August. Two years had 
 now passed since the day on which Maureen O'Malley stole 
 away from the parish of Dungarrow. 
 
 "Go down to Saugh Faddagh," said Betty McKenna 
 one morning, "and take the cows with ye, Maureen, and 
 put them in there afore milkin ' time. ' ' 
 
 Maureen loosed the cows from the byre and drove them 
 along the field-path, scarcely traceable amidst the grasses. 
 The songs of birds filled the hedgerows, and the sky above, 
 pale and cool, was filled with a million striped clouds, 
 filling, forming and fading away. Long filaments of 
 spider webs stretched on the branches and the grass, float- 
 ing in the air and brushing against the girl's face. The 
 lane was a path of daisies that peeped from amidst the
 
 278 MAUREEN 
 
 grasses, their big eyes fixed on the girl. In front the 
 cows paced soberly along, waving their tails lazily, as if 
 they had not yet fully awakened from their night's sleep. 
 
 She drove them into the Saugh Faddagh, closed the gap 
 behind them and leant a moment on the rail taking stock 
 of the country in front. Field after field, the country 
 stretched away into illimitable distances, rising here over 
 a hillock, losing itself there under a spinney or village 
 and ultimately blocking its perspective against the forests 
 and plantings of Baronscourt that stood on the horizon. 
 
 Maureen became suddenly conscious of somebody strange 
 who was standing across in the next field, a barefooted 
 girl in a checked blouse and a red flannel petticoat. There 
 was something Donegal in that red flannel petticoat. Mau- 
 reen had seen her neighbors in Dungarrow wear such ar- 
 ticles of apparel. She had worn a red petticoat herself. 
 In fact the sight of that petticoat brought back memories 
 of her native place. In it was something homely, tradi- 
 tional. Who could the girl be? 
 
 The farm across the boundary ditch belonged to a family 
 sib to the MeKennas, but, the man of the house dying, 
 the woman had sold the farm and had gone away. Some 
 rich farmer, his name unknown to Maureen, who lived 
 down near the village of Drumfinnagh, had bought the 
 farm and was using it for grazing-ground. McKenna be- 
 longed to the district of Drumfinnagh, but being on the 
 outer boundaries of the parish and nearer the church of 
 Cliddagh, which belonged to the next parish, Maureen 
 never went to the chapel of Drumfinnagh. There were 
 many Donegal cubs down there where the land was richer 
 and the farms bigger, but Maureen, wishing to cut off all 
 old relations and memories, never went there on Sundays. 
 
 She gazed at the girl across the dyke and fancied that 
 she saw something familiar in the attitude of the stranger. 
 She crossed the fence and went towards her. The girl 
 with the red petticoat watched her coming, hitting the 
 grass idly with a stick as she waited for Maureen to ap- 
 proach. As Maureen came nearer, her feet rustling in the 
 grass and scattering showers of dewdrops to the ground,
 
 THE TWO GIRLS 279 
 
 she kept her eyes fixed on the girl with the red petticoat. 
 
 "It cannot be her," she muttered, not taking her eyes 
 from the strange girl. She rubbed her hand over her brow, 
 brushing back the hair which fell down on her face. "She 
 wouldn't be here, not her!" 
 
 But all the time she was certain that this was the girl 
 who had been her friend in youth, the chum of her child- 
 hood, the confidant of many a girlish longing, Eileen Con- 
 roy. As Maureen came near she could see clearly the face 
 she had known, the gait, the attitude, the head drooping 
 slightly sideways as if listening to something on the ground 
 at her feet. Though apparently looking down, she was 
 gazing under her lashes at Maureen. 
 
 "Eileen Conroy!" 
 
 "Maureen O'Malley!" 
 
 They embraced, kissed and burst into sobs, Maureen feel- 
 ing so happy that she could not refrain from crying, Eileen 
 so surprised at meeting her friend that this involuntary fit 
 of weeping was the only way in which she could express 
 her gladness. Tears are not the property of grief alone. 
 
 The very souls of the girls trembled as if they would 
 suddenly forsake them as dewdrops in a breeze forsake 
 the flower to which they cling. Their hearts full of thought, 
 they clasped hands, kissed, looked into one another's eyes. 
 Now and again Maureen faltered, "Yourself, Eileen," as 
 if she were unable to realize the bodily presence of her 
 friend. "And yourself, Maureen," Eileen would reply in 
 a whisper, the tears running down her cheeks. 
 
 Gradually they began to speak, their conversation ques- 
 tions and answers. 
 
 "And are ye long here?" asked Maureen. 
 
 "Since last Monday week," Eileen replied. "Maggie 
 Kurnew wrote home, saying that them she was with got a 
 new farm and asking me to come." 
 
 "And ye've left yer mother?" asked Maureen. 
 "She's dead, God rest her," said Eileen, crossing herself 
 and sighing. Maureen also crossed herself and said a 
 prayer. 
 
 "Was it sudden?" she asked when she had finished.
 
 280 MAUREEN 
 
 "Just went away," said Eileen. "Took to the bed one 
 night and was gone the next mornin'. And her so hale 
 and hearty on it from every one's way iv thinkin'. But it 
 had to be, for 'twas the will iv God." 
 
 "And the other ones iv Meenarood and Meenaroodagh ? " 
 asked Maureen, after a few minutes' silence. "Are they 
 all well?" 
 
 "Maldy Kennedy's gone, God rest her, as well as Nancy 
 Logan," said Eileen. "And the boys that's out at the 
 war, there's more than enough iv them that won't be ever 
 comin' back. The two years past were great years for 
 death," she continued, with a mournful shake of her head. 
 "And yerself?" she inquired, embracing everything in 
 the question. But without waiting for an answer, she went 
 on: "It's better lookin' that ye are than when ye went 
 away. The life must be easy on ye here. ' ' 
 
 "I'm in a good place now," said Maureen simply. 
 
 "And we saw yer name in the papers," said Eileen. 
 "Was it all right?" 
 
 The girl was really inquiring if the fact of getting in 
 the papers was not followed by dire consequences. 
 
 "It didn't do any harm to me," said Maureen. "I 
 didn't want to get in the papers, but I couldn't help it." 
 
 "There was a lot iv talk about it at home, and some iv 
 them were sayin' that ye'd get a lot iv money for it. But 
 I stuck up for ye, and I said that ye'd never sink to that, 
 Maureen O'Malley. But then the way that people will be 
 talkin'." 
 
 "I know that," said Maureen. "That's the reason that 
 I left Dungarrow." 
 
 "We wondered where ye were off to and what ye were 
 goin' to do," said Eileen. "And I was that upset about 
 ye goin' that I couldn't get to sleep for nights after." 
 
 They embraced again. 
 
 "And d'ye mind the night afore ye left," said Eileen in 
 a whisper. "Maybe it was out iv me head that I was at 
 the time, but' when one looks back on what 's past there 's 
 many a silly thing. . . . And he's just living the same as 
 ever," said Eileen, replying to a question which Maureen
 
 THE TWO GIRLS 281 
 
 had not asked. "He's great on Sein Fein, and he's the 
 head iv them in Dungarrow. ' ' 
 
 "Who?" asked Maureen in a whisper. 
 
 "Himself," said Eileen sadly, as if lamenting something. 
 "Himself. Cathal!" 
 
 "Oh, indeed," said Maureen in a voice of indifference, 
 which the flush rising to her cheeks utterly denied. 
 
 "He's just the same as ever," said Eileen. "The same, 
 but not altogether the same. That is to me, anyway." 
 
 "How? In what way?" stammered Maureen, her sensi- 
 tive nostrils quivering slightly. Then in a tone of feigned 
 indifference she said: "Well, people do change a lot one 
 way and another!" 
 
 "Aye, Cathal has changed," said Eileen in an agitated 
 whisper. ' ' He has changed more than any one in the place. 
 It's funny the way that people change when they get a bit 
 older. One day they look at things one way and the next 
 day they change. They change, Maureen O'Malley! It's 
 the way with men." 
 
 The girl was now speaking in tears. They gushed from 
 her eyes and down her cheeks. 
 
 "Is it in trouble that ye are?" asked Maureen. "Poor 
 Eileen." 
 
 "Just the same as ever, Maureen," said Eileen nervously. 
 "Ye never see any wrong in anybody. Always the same, 
 Maureen. Just now as well as when ye left home. Ye 're 
 far and away better than any one that I know." 
 
 "If that's all ye've to tell me and us not meetin' for two 
 years, I'd better be gettin' back to my place," said Mau- 
 reen, stepping back a pace under the mock pretense of 
 escaping from her friend's laudation. 
 
 "But I mane it," said Eileen, gripping Maureen's hand 
 and raising it to her lips. "I mane it, every word iv it, 
 the same now as when we were together at home, Maureen. 
 Ye believe me, Maureen, don't ye now?" she appealed in 
 a reproachful voice. By the way she spoke it almost seemed 
 as if the girl was offended by the thankless acceptance of 
 a favor bestowed. 
 
 "Iv course I believe ye, Eileen," said Maureen. "Ye
 
 282 MAUREEN 
 
 were the only friend that I had when I was at school. And 
 ye were always good to me." 
 
 ' ' Weren 't we the best iv friends, Maureen ? ' ' asked Eileen 
 excitedly, as if she did not yet fully believe in Maureen's 
 assurance. 
 
 "Of course we were," said Maureen. "The best of 
 friends then, and we're the best iv friends now." 
 
 Eileen looked at the hand which she still held and raised 
 it to her lips again. Then folding her friend she pressed 
 her close to her bosom. 
 
 "We're friends," she repeated. "And, Maureen, I'm 
 sorry for ye." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 * ' Because he has given ye the go by, ' ' said Eileen. * ' Him 
 that ye thought would stick to ye through thick and thin. 
 But it's the way with men," she added hastily, as if feel- 
 ing that a statement dealing with generalities would lighten 
 the fact of Cathal's faithlessness. "It's men always and 
 ever. They're the same wherever they are. And anyway 
 ye '11 never be goin' back again to Dungarrow." 
 
 "Oh! I was never goin' back," said Maureen bravely, 
 feeling at that moment that she never wanted to return 
 so much. "I didn't run away for nothin'." 
 
 "And ye 're never goin' back at all?" asked Eileen 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Never," said the girl. "What do I want goin' back 
 there and it so hard to get on with the Dungarrow folk, 
 them with their backbiting and slander, even when I was 
 wee and not able to do harm to anybody at all?" 
 
 "And never goin' back?" asked Eileen with confiding 
 curiosity. 
 
 "Never," said Maureen; then, as if this decision was an 
 excuse for any question, she asked: "And how has he 
 changed ? ' ' 
 
 "In a way that I was the last person in the world to 
 expect," said Eileen, bending down and rubbing some 
 clay which had gathered on her toe with her finger. " 'Twas 
 only the day before yesterday that I came to know. 'Twas 
 the post that brought me a letter from Cathal and says he,
 
 THE TWO GIRLS 283 
 
 'I'm sorry that ye 're gone, for Meenaroodagh is not the 
 same without ye. I wish,' says he, 'that ye hadn't took 
 it in yer head to go across the mountains.' ' 
 
 She stopped, fixed a look, half defiant and half fright- 
 ened on Maureen. It seemed as if she had done something 
 of which she was afraid. 
 
 "He said that?" asked Maureen in a voice that was 
 strangely calm and controlled. 
 
 "He said that," Eileen replied, dropping her head side- 
 ways and looking at the ground. 
 
 "In a letter?" 
 
 "In a letter." 
 
 Both looked at one another, a dull surprise darkening 
 Maureen's eyes as if something which she never anticipated 
 had happened. Eileen plucked timorously at her red pet- 
 ticoat and fixed her eyes on the ground again. 
 
 "And you've left him?" asked Maureen in the same 
 calm, even tone. 
 
 "But I didn't know what he thought till I came away," 
 said Eileen, speaking hurriedly, almost incoherently, as if 
 frightened at her own words. "He was always distant to 
 me, and it wasn 't very often that he would stand and speak 
 to me on the road when he met me." 
 
 "And ye 're goin' home now to him?" asked Maureen. 
 
 "When the term's up," said Eileen. "It's then that 
 I 'm goin ' back. ' ' 
 
 "Is yer place a good one?" asked Maureen in a falter- 
 ing voice. Her face was terribly pale, the features a token 
 of the thoughts which sped through her mind. Every- 
 thing seemed blank, hopeless. A martyr on the wheel might 
 feel something similar if it were proved that his God was 
 non-existent. 
 
 "It's a good place," Eileen whispered faintly, a peculiar 
 uneasiness clutching at her heart. 
 
 "Well, it's time I was back at my place," said Maureen 
 suddenly, fixing an intense look on her friend. "I'll see 
 ye the morrow, and we'll have a talk about . . . 
 about . . ." 
 
 Something seemed to choke the girl. She reeled back-
 
 284 MAUREEN 
 
 wards a step, then steadied herself and without another 
 word went away, leaving Eileen standing there, looking 
 after her with troubled eyes. 
 
 Maureen came to the gate, lifted the upper cross pole and 
 clambered over. Blind to everything, she walked down the 
 lane, holding her head very high and thrown back a little 
 as if in defiance to the world. At the same time her eyes 
 were running with tears that streaked her cheeks and 
 trickled round the corners of her lips. There was an ex- 
 pression of pain, mental and physical, about the brow and 
 eyes, in the pose of the body, which despite the high head 
 seemed to shrink into itself like a snow figure in the heat 
 of the sun that sparkles from every facet even when dwin- 
 dling to pieces. 
 
 She went down the lane, past a hedge that stood erect 
 and foliage-heavy by the side of the path. Unconsciously 
 Maureen was aware that this hid her from the girl to whom 
 she was just speaking, and here Maureen collapsed on the 
 ground, limp as a fallen rose-petal, and burst into tears. 
 She was half stunned, too deadened by the disclosure of 
 Eileen Conroy to consider the matter from a sane light. 
 She felt that a judgment was loosened upon her, that in 
 some way the calamity which was hers had been something 
 deserved. 
 
 "It was my fault," she mumbled, scarce knowing what 
 she was saying. "I seemed to do the right thing when I 
 left him, but now it looks as if it was all wrong. Oh! 
 God help me ! It 's nobody 's fault only mine. Ah, Cathal ! ' ' 
 
 She got to her feet again, slowly, as if an unseen hand 
 was pulling her back to the ground. Something rustled 
 on the path near her. She raised her eyes to find Eileen 
 Conroy standing a little distance away, looking at her. 
 
 " Maureen O'Malley!" 
 
 "Ye 're not away back to the farm yet?" asked Maureen. 
 
 "Not yet," said Eileen, "I've somethin' to say to ye! 
 Guess what it is." 
 
 She spoke brightly, almost cheerfully, though the cor- 
 ners of her lips drooped ever so slightly. 
 
 "I cannot guess," said Maureen.
 
 THE TWO GIRLS 285 
 
 "It's about Cathal," said Eileen. "When ye went away 
 from me a minute ago I thought and thought, and then " 
 
 She spoke loudly but suddenly stopped as if her strength 
 had been withdrawn. 
 
 " and then," she went on in a lower voice, "I saw what 
 I was, a bad person." 
 
 "But you're not a bad person," said Maureen, a gleam 
 of hope sparkling in her eyes. "Ye were always my friend, 
 aad ye 're me friend now, the same as ever, Eileen." 
 
 "It's about Cathal Cassidy," said Eileen, coming back 
 obstinately to her subject. " 'Twas a lie that I told ye 
 when I said that he wrote me a letter. Cathal won 't write 
 to anybody; he'll hardty speak to a girl in the parish, 
 because he doesn't want to, with yerself on his mind. Every 
 fair iv Strabane he's there lookin' for yerself, but he 
 doesn't know where ye are and . . . and . . . Maureen 
 O'Malley, go home to Dungarrow again with ye, and get 
 married on him! He wants yerself and no other one at 
 all in all the world. If he was married it would be easier 
 for the rest iv the world, Maureen O'Malley. He wants 
 ye and no one else. Go back to him, Maureen!" 
 
 These words came from the soul of poor Eileen. Drown- 
 ing and unable to hail the ship that would save her, she 
 clutched at the floating wreckage which at its best would 
 only prolong her agony. 
 
 "I didn't mean to tell you the lie, Maureen, but I couldn't 
 help myself, because I love him more than my own life, 
 more than God in heaven," said Eileen in a voice of an- 
 guish. "And then I was ashamed when I told the lie to 
 ye, for I love you, too, and I ran after ye. He loves yer- 
 self, Maureen, and he's breakin' his heart after ye, and ye 
 so cruel to him. Go back to him, Maureen! Go back to 
 him!" 
 
 The girl spoke loudly, almost hysterically as if to drown 
 the torments of her own soul. 
 
 "Promise me that ye '11 go back as soon as ye can," she 
 went on. "Promise me that, Maureen." 
 
 "I promise." 
 
 ' ' The morrow ? ' ' asked Eileen, her lips quivering.
 
 286 MAUREEN 
 
 "The morrow," Maureen assented. "But we're friends, 
 Eileen, now as always, aren't we?" 
 
 She held out her hand to the girl, but Eileen drew back 
 a pace. 
 
 "And ye '11 be there the morrow night," she said. 
 
 " If I 'm let away, ' ' said Maureen. 
 
 "And ye '11 see him the morrow night," said Eileen sadly. 
 "Oh, my a my!" 
 
 "But, Eileen, are we not goin' to be friends?" asked 
 Maureen, again reaching out her hand to Eileen. But 
 the girl took no notice of the gesture. 
 
 "Maureen O'Malley," she said with a piteous look and 
 with the air of one who pronounces a verdict that cannot 
 be gainsaid, "Maureen O'Malley, we can't, the two iv us! 
 With him between us we can never be friends ! ' ' 
 
 With these words she turned round and ran back to her 
 cattle, ran as if flying from something terrible and ghastly. 
 
 m 
 
 That night when evening devotions were at an end, and 
 when Farmer McKenna drew his chair close to the fire to 
 have a last pull at his pipe; when Betty McKenna com- 
 menced darning a sock that needed a thread or two in the 
 gaping hole in the heel, Maureen O'Malley approached the 
 woman. She was going to request something, but indi- 
 rectly, from Farmer McKenna. 
 
 "Well, Maureen," said Betty, looking up at the girl. 
 "Is it to bed that ye '11 be goin' now? It's time, too, for 
 ye've had the long day." 
 
 "I met one from my own parish this mornin'," said 
 Maureen. "It's a girl that's hired to the man that bought 
 the farm marching Saugh Faddagh." 
 
 "And are they all well at home?" asked Betty Mc- 
 Kenna. 
 
 "Well, middlin'," said Maureen. "There were a lot 
 iv deaths one way and another." 
 
 "That's always the way," said the man by the fire.
 
 THE TWO GIRLS 287 
 
 "People do be dyin', but it's the way iv things if one gets 
 old." 
 
 As he spoke he pressed the tobacco into the bowl of his 
 pipe with a rugous thumb and fixed a contemplative eye 
 on the fire. 
 
 "And there are people that ye know yerself that has 
 gone, God rest them?" asked the woman. 
 
 "More than one," said Maureen sadly. "And then 
 others, the young fellows that have gone away to the war. ' ' 
 
 "Lost forever to Ireland," said McKenna with a sigh. 
 
 "It's always the way with boys," said Betty. "Where 
 there's divilment and mischief their feet are always 
 goin'." 
 
 "I would like to go back to Dungarrow," said Maureen 
 suddenly. 
 
 Betty looked up at her and placed the stocking on the 
 floor. The man drew the pipe from his mouth, struck the 
 bowl slowly against the leaf of his hand and stared at 
 Maureen. 
 
 "Home, Maureen?" he said in a surprised voice. "And 
 after tellin' me that ye'd never go back!" 
 
 "And no one at all there sib to yerself," said Betty. 
 
 "It's just for a wee run to see the place, is it?" asked 
 McKenna. 
 
 "For good," said Maureen, in a low voice. "If ye just 
 give me a couple iv pounds to get clothes ye needn't mind 
 about the rest iv the money." 
 
 "Well, ye 're a funny girl," said the man. "Goin' away 
 now with close on two years' pay lyin' in my hands and 
 waivin' yer rights to it! Damn it! but it's the silly wee 
 fool that ye are, Maureen!" 
 
 "But ye 're not goin' to keep her money back from her?" 
 said Betty, a little terrified even at the suggestion. 
 
 "Well, I could do it," said the man. "But that's not 
 sayin' that I will do it. It's all lying in the bank at in- 
 terest, and maybe it's two pounds or a little over that in 
 interest that it has made for the girl. ' ' 
 
 "But ye've no home to go till," said Betty, looking at
 
 288 MAUREEN 
 
 Maureen. "And ye've a home here. Ye 're the same to 
 us as one iv ourselves." 
 
 "I know that," said Maureen. "And I can never repay 
 the two iv ye for what ye've done for me since I came 
 here." 
 
 "Then why are ye runnin' away!" asked James Me- 
 Kenna, putting the pipe back in his mouth without light- 
 ing it. 
 
 "I'm just goin' home," said the girl. "I want to go 
 back again." 
 
 "But ye've no home to go to," said the man. "Ye've 
 mortgaged it, and be the way ye were talkin' about goin' 
 back there and only wantin' what '11 pay for the train and 
 a dress and a pair of boots, ye want nothin' else. How 
 can ye have a home without payin' the mortgage on the 
 farm?" 
 
 "Well, I'll pay for it out iv the wages," said Maureen. 
 
 "Well, of all the girls I've ever seen ye 're the funni- 
 est," said the man, taking his pipe from his mouth again, 
 hitting the bowl against his knee and putting it in his 
 pocket. "First ye want to go away home and ye havin' 
 no home. You don't want yer wages with one breath and 
 with the next ye 're going to pay the mortgage on yer land 
 with the wages that ye do not want me to pay ye. ' ' 
 
 He rose to his feet, stretched his arms over his head and 
 went to the door leading to his bedroom. Here he stopped 
 for a moment and looked back. 
 
 "Just have a good night's sleep, Maureen O'Malley," 
 he said. "Then think it over in the morning and let me 
 know what yer mind is then." 
 
 He went into the room and closed the door behind him. 
 As he did so the old woman looked at Maureen O'Malley. 
 
 "Come, Maureen," she said. "Sit down beside me and 
 tell me yer troubles. There" Maureen sat on the floor 
 close to the woman "just a bit closer." Maureen nestled 
 in against the woman's knees, and Betty put her arms 
 around her shoulders. 
 
 "Now," she said, coaxingly, "tell me all. He's a very
 
 THE TWO GIRLS 289 
 
 good man, but for all that, he's only a man." She turned 
 her thumb towards the bedroom door as she spoke. "But 
 after all there are things that he can't know. Girls will 
 be girls always, and what can men know about them? 
 Himself 's a good man, one of the best, with heart for any 
 kindness, but he doesn't know everything. Ye've trouble, 
 Maureen. Let me know what it is, and maybe I can help 
 ye." 
 
 "I have no trouble at all," said Maureen. "No trouble 
 in all the world." 
 
 "But what was it that made yer eyes so red the day, 
 and ye after talkin', as ye said yerself, to the Donegal girl 
 across the ditch?" asked Betty McKenna. "What man's 
 in it?" 
 
 "Man!" echoed Maureen. 
 
 "Young girls shed more tears about men than anything 
 else," said Betty with the air of one wise in the sorrows 
 of the young. ' ' Shouldn 't I know and me a girsha meself 
 at one time?" 
 
 "Well, it is a man," said Maureen, suddenly embold- 
 ened by the tone of the old woman. "And he's one of the 
 best in the whole world." 
 
 "He always is," said Betty, with a wise little smile 
 wrinkling the corners of her lips. "Him that we set our 
 hearts on." 
 
 "But there's not one in all the world like him," said 
 Maureen. "He's that good and nice " 
 
 "But he must be a funny fellow, with yerself away here 
 and him never sittin' down and puttin' his pen in ink to 
 write a letter to ye," said the woman, who noticed that 
 ever since she came Maureen had never received a letter. 
 "But maybe it was that ye had a fall out, or maybe it is 
 that he hasn't the learnin' and can't write." 
 
 "He's a good scholar," said Maureen. "He's the head 
 iv the Sein Fein in Dungarrow." 
 
 "So it was a fall-out?" asked Betty. 
 
 " 'Twas not a fall-out, either," said Maureen. 
 
 "Well, it's not me to ask ye what it was," Betty re-
 
 290 MAUREEN 
 
 marked with a formal sigh, "but if I can be iv any help 
 to ye at all, let me know and I'll do everything that I can 
 for ye, Maureen." 
 
 The woman, of course, was itching with curiosity, but 
 with the high diplomacy of the kitchen she did her best to 
 hide it. 
 
 "Well, I'll tell ye everything about it," said Maureen, 
 and there and then beside the fire in the house of James 
 McKenna she told the whole story of her love affair, her 
 love for Cathal, the behest of her mother which had be- 
 come a tenet of the girl's life when her mother had gone, 
 and the promise to the dead, the keeping of which caused 
 such anguish to the living. She told of the hurried de- 
 parture from Dungarrow, the wandering by night along 
 the roads with the dead urging her on and the living call- 
 ing her back, the anguish, the yearning and the sorrow. 
 
 Having finished her simple narration of that which for 
 two years had sucked at the essence of her life, Maureen 
 looked at Betty McKenna. The old woman coughed angrily. 
 
 "Maureen, ye 're a fool!" she said. "A silly, wee fool, 
 that's what ye are. To think iv ye being here all this time 
 and never lettin ' on at all about it. If I knew ..." 
 
 What she would have done if she knew the facts of the 
 case was not disclosed at that moment. The dam of grief 
 burst its control, and the tears streamed down the cheeks 
 of the good-natured woman. 
 
 "No, no, Maureen," she said between sobs. "No more 
 ... I know all ... I always thought it ... Not a letter 
 in two years, and you such a nice girl . . . Beed a hosth, 
 Maureen, ~beed a hosthl . . . Say your prayers . . . Oh, 
 ye've said them . . . Well, away to bed with ye then, and 
 I'll hurry up James in the mornin' and get yer couple 
 pounds and off and away with ye to yer own place." 
 
 The girl rose to her feet and went to the door of her 
 room, but as she reached it the old woman called her back. 
 
 "Maureen O'Malley," she said, "when ye go home and 
 if ye find any one that's up to any tricks with ye, back 
 here with ye again and as hard as ye can pelt and tell yer
 
 THE TWO GIRLS 291 
 
 troubles to James McKenna. Mind ye, Maureen, he's a 
 quiet man, but when he gets his tempers up, ah!" 
 
 The ah ! was very expressive, hinting as it did the prowess 
 of James McKenna in remedying an oppression and right- 
 ing a wrong.
 
 BREED ASTHOR 
 
 Come, cuddle closer, Breed asthor, 
 For youth will have its way 
 The eyes so bright at Candlemas 
 Grow sad on Lammas Day. 
 
 There's litter bliss in Lammas love 
 And sure in time to pass, 
 And wrinkle-rutted dreams of hope 
 Grow cold at Hallowmass. 
 
 Then cuddle closer, Breed asthor, 
 Ere time brings cark and care; 
 We'll catch the fancy born in flame 
 Ere it goes out in airt 
 
 293
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE RETURN 
 
 MAUREEN O'MALLEY had come back again. She 
 entered the house which she remembered so well, 
 the home of her childhood. It was greatly changed 
 from the abode which she had known, as it well might be, 
 for it had served the purpose of byre since she had left. 
 In fact it was used for that purpose now, but was not used 
 save in cold weather and on the occasion of market-days 
 when Columb penned his cattle there. In the good weather 
 the cattle were allowed to remain on the hills, day and 
 night. 
 
 Nothing, in fact, was left to remind Maureen of the 
 home which she had known. All the chairs had been re- 
 moved, the table was gone, an iron stanchion was driven 
 into the hearth for a cow-stake, the window was stuffed 
 with bags, the floor was covered with dry dung. 
 
 In dreams, Maureen always saw the house as she had 
 left it, the snug bed in the corner, the hassock on the floor 
 near the hearth, the delf on the dresser arranged in just 
 and gradual order, the picture of the Blessed Mother on 
 the wall near the window. Of such a home she always 
 thought with reverence and longing, but now that she was 
 back again the recollections of the past veiled in a somber 
 hue and newly-tried by the present occasion became dull 
 and spiritless. 
 
 The huge flagstones on which she had once sat were now, 
 where the drier portions of the floor betokened the resting- 
 place of cattle, hoof -splintered in a thousand places, show- 
 ing depressions and elevations all over its surface. Green 
 
 295
 
 296 MAUREEN 
 
 spots on the walls showed where the water oozed through, 
 and the scraws of the roof bulged in where the rain-sod- 
 den thatch weighed heavily on the beams that bore it. 
 The whole house carried in it the dire tragedy of disuse 
 and decay; its moldy smells told of a place not used for 
 many a long day as a human habitation. 
 
 Maureen placed her traveling-bag on the floor and went 
 to the door, desirous of getting out to the fresh air, but 
 without any idea of where she wanted to go. Home again 
 and homeless, her heart was filled with a deep sorrow. 
 Even now she longed for the kindly Mrs. McKenna in the 
 cottage away in the Glen of Corngarrow. 
 
 Columb Ruagh Keeran came to the door and looked in, 
 his eyes blinking, unable to pierce the darkness. Years 
 had not changed him. He was still the same as when 
 Maureen had seen him last, his heavy eyebrows projecting 
 forward, his chin scrubby, his red shirt open at the neck 
 and its sleeves thrust up over his elbows. Under his arm 
 he carried the customary stick. Probably the shirt and 
 the stick were the same as belonged to him years ago. It 
 was said that he never washed. His face seemed particu- 
 larly mild, the shock head of hair hanging down over his 
 temples giving him a certain patriarchal air. 
 
 "Well, and what are ye wantin' here?" he inquired, 
 sensing the stranger whom he was as yet unable to discern. 
 "Are ye after anything?" 
 
 "No, Columb Ruagh," said Maureen. "I'm after noth- 
 in'. It's back home that I am." 
 
 "Mother iv God!" exclaimed the man, recognizing the 
 voice. "Is it Maureen O'Malley that I'm looking on?" 
 
 "It's me, Columb," said the girl. "I'm just home." 
 
 "Indeed, Maureen," said Columb, apparently taken 
 somewhat aback at the sight of the girl. "And how and 
 when did ye come?" 
 
 "Across the hills," said Maureen. "It's just in now 
 that I've come." 
 
 "Well, good day t'ye anyway," said Columb, stretching 
 out his hand and gripping the girl's. "We never thought 
 that we'd see ye ever again."
 
 THE RETURN 297 
 
 "Neither did I meself think that I'd ever be back here 
 again, Columb," said Maureen. "But be the look iv this 
 place now, I might as well never have come back." 
 
 "So ye 're goin' to pay off the mortgage?" asked Columb. 
 
 "Maybe I will," said Maureen. "At one time I wanted 
 to keep the home, but seeing it as 'tis now I don't think I 
 will. I didn't even it would be a byre when I came back." 
 
 "But a house with not a soul to live in it is not worth 
 the keepin'," said Columb. "The day after ye went away 
 everything was taken out iv the house. 'Twas at night, 
 and when I came to it the next day not a hilt or hair iv 
 anything could be seen. They're great thieves, the people 
 about here." 
 
 "I suppose they are," said Maureen. "Anyway, when 
 there was no one in the house to take care of it, what could 
 ye expect?" 
 
 "True," said Columb, fixing a keen glance on the girl 
 and at the same time recollecting her as he had seen her 
 years ago on the day that he mortgaged her farm. Some- 
 thing stirred deeply in the man's heart and sent a queer 
 thrill through his body. What this queer sensation, so 
 foreign to his nature, was he could not determine. "True," 
 he repeated in a hoarse whisper. "There was no one in 
 the house, and it was no good keepin' it as if one was ex- 
 pectin' visitors. And if ye've mind to sell it, well, it doesn't 
 matter. But land has gone down in value of late ever 
 since the war is on." 
 
 "And how are all the people iv the place now?" asked 
 Maureen, thinking only of one, but hiding that one in th 
 immensity of the question. 
 
 "Oh! livin' like always," said Columb. "Some, iv 
 course, have died, and some haven't, more's the pity!" 
 
 Maureen smiled. She knew Columb, his perverted out- 
 look and his calloused opinions of his fellow men, but as 
 he was one with her early environment, one who was fused 
 in the fabric of her youth, she listened to his castigation 
 with toleration. Of course he did not mean what he said, 
 and even if he did he was old Columb Ruagh, one of th 
 parish people.
 
 298 MAUREEN 
 
 "Were there a lot married?" she asked. 
 
 "Aye, there were some married," said the man. "And 
 gome that thought they would get married are not buckled. ' ' 
 
 "And yerself isn't buckled yet?" asked Maureen with a 
 smile. 
 
 "No, not yet," said Columb, wincing as if some one 
 had suddenly trickled cold water down his spine and fix- 
 ing the same steadfast look on the girl. "Not yet," he 
 said. ' ' But who knows what I may do yet ? ' ' 
 
 "But ye 're gettin' far an' away too old for that now," 
 said Maureen jokingly. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "But for all that, not so old. There 
 are some, and they think themselves smart, that can't come 
 up and near to me in many's a thing." 
 
 There was something strange in his voice that caused 
 Maureen to look at the man in surprise. Even Columb 
 himself felt a certain wonder at his own behavior, for he 
 had never before spoken of his own assets to a woman. 
 Why he did so now he could not explain. 
 
 "Well, well, it doesn't matter," he said, as if wanting to 
 get rid of a troublesome discourse. "Where are ye going 
 to sleep the night?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Maureen. "Maybe here if there's 
 no other place." 
 
 "It's not a home for a girl after her bein' away so long," 
 said Columb with show of crude sympathy crawling across 
 his rutted countenance. "Sally Rourke will give ye a bed 
 and supper for the night, I'm sure, or maybe Condy Hee- 
 lagh's ones. Condy has a bed to spare after gettin' nearly 
 all his ones married on good men. Maybe ye '11 be goin* 
 down there now." 
 
 "That's what I'll do," said Maureen, picking up her 
 traveling-bag and making her way to the door. "Slan leat, 
 Columb Ruagh!" 
 
 He watched her depart, and his eyes followed her down 
 to the road. He saw her stand a moment outside the door 
 of Condy Heelagh's house as if afraid to go further. He 
 noticed the erect form, the head thrown back as if in a 
 gesture of defiance. Thus for a moment, then she entered.
 
 THE RETURN 299 
 
 Columb came out into the sunlight again, sat down and 
 fixed his eye on the house of Condy Heelagh. Two hours 
 later he was sitting there, his gaze still directed towards 
 the same spot ; he was evidently in a very thoughtful mood, 
 and something seemed to be weighing on his mind. 
 
 "Under God, the day and the night, Maureen Malley!" 
 Peggy Ribbig exclaimed when she saw the young girl cross 
 the threshold of the door. "Back to us again from wher- 
 ever ye were!" 
 
 She rose from her hassock by the hearth, ran to the 
 door, embraced Maureen, kissing her hands while the ready 
 'ears ran from her eyes to the girl's fingers. Condy was 
 sitting beneath the window, his head over the back of the 
 chair on which he sat, his mouth open and his arms hang- 
 ing slack by his sides. The old man was asleep. Anne 
 was also there, standing by the dresser where a wash-tub 
 held the dirty plates of the last meal. 
 
 "Indeed," said Anne, the slow glance of realization 
 which comes to one who is looking on something unex- 
 pected lighting her eyes. "Indeed, and it's Maureen!" 
 
 "Back again, sure," said Peggy with a tone of decision 
 which seemed to hint that she, the old woman, was in a 
 measure responsible for the return of Maureen. On the 
 strength of this she gave Maureen another hug. 
 
 "Mother iv God!" said Anne, catching Maureen by 
 the hand. "Who'd have thought iv ever seein' yerself 
 back here again, that, after the way that ye went and left 
 us all." 
 
 "Sit down, ahaisge," said Peggy, drawing a chair up to 
 the fire, wiping its seat with her apron and pointing Mau- 
 reen to it. "Sit down, and, Anne, put the taypot on the 
 greeshaugh. ' ' 
 
 Maureen sat down, and Anne put the teapot on the 
 embers. 
 
 "Now," said Peggy, standing up as straight as her 
 crooked back would allow, "now, Maureen Malley, off with
 
 300 MAUREEN 
 
 yer shawl and let us see what ye 're like after all this time." 
 
 Maureen threw her shawl back and let it rest on the 
 chair. 
 
 "The same as ever," said Peggy Ribbig. "Just the 
 eyes and the mouth and the way that ye hold yer head, and 
 Maureen, ahaisge, ye've not aged a day nor half a day 
 since I saw ye the last time, well over two years ago." 
 
 "And yerself," asked Maureen, looking at the old woman, 
 "how are ye gettin' on?" 
 
 "As well as can be expected," said Peggy with a rough 
 sigh. "God is good and I'm old, but He doesn't want to 
 take me away to Him as yet." 
 
 "And himself?" asked Maureen, looking at the sleeper 
 who was now snoring heavily. 
 
 "Not so bad for an old one," said Peggy. "But the 
 sleep's on him nearly all the day now. Maureen Malley, 
 I've never in all me life seen one like him for the sleep. 
 Not only when he's under the blankets but when he's up 
 as well. And Nancy Logan, God rest her, has gone ! ' ' con- 
 tinued the woman. "And not only Nancy but Maldy Ken- 
 nedy and Eamon na Sgaddan." 
 
 "Eamon na Sgaddan!" Maureen exclaimed. "Is he 
 gone, God rest him!" 
 
 "The buryin' was three days back," said Peggy Ribbig. 
 "And him, after all his long words, and his collar and 
 tie, went just like any other one! Anne," she said, look- 
 ing at the daughter, "what was the long word that Eamon 
 said and him after gettin' the Holy Oil on him?" 
 
 "Incomprehensible," Anne replied. "The last word iv 
 poor Mr. Brogan." 
 
 "There," said Peggy Ribbig. "The last word iv the 
 man. He was lyin' on the bed with the Oil put on him, 
 and him in a kind iv a dead faint. They thought that he 
 was dead, but he wasn't, for he opened his eyes, and he 
 looks up at the roof, and he says, says he. ... What was 
 that long word, again, Anne?" 
 
 "Incomprehensible," Anne replied. 
 
 "Well, that was the word that Anne's after sayin', " 
 said Peggy Ribbig, making no effort to repeat it. "He
 
 THE EETURN 301 
 
 said that word, but there's not many in the place that 
 knows what it means." 
 
 "What way did ye come home, Maureen?" asked Anne. 
 
 "I took the train to Kineeragh, and then I crossed the 
 hills " Maureen replied. 
 
 "And were ye up there at yer own house?" asked Peggy 
 Ribbig. 
 
 "I was that," said the girl. "And it's a funny house 
 entirely now with the cattle being in it." 
 
 "And where will ye be stayin' the night?" asked Anne. 
 
 "I don't know," said Maureen. 
 
 ""Well, I know," said Peggy Ribbig with a voice of de- 
 cision. "Up the brae with me own girsha, Hannah, and 
 her man away at work in Scotland and no one in the house 
 at all, bar herself and the childre, and her lonely be night 
 and maybe frightened with the ghosts that bees about. 
 She wants some one with her, and it's yerself that she'll 
 be glad to have in the house, Maureen Malley." 
 
 ' ' Thank ye very much, Peggy, ' ' said Maureen O 'Malley, 
 speaking quietly, though something seemed to be clutching 
 at her throat. She was moved almost to the point of tears 
 by Peggy Ribbig 's kindliness. "It's far and away too 
 much to put me in Hannah's house and the trouble that 
 I'll be givin' her." 
 
 "Yell be givin' her trouble if ye stay long there," said 
 Peggy in a tone which seemed to have suddenly captured a 
 hard note. "If ye 're under her roof for more than three 
 weeks it'll be somethin' that her and meself won't approve 
 of!" 
 
 "I have money, and I'll pay for my keep if she'll only 
 let me stay," said Maureen. "But if I'm not wanted 
 there, I'd be the last person in the world to go." 
 She got to her feet. 
 
 "Sit down, Maureen, ahaisge!" said Peggy in a tone of 
 command. "Ye 're a wee silly fool, the same now as ye 
 were always! Sit down!" 
 
 "Don't take any heed iv her," said Anne, pointing her 
 thumb at the old woman and looking at Maureen. 
 "Wrong again!" said Peggy in a tone of protest.
 
 302 MAUREEN 
 
 "Ye 're not wrong," said Anne. "But the way ye have 
 iv sayin' things so that no one understands what ye 
 mean ! ' ' 
 
 Maureen fixed a puzzled look on the two women, then on 
 the wrinkle-rutted face of the sleeper as if an explana- 
 tion of the women's conduct would be found there. 
 
 "Always wrong whatever I do, by the way they talk," 
 said the old woman in a querulous voice. ' ' No matter what 
 I say or do it's always wrong, but wait till they're as old 
 as me and then " 
 
 "I wasn't meanin' anything," said Anne. 
 
 "Ye 're never meanin' anything, but ye 're always 
 talkin'," said Peggy Eibbig, glancing at her daughter. 
 "I never saw the like iv ye in all me life . . . Maureen 
 Malley," said the old woman, looking at the visitor, "sit 
 down and I'll tell ye what the meanin' iv what I said was." 
 
 Maureen sat down again. 
 
 "This it was and nothin' else," said Peggy Ribbig, set- 
 tling her body on the hassock and nursing her knees. 
 "Ye 're goin' up to Hannah's house, and I'll be that angry 
 if ye say anything against goin' there. It's a snug house 
 that she has, and shift and sheetin' second to none. And 
 she can set a meal afore ye that'll do the heart iv ye good. 
 So ye 're goin' there, Maureen Malley, as I ask ye! And 
 ye 're not goin' to stay there for long ! If ye don't go there 
 I'll be angry, and if ye stay there longer than three weeks 
 I'll be just as angry! Cause why?" 
 
 "I don't know, Peggy," Maureen replied. 
 
 "Iv course ye don't," said Peggy. "I was right in say- 
 in' that ye 're a wee silly girl now, as always. The raison 
 that ye '11 not stay there, Maureen Malley, is because ye '11 
 not be allowed to stay there. One day, and that will be 
 soon, ye '11 go away, and all the wild horses iv the world 
 couldn't keep ye from goin' away the day ye want to." 
 
 Peggy got to her feet again, and leaning her hands on 
 Maureen's chair she whispered in the girl's ear: 
 
 "Yell be took away be a good, dacent boy, and that's 
 Cathal Cassidy!"
 
 THE RETURN 303 
 
 m 
 
 That night when Maureen had finished her supper, Han- 
 nah, the daughter of Peggy Ribbig, who had just come in 
 from the byre with a guggen of milk, went up to her. 
 
 "Maureen Malley," she said. 
 
 "Yes, Hannah," said Maureen. 
 
 "I saw a man out be the holly bush in the dark," said 
 Hannah in a voice of mystery. "Maybe it'll be yerself 
 that the man, whoever he is, is wantin' to speak to." 
 
 Maureen went to the door and out into the darkness. 
 The night had fallen and the stars of heaven were sprin- 
 kled with a lavish hand on the sky from Crinnan to the 
 sea. Everything was fresh and full of promise. Maureen, 
 her heart elated with hope, went to meet him. 
 
 He came towards her with a smile, caught both her hands 
 and kissed them, then drew her close to his breast. It was 
 a moment without embarrassment or shame, snatched from 
 the air and hugged with that greed which belongs to 
 love. 
 
 "Oh! to think that it's wee Maureen," said Cathal, 
 pressing his lips against her hair. "I can hardly believe 
 it. But ye '11 never go away and leave me again. Say that 
 ye won't, Maureen, say that ye won't." 
 
 Tears came from her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. 
 He watched them fall and glimmer. The dark night had 
 light to spare for the stars of grief. She nestled close to 
 him, raised her white face and looked in his eyes. His 
 arm was under her neck and nestling there, her face was 
 like a white bird in the heather of a moor. 
 
 They spoke in whispers, saying things almost without 
 meaning, things that both felt but hardly understood. 
 
 "Ye love me, Maureen?" 
 
 "Always, Cathal!" 
 
 "And ye went away and left me?" 
 
 Both trembled and looked at one another in the dark- 
 ness, their eyes lit with a brilliant fire. Almost without 
 realizing it their hands touched and their lips met.
 
 304 MAUKEEN 
 
 "Ye 're never to run away and leave me again, Mau- 
 reen. ' ' 
 
 "Never again.'* 
 
 They spoke of things silly and wide, of their hopes and 
 dreams, the past now beyond their keeping, the future 
 which lay within reach. They spoke as lovers always speak, 
 as the ancient passion prompts anew, every day and every 
 hour. The eternal love was theirs, they clutched at it with 
 greedy fingers, their bodies palpitating with the passion 
 that runs upward and outward, beyond the governance of 
 the mind. Love, as it was in the beginning, is now, and 
 ever shall be, was theirs. 
 
 IV 
 
 The house of Condy Heelagh, lipping the highway, was 
 a favorite resort of the Meenaroodagh and Meenarood rak- 
 ers. Here on one night four weeks following the return 
 of Maureen O'Malley a number of Condy 's neighbors fore- 
 gathered, and towards the hour of ten the kitchen was 
 thick in tobacco smoke that almost hid the assembled com- 
 pany in its curtains. Cathal Cassidy was there holding 
 a long discussion on something political with Liam Logan, 
 'Corney McKelvie and Columb Kuagh Keeran. In the 
 corner near the fire sat Maureen O 'Malley knitting a stock- 
 ing, and Peggy Bibbig was beside her, engaged on a simi- 
 lar task and speaking in whispers to Maureen. 
 
 "He's a boy better than any," said Peggy with a sigh. 
 "Not concaity like some iv them, and he has the lavish 
 hand when a bargain's made. And dacent! One iv the 
 dacentest in the barony and beyond it. Mark my words, 
 Maureen Malley and beyond it." 
 
 "That's true, Peggy," Maureen replied, a blush over- 
 spreading her face. 
 
 "Iv course it's the true word," said Peggy, raising her 
 voice a little as if hinting that those who said otherwise 
 would find an enemy in her. "I mind him and him not 
 more than the height iv two turf, and I mind as well sayin'
 
 THE RETURN 305 
 
 then that he would grow up to be a strappin' man and a 
 credit to the place. 'And the girl that'll get him when 
 he's big,' says I, 'will have a man that she need not be 
 ashamed iv!' ' 
 
 Maureen moved her knitting needles quickly but made 
 no answer. 
 
 "And it's the long and many's a day since I went to 
 the chapel with himself, ' ' said Peggy, a reminiscent gleam 
 in her eyes as she glanced at Condy Heelagh, who sat by 
 the fire, his look on the flames. "But I never was sorry 
 for takin' him, thank God! He was a good man to me 
 and worked hard to keep the downdrops from the thatch, 
 though like meself he's gettin' old on it now, poor man! 
 And now, this day it's close on fifty years since I was 
 married on him, and that's a good time surely." 
 
 "A long while entirely," said Maureen. 
 
 "Well, I mind the day and the days that went afore it 
 as well as I mind yesterday," said Peggy with a sigh. 
 "And it's a time to look back on that many years. . . . 
 But, Maureen Malley" she edged her hassock nearer the 
 girl "I'll tell ye what made it a good match more than 
 anything. 'Twas the Doonwell." 
 
 The Doonwell, with water to heal body and soul, is a 
 place reputed to possess especial holiness and is visited by 
 pilgrims with religious intent. The well, situated in a 
 wild and retired spot of Tirconail, has its sward hung 
 with the rags, crutches and other memorials, the litter of 
 the ailing which is testimony to the cures effected. The 
 waters of the well were blessed by an ancient saint, and 
 pilgrims from all parts walk there barefooted. The Well 
 of Boon is some fourteen miles from Stranarachary. 
 
 "And ye walked all the way, Peggy?" asked Maureen. 
 
 "I was light iv foot then," said the old woman. "And 
 I walked it there and back barefooted, the whole iv the 
 way. But it doesn't matter a bit how ye come back. It's 
 the goin' that counts, and it must be done in the bare feet 
 to have the cure or the blessing. And my ! wasn't I sore on 
 it when I came home at night ! ' '
 
 306 MAUREEN 
 
 "It's a hard journey for a person to put over one in a 
 day," said Maureen. "What time did ye leave in the 
 morn ? ' ' 
 
 "Long afore the birds shook themselves," Peggy Ribbig 
 replied. "With the sun up I had more than half the jour- 
 ney there past me." 
 
 "I think I'll go then," said Maureen impetuously. "I 
 can set out the morrow mornin' early?" 
 
 "Never too soon for a good job," said Peggy Ribbig 
 with two sighs, one to head and one to tail the spoken 
 word. She sighed thus whenever she spoke. 
 
 "Well, they're all leavin' now, so I must get away," said 
 the girl, rising and looking at Cathal, who was also on his 
 feet, gazing expectantly at Maureen. 
 
 As Maureen leant on his arm, Cathal felt the happiest 
 lad in all the parish. Both gazed at one another, then at 
 Condy Heelagh, bidding good night to the rakers. Good- 
 by was a lengthy affair, so much had to be spoken of, little 
 secrets perhaps, which were not to be known by every one. 
 In fact, Condy Heelagh, who never wore a coat in his home, 
 put one on towards midnight because it was so cold at the 
 door talking to the departing guests of one thing and an- 
 other. 
 
 "Good night t'ye, Condy Heelagh," said Cathal, as he 
 passed with Maureen on his arm. "And to yerself as well, 
 Columb Ruagh." 
 
 ' ' Old Columb here yet and all the long road to Crinnan 
 in front iv him?" asked Maureen in a merry voice, her 
 heart light and the cares which she had known thrust away 
 from her. Even Columb appeared to her in a changed 
 light. He was not such a bad old fellow after all, though 
 more than a little fond of the money. But he was getting 
 old and had no one to take care of him when he would not 
 be able to take care of himself. She called him old merely 
 as a sign of friendship, and because every one else did 
 the same.
 
 THE RETUEN 307 
 
 A little distance along the road, the boy and girl came 
 to a halt and gazed at the beautiful night with its myriad 
 stars and the trees waving their long arms in the slight 
 breeze. All was perfectly still, and sounds traveling from 
 a great distance reached the ears of the two. From afar 
 came the roll of the sea, and from the near hills came the 
 rumble of brooks falling down over rock and ravine. Here 
 and there a light glimmered steadily, and now and again 
 one went out as if bidding good night. A dog barked from 
 the heel-end of Meenaroodagh, and the bark, carried from 
 brae to brae by the echo, repeated itself a thousand times 
 before pulsing out to sea. Maureen listened to it for a 
 moment, then with a smile lighting up her eyes she turned 
 to Cathal. 
 
 "Isn't it quiet here, Cathal?" she said. 
 
 "Quiet's not the word," Cathal answered, gazing at her 
 in ecstasy. 
 
 "And the trees shaking their arms!" said Maureen, look- 
 ing at an ash by the roadside which waved against the 
 stars. 
 
 "Aye, they're not leavin' many of them to the country 
 now," said Cathal sadly. "One time this country was 
 filled with forests, but there'll soon not be one tree left in 
 all Ireland." 
 
 "What a pity," said Maureen, sighing also, though at 
 the same time happiness welled up in her heart. 
 
 "But as long as you're here, I'll never miss anything," 
 said Cathal, catching the girl 's hand as he spoke and press- 
 ing it tightly in his own. "Now that ye 're back here again 
 there's nothing more that I'm wantin', Maureen." 
 
 She looked at him, and he could see a blush mantling her 
 cheeks. He put his hand round her shoulder and drew 
 her in to his body. Maureen made no effort to drag herself 
 away. Thus they remained, the two of them, for a long 
 time, plunged in dreams, after which both moved away in 
 the direction of Maureen's lodging. She opened the door 
 of the house, set one foot inside it, and then turning round 
 quickly she held out her hand towards Cathal and asked 
 in a whisper:
 
 308 MAUREEN 
 
 "Is it to Kineeragh that ye 're goin' the morrow with 
 your cart?" 
 
 "I am, Maureen." 
 
 "And what time will ye be passin' Crinnan cross-roads 
 on the way back?" she inquired. 
 
 "Eight o'clock, maybe," he answered. "Maybe later, 
 but not earlier." 
 
 "And if ye 're there afore that time, will ye wait for me 
 if I'm later?" she asked. 
 
 * ' Of course I '11 wait for you, wee Maureen, ' ' said Cathal 
 tenderly. " I '11 wait there for ye till the Day iv Judgment 
 and beyond if yell ask me. I've waited for ye so long 
 without ye asking me that it won't come amiss for me to 
 wait when I 'm asked. And where will ye be, to be at Crin- 
 nan cross-roads at that time in the night?" 
 
 "It's to the Doon Well that I'm goin'," said Maureen. 
 "And I'll be tired comin' back, and I'll not say no to a 
 lift on the cart iv Cathal Cassidy." 
 
 "Well, I'll be there between eight and nine," said Cathal. 
 "Columb Euagh's house is just beside the road, and he 
 has always a good fire on, and if ye 're early ye can sit 
 down there and warm yerself. I'll come along as hard as 
 I can, once I do my business." 
 
 "Good night t'ye, Cathal, and a good sleep," said Mau- 
 reen, drawing the hand which Cathal still held to herself 
 and pulling the door to a little. "And thanks, thanks ever 
 so much for what ye 're goin' to do for me the morrow 
 night." 
 
 "But there's one thing that I've to tell ye yet," he said 
 in a whisper. " It 's this. ' ' 
 
 He caught her hand again, drew her in close to him, so 
 closely and tightly that she felt choking. He pressed his 
 cheek to hers, her breast to his, all the little infinitesimal 
 movements and shades of movements which love brings to 
 its aid. 
 
 They were one black shadow in the doorway, lighter and 
 darker tones of shading, lacking contour and outline. Now 
 and again when they moved or changed position they could 
 see a live coal glimmer on the ashes like a little wicked
 
 THE RETURN 309 
 
 eye, making sport at the passion, the moment's respite 
 which love snatches from the drudgism of time. 
 
 A step was heard on the road; somebody was coming 
 from the direction of Condy Heelagh's. 
 
 "Good night to ye, Cathal," whispered Maureen. 
 "There's some one comin'." 
 
 "Let them come," said Cathal, releasing the girl never- 
 theless. "I know who it is. It's Columb Ruagh on the 
 way home." 
 
 "Well, we'll tell him," said Maureen. 
 
 Columb came abreast. Cathal stepped into the middle 
 of the road to meet him. The newcomer came to a sudden 
 stop as a man that expects a trap, turned his head to the 
 right and looked at the ditch, to the left and took in with 
 a glance a sycamore tree, then at Cathal Cassidy standing 
 in front of him. 
 
 "It's me, Columb," said Cathal. "Did you think I was 
 a polisman?" 
 
 "No, not a polisman," said Columb in a gruff voice. 
 "But it's as well to be careful in this arm iv the world, for 
 one never knows what's goin' to take place." 
 
 "Well, that's true," said Cathal. 
 
 "But get any one tryin' their capers with me!" snarled 
 Columb, taking the stick from under his arm and giving it 
 a suggestive shake. "I'd soon let them know!" 
 
 ' ' Old Columb wants to have a fight ! ' ' said Maureen, who 
 was still standing at the door. 
 
 "And old Columb can stand up to the best of them," 
 said Cathal. 
 
 Columb took his stick down, folded his arms and looked 
 the younger man between the eyes. 
 
 "Aye, and indeed Cathal Cassidy!" he said in a slow 
 voice which seemed to hide a threat. "Aye, and indeed! 
 Old Columb can stand up to the best of them, be whatever 
 they are!" 
 
 "True, true," said Cathal with a smile. 
 
 "To the best iv them and the very best iv them!" said 
 Columb in the same threatening voice. "And many a one 
 would be as well to have that in mind when they've any-
 
 310 MAUREEN 
 
 thing to do with old Columb, that's not maybe as old as 
 he's hairy." 
 
 He spat violently on the road as if giving emphasis to 
 his utterance, then without another word he disappeared 
 into the darkness. 
 
 "He has a funny way and all with him," said Maureen 
 from the doorway. 
 
 ' ' That 's old Columb ! ' ' said Cathal. ' ' If a person didn 't 
 know him it would be hard to make anything of him. His 
 father was something like him, I've heard." 
 
 "Yes," said Maureen, who had very little interest in old 
 Columb. "Good night t'ye, Cathal," she said, turning to 
 the young man. 
 
 "Good night," he replied and caught her hand again. 
 He drew her towards him, rested his face on her hair and 
 pillowed the small brown head on his breast. To see the 
 beloved back from her grave of exile resting in his arms, 
 her eyes as bright as stars when they looked up at him, 
 pulling her lips back when he bent to kiss her, but allow- 
 ing them to be kissed all the same, filled his heart with a 
 mad, overpowering happiness. 
 
 When he went home that night, Cathal drew the blind 
 from his window, put out the lamp and stared into the 
 darkness. In front of him lay the whole townland of 
 Meenaroodagh, with here and there a few late lamps still 
 beaming out into the darkness. But Cathal only saw one, 
 the light in the home of Maureen O'Malley. At length, 
 when this light wavered and died out, Cathal turned in 
 his seat, his soul afire with happiness, and said to him- 
 self: 
 
 "Wee silly brown head! Maureen O'Malley!" 
 
 Cathal's were not the only eyes that watched the window 
 that night. When the paraffin lamp was turned down and 
 the wick choked in the jaws of its burner, a dark form 
 rose from the green outside Maureen's bedroom window, 
 and a bristly, rufous face pressed against the pane as if 
 trying to pierce with its eyes the fabric of the blind and 
 the obscurity of the room. For a long hour it remained 
 there, listening.
 
 THE RETURN 311 
 
 When the figure withdrew it did so on tiptoes. A space 
 away it sat down, lifted a pair of boots from the ground 
 and put them on. In the widely diffused darkness, where 
 substance was shade and shadow substance, where silence 
 oscillated as if in the throes of terror and the low con- 
 tinual undertone of night whispered of despair, the figure 
 gathered to itself the animate manifestation of anguish 
 and doom. 
 
 When it rose to its feet, the figure stood straight as a 
 stake, form with no fixed outline, a ghost in the solitude. 
 Suddenly it moved, changing its location in space without 
 sound. At an oblique angle it made for the road. There, 
 no longer hemmed by the confines of caution and secrecy, 
 its hobnailed boots rasped on the roadway. The figure was 
 that of a man, Columb Ruagh Keeran. 
 
 "Old!" he growled in a voice teemful of hate and acri- 
 mony. "Old Columb! I'd wring their necks!" 
 
 He stopped, ground his teeth, pressed one closed fist 
 against the other and twisted both round in opposite direc- 
 tions as if wringing the neck of a chicken.
 
 GARRYBAWN 
 
 It's Micky Fergus Diver, and he's only skin and "bone, 
 
 With acres holm and heather, that, and money of his own 
 
 It's all day long he's sitting with his elbow on the hob, 
 
 The crabbit Micky Fergus with his dudheen in his gob; 
 
 A near old scrawny scrape-the-pot that's askin' dusk and dawn: 
 
 "Boy! are ye never gettin' on with diggin' Garrybawn!" 
 
 My gallowses are hangin' down and twistin' round my legs; 
 The girls can see the most of me that's stickin' through my rags; 
 It's dribs and drabs on back and front and freezin' to the pelt 
 Ye'll see it's up to him one day and give him such a welt! 
 The close and scringy rip of sin that's at me dusk and dawn 
 With: "Will ye never hurry up with diggin' Garrybawn I" 
 
 Now if he'd let me to a dance, or better to a fair, 
 
 A penny whistle I would buy and learn a dancin' air 
 
 I'd maybe whistle it at work, or wouldn't it be fun 
 
 To blow it right in Micky's face at night when work bees don! 
 
 It's thrown he is, the people say, but I can be as thrown 
 
 For Micky Fergus I can't stick, him and his Garrybawn. 
 
 But wait a bit till Old HaU'eve, and then you'll see my plan} 
 
 It's off from here I'll scoot to where they'll treat me like a man, 
 
 As good as any in the place, and not because I'm wee 
 
 They'll curl their gobs and think it smart, that looking down on met 
 
 And three pounds comin'! It's a lot! Just wait till that is drawn, 
 
 I'll take the road from Micky's house, him and his Garrybaumt 
 
 313
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 IT was the night following, the hour eight, the locality a 
 cave on the Crinnan hills. This cave ran under the 
 rocks, and far removed from human habitation it was 
 a paradise for the potheen-distiller. The hill almost stood 
 upright ; to climb it by day was a feat, by night an impos- 
 sibility for most men, but not for the owner of Crinnan, 
 Columb Ruagh Keeran. It was here that the man pursued 
 his work in the darkness. 
 
 The night was clear, though moonless, with a heaven of 
 stars and a cold wind on the hills. Frost had set in, and 
 the ground under Columb Ruagh 's feet as he made his way 
 from his cabin to the still-house was hard and crisp. He 
 climbed the haunch of hill and arrived at his cave. 
 
 "Within, near the entrance, was a circle of stones, in the 
 center of which a turf fire burned slowly. Round this fire 
 were a number of barrels, kegs, pails, pots and trenchers. 
 On entering, the nose was assailed by the putrid stench of 
 warm grain, barm and sediment of all kinds. 
 
 As he came in from the darkness of the night, the red- 
 haired man hit the fire with his boot, causing the sparks 
 to fly up through the gloom. Then he drew off his gray 
 woolen wrapper and threw it into the corner with a quick, 
 convulsive movement. He turned up his sleeves, spat on 
 his hands and rubbed his palms along the legs of his cor- 
 duroy trousers. The fire from the grate lit up his rufous 
 face, blood-threaded, wrinkled, and unshaven. For a mo- 
 ment he looked round, staring into the black obscurity that 
 bundled itself in angles, recesses and unfathomable cor- 
 ners as if cloaking something fell and hideous. 
 
 315
 
 316 MAUREEN 
 
 Even the world lighted by the fire was abject and filthy, 
 the walls oozing with putrid moisture, the floor covered 
 with scraps of decaying food, the droppings of sheep, and 
 the sulprus sediment of the still. Water falling from the 
 roof gurgled as it dropped in a slough on the floor. This 
 water ran along a channel formed at the base of the wall 
 and disappeared in the blackness, gleaming and glinting as 
 if endowed with life. It looked like a snake crawling out 
 from the firelight into some secret lair. 
 
 The man ran his fingers through the red hair sprinkled 
 with gray, spat on his hands, rubbed them together and 
 put one over his ear and listened. 
 
 "Not comin' yet, the bastard!" he growled, gnashing 
 his teeth and wrinkling up his eyes as if the thought of 
 something caused him unendurable agony. 
 
 Then with feverish animation he rushed into one of the 
 dark corners and from there commenced to throw rocks and 
 sods of turf into the circle of cave lighted by the fire. 
 When a heap was collected he reappeared and built a little 
 circle of stones, lit a second fire in it and filling a still with 
 water placed it on the flames. 
 
 "Now, the vat!" he muttered, running into the corner 
 again. He returned, rolling a large barrel-shaped vessel 
 open at one end like a churn and having a plugged hole in 
 the side near the base. This he placed on the floor by the 
 fire. 
 
 Somewhere in the darkness and the corner was Columb 
 Ruagh's storeroom. From this shadow-filled recess he 
 brought out a sheaf of green rushes and a bundle of sea- 
 soned ash plants. These latter were peeled of their barks 
 and cut to a level smoothness at both ends as if planed. 
 
 Inside the barrel, some six or seven inches above the 
 plugged hole, were a number of small notches circling the 
 interior wall. In these notches Columb fixed the rods so 
 that they stretched across the barrel from one corner to 
 another like laths of a corn-riddle. A spread of green 
 rushes was laid on top and on these a sprinkling of white 
 stones with the object of keeping the rushes in place and
 
 POTHEEN 317 
 
 preventing their being disturbed in the subsequent opera- 
 tions. 
 
 "That'll do! That'll do!" said the man, spreading out 
 his hands on the rushes and thrusting the- false bottom 
 down with all the force he could muster. ' ' It has the back 
 iv a two-year-old, this bottom! Old Columb Kuagh that 
 can't be bate at anything! See how I do it!" he shouted, 
 addressing the blackness that surrounded him. "There's 
 none iv the young ones can hold a candle to me. Old 
 Columb Ruagh, indeed. Hah! I'll let them see, the rips 
 ivhell! I '11 let them see!" 
 
 As he spoke, this singular creature lay down on the floor, 
 turned over in the slush like a colt in the grazing, all his 
 motions impatient, grotesque and restless, as if a fiend were 
 in his body forcing him to perform actions out of keeping 
 with the governance of will. 
 
 He got up, rushed again into the obscure corner which 
 was the storehouse of the mountain distillery. When he 
 came out he carried two bags, one in each arm, the bigger 
 containing twelve stones of barley meal, the smaller four 
 stones of vat meal. Despite the weight, Columb walked 
 quietly with his burdens to the fire, the supernatural bril- 
 liancy of his eyes seeming to ask imaginary onlookers to 
 take stock of his prowess. Call him an old man, indeed! 
 Old Columb Ruagh was as strong as the best of them, and 
 stronger ! 
 
 "Meal seed now!" he exclaimed, as he placed the two 
 bags on the floor and went into the corner again. There 
 was a sound as if he were stumbling over impediments, 
 but presently something brown and bulky whizzed through 
 the air and dropped on the floor, a poke containing two 
 stone of meal seed; the inner husks of corn, which is 
 amongst other things used by the thrifty housewives in the 
 making of sowans. 
 
 "That's it!" Columb yelled, coming into the light again. 
 "Barley grain, oat meal and meal seed. No sugar for me! 
 Four stone iv it, and it costs a tidy penny now ! No, none 
 iv it for me, for old Columb. Farley Eonar didn't use it,
 
 318 MAUREEN 
 
 neither did Myles McMonagle, and them at their day the 
 best on the job. It's a wild taste that it gives to the 
 potheen! Into the vat with it, into the vat!" he roared, 
 lifting the bags one after another and emptying their con- 
 tents on the rush bed of the barrel. "Water on it, ye 
 divil, ye, now ye 're on the boil ! " he cried, running to the 
 still and lifting it from the fire and emptying its contents 
 into the vat. 
 
 "That's it!" he cried, picking up a shovel-shaft which 
 had been trampled into the filth of the floor, pulling it 
 between his legs to clean it. With this he commenced to 
 stir the contents of the vat, taking care not to dislodge the 
 stones or disturb the rushes which covered the false bottom. 
 
 * ' Back ! f orrid ! Lower it down ! " he chaunted, stirring 
 with all his might but so aptly that the false bottom was 
 not disturbed. "Back and f orrid, shovel-shaft! Through 
 the stones and round them like a salmon through the tree 
 runts in a river! I can see the stones through the triosg, 
 and they call me old Columb Kuagh. Oh! the brats iv 
 perdition ! May the walls iv hell fall on them ! ' ' 
 
 Perspiration came out on his face, trickled down his 
 forehead, cheek, and jaw, and ran in a stream through the 
 red hair of his muscled chest. The liquid was now filter- 
 ing through the rushes, and its gurgle as it dropped in 
 the lower portion of the vat could be heard above the ex- 
 clamations of the red-haired man. When he had stirred 
 for some twenty minutes he pulled the shaft from the vat, 
 threw it on the ground and arranged the buckets round the 
 vat. Then, pulling the plug from the hole, he allowed the 
 liquor to drip into the largest bucket. 
 
 Another barrel was taken from an adjacent stillion, and 
 in this Columb placed a quantity of yeast, over which the 
 buckets of liquor drained from the vat were poured. Two 
 pints of hop-juice were added, and when this was thrown 
 in Columb leaned on the rim of the barrel and looked down, 
 seeing nothing, but hearing as in a dream the frothing of 
 the simmering liquid. 
 
 He remained thus for some moments, leaning over the 
 barrel in a limp, motionless attitude as if he had been flung
 
 POTHEEN 319 
 
 there after death. Suddenly he raised himself, went to 
 the fire, lit a spale and came back to the barrel again. 
 Looking in, he could see the contents quiver, rise up in little 
 ripples as if a million eels were moving beneath. Huge 
 bubbles chased one another across the surface, and a dron- 
 ing keen rose to the roof of the cavern, sank into the ob- 
 scure walls of gloom which filled the place and died away. 
 
 "Old!" the man muttered, as he pressed the lighted end 
 of the spale between finger and thumb and put it out. 
 "Old!" he growled, then in a sudden fit of frenzy: "Ah! 
 the divil fly away with them, the brats ! I could buy them 
 body and soul. Sein Fein! No, not for me, not for old 
 Columb. Misha Fein is more like it. They can drink my 
 potheen when they pay me hard money for it; they can 
 go down to Stranarachary and with their bands and drums 
 and fifes keep the polis watchin' them, and that's all I 
 want. If the polis stay all their time in Stranarachary I 
 am safe here! That's my way iv lookin' at it! All's on 
 my side, everything. There's no whisky comin' to the town 
 now, and that means increase for Columb Ruagh. Old 
 Columb Kuagh ! Ah ! the dhirty pigs ! ' ' 
 
 Columb ceased for a moment but immediately was talk- 
 ing again, tramping through the cave, now uttering pure 
 nonsense, again giving expression to something wise and 
 weighty, but all his remarks filled with undying hate 
 against some person or persons unknown. At times he 
 held up his hands over his head as if calling to the dark- 
 ness to listen and pay heed to his threats, again he thrust 
 his arms to the elbows between the red flannel shirt and 
 the neck of his trousers, leant his head sideways in a listen- 
 ing attitude and gazed towards the entrance of the cave as 
 if looking for somebody to make appearance. "Will he 
 never come in, the brat iv hell?" he asked himself more 
 than once. 
 
 Suddenly he took from the corner of the stillion a pole 
 round one end of which was bound a string of white thick 
 cloth saturated with paraffin oil. This he thrust into the 
 fire, stepping back a pace as it burst into flame. Drawing 
 it out, he went to one of the corners where a second barrel
 
 320 MAUREEN 
 
 as full as the one already filled stood on a ledge. This bar- 
 rel was covered with a lid weighted down with stones and 
 bound with several layers of cloth to exclude the air. 
 
 He placed the torch on the wall, removed the lid from 
 one barrel to another, then examined the one on the ledge. 
 When last Columb looked in it on the previous evening, its 
 contents were fermenting, with bubbles chasing one another 
 across its surface. Now it was quite at rest, as placid as a 
 spring well, colored a variegated blue and purple like par- 
 affin oil. In this stage the liquor was named kilty, or wort. 
 In some parts of Donegal bread and kilty are considered 
 excellent repast even for a king. 
 
 Columb filled the still with kilty, added a few pieces of 
 soap to the brew and fixed an air-tight cover on the still. 
 From this tin cover projected a lead tube, with one end, 
 twisted in a corkscrew fashion, leading downwards into a 
 large keeve filled with 'the icy cold water which dropped 
 from the roof. Through a hole in the side near the bottom 
 the lower end of this tube, the worm, projected. 
 
 n 
 
 At that moment there was a movement at the entrance 
 of the cave; a shuffling sound was heard, as if a piece of 
 cloth was being pulled along the ground. A shade moved 
 from the shadows and entered the circle of firelight. It 
 was Micky Og, a workhouse boy, a youngster of thirteen 
 who had been in Columb 's service for some months. 
 Micky's parents were tinkers. 
 
 He came up close to Columb Ruagh, who was now look- 
 ing into the fire, his ridged and rufous face beaded with 
 sweat and the tufts of his hair standing out in several 
 ways, glistening like threads of gold. 
 
 ' ' I 'm here, back again, Columb Ruagh, ' ' said the young- 
 ster in a nervous voice as if afraid of having done some- 
 thing wrong in not being earlier in the cave. The big man 
 gave the fire a poke with the toe of his boot, and as a burn- 
 ing peat fell outside the circle of stones he lifted it casually 
 between finger and thumb and threw it into its place
 
 POTHEEN 321 
 
 again. Then without a word, but with a grim shake of the 
 head, he glared at the youngster. 
 
 "I was down at the house, Columb Ruagh," the young- 
 ster began, speaking timorously as if repeating a lesson 
 which he was afraid of forgetting, "and I waited, but not 
 the hilt or hair iv a sound could I hear comin ' from beyont 
 the hills at the fut iv Binbawn." 
 
 Columb nodded his head, put a short clay pipe in his 
 mouth, lit it and eyed the youngster up and down, con- 
 templating the poor being, the offspring of the workhouse, 
 with strange attention. 
 
 Micky was thin and pale, a pinched and sallow creature 
 who looked as if he had grown up in some cavern out of 
 sight of the sun. His legs and arms might have been at 
 one time pulled taut as the strings of a fiddle, then released 
 and allowed to curl up in all manners of ways. The elbows 
 were drawn in against the sides, the knees touched one an- 
 other, the heels met, and the feet, big and ungainly, rested 
 flat as flukes on the floor. These were crusted with clay, 
 now wet, but which, often drying, had chapped the skin, 
 causing hacks out of which blood was constantly oozing. 
 
 The neck of the youngster, thin as a lath, held on its 
 top a big head, its large eyes sunk in shadow, the corners of 
 the lips turned down as if with continual anguish and 
 worry. His long thin legs, naked to the knees, red and 
 rough, were scarred here and there as if torn with bram- 
 bles. He wore a pair of thready trousers, torn at rear and 
 unpatched, and a woolen wrapper which Columb had used 
 for years and to which he now came whenever he needed re- 
 pairs for his own raiment. When he first entered service 
 Micky had to thrust up the sleeves when working, but now 
 the sleeves only reached the elbows, the missing parts hav- 
 ing been used by Columb as patches for his trousers and 
 coat. At the present moment Micky looked at Columb and 
 noticed the knee of the man's trousers torn, so the boy 
 knew that the master would soon make a further demand 
 on the reserve of patches. In fact, the tragedy of waste 
 and repair would in the course of time leave Micky per- 
 fectly naked.
 
 322 MAUREEN 
 
 "Well, and what's doin'?" asked Columb when his scru- 
 tiny came to an end. "Ye've been down there, haven't 
 ye?" 
 
 "I have, Columb." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 "I'm here, and" 
 
 "Ye 're here!" roared Columb. "Of course ye 're here, 
 ye bare-bone, herrin '-gutted rip. I 'm not blind, am I ? Is 
 old Columb blind?" 
 
 "I didn't say ye were blind, Columb Ruagh," faltered 
 the youth, stepping back timorously and overturning a pail. 
 
 "Don't go about as if ye hadn't an eye in yer head," 
 said the red man in a hoarse whisper. "Look where ye 're 
 goin' and don't have two eyes but three when ye 're here. 
 Mind that ! I 'm yer master now, yer father, yer mother, 
 yer God ! Mind that and mind it always, or I '11 make ye 
 mind it with a stick. . . . There's her cumallye! There's 
 her cumallye ! Don 't stand there with yer mouth open like 
 a skaldy! Shove the bucket under the cock!" 
 
 The still had now been effervescing for a few minutes, 
 and the "cumallye" to which Columb referred was the 
 musical whistle which the worm gave forth as the escaping 
 steam rushed through it and puffed out in vapor at the 
 mouth. Columb, wise in the lore of his profession and 
 versed in the language of the worm, was directing the boy 
 to place a bucket under the spout to catch the clear and 
 transparent stream which was now issuing from the worm. 
 
 Although clear in color and tasting of whisky, the first 
 issue of the still, "singlings," was not really fit to be drunk. 
 When all this had been drawn the process would be re- 
 peated, and the product of the second operation would be 
 called ' ' doublings. ' ' Properly speaking, it would be called 
 doublings when coming through the worm. Once it came 
 out it would be known as "potheen." But on this occa- 
 sion the second process was not put into execution. In 
 fact the first was not completed. When the first bucket was 
 filled and the second put in its place, Columb spoke to the 
 youngster.
 
 POTHEEN 323 
 
 "Did ye light the lamp when ye were down there?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I lighted it, Columb Ruagh." 
 
 "And put it out when ye came away again and put the 
 hasp on the door and raked the fire ? ' ' asked Columb. 
 
 "I didn't do neither, because there was somebody there," 
 said Micky. 
 
 "Who was there?" asked the man, bending down over 
 the boy and grabbing him by the shoulder. ' ' Who in under 
 heaven was it ? What was the person 's name ? Tell me, tell 
 me, and don't be a dummy!" Columb knitted his brows 
 viciously and shook the boy. 
 
 "Maureen O'Malley, from the butt iv Meenaroodagh, " 
 said Micky, his teeth chattering and his whole body quiver- 
 ing nervously. 
 
 "Maureen O'Malley!" Columb exclaimed, releasing the 
 boy from his grip and stepping back a pace. For a sec- 
 ond he stood as if petrified, then slowly shoved his hands 
 down between shirt and trousers and emitted a low whistle. 
 He fixed a puzzled look on the boy, then on the ground, 
 and then on the boy again. 
 
 "Maureen O'Malley!" he repeated. "What is she on 
 the lookout for at this hour iv the night, and what does she 
 want in the house below?" 
 
 "She was at the Boon Well," said the youngster, his 
 large eyes lighting up with a certain pleasure at knowing 
 something which interested Columb Ruagh so much. ' ' She 
 was there the day, and on her way back she was to meet 
 Cathal Cassidy at the house below and drive home with 
 him on the cart." 
 
 Columb 's face lighted up with a strange expression. A 
 hungry smile curved the corner of his lips, his reddish 
 eyes looked down as if contemplating something which lay 
 at his feet. A fox with human lineaments might look in 
 the same way as it stands on the mountainside and sur- 
 veys a solitary lamb caught in the briars of a gully be- 
 neath. When he raised his eyes again and looked at the 
 boy he saw that the youngster had drawn back into the
 
 324 MAUREEN 
 
 shadows where his vague outline had almost become merged 
 with the gloom. He was gazing at Columb with a glance 
 of fear and suspicion, feeling that his master's look boded 
 evil for somebody. 
 
 ' ' Here, ye whelp ! ' ' said the man, beckoning to the young- 
 ster with his finger, "come closer, closer yet. I want to 
 speak to ye." 
 
 Micky approached his master, who reached out and 
 caught him by the ear. 
 
 "I want ye to go to the foot iv Binbawn and look under 
 the knowe that's in under the hobeen nearby Cruckna 
 Copall," said Columb, speaking slowly and weighing out 
 his words as if they were of exceeding value. "Ye know 
 the place, don't ye? It's there that the carters put the 
 jars and the meal seed for me when they take the Doo- 
 chary road from the foot iv Binbawn. The jar will be an 
 empty one and covered up with Cheena to hide it from the 
 eye of the polis. Ye know the place, don 't ye ? " 
 
 "Ye 're twistin' the ear off iv me, Columb Ruagh," said 
 the youngster. "Lemme go, won't ye?" 
 
 "There, then," said the man, giving the ear a vicious 
 tug before releasing his grip. "Now, don't ye know the 
 place?" 
 
 "I know it," said the youngster, again edging out of 
 the way and rubbing his ear. 
 
 "Well, ye 're to go there across the braes, not be the 
 road, mind, and get the jar," said Columb. "And when 
 ye get it, keep an ear open, and if ye hear any cart comin' 
 at all tell the driver that Cleena Bridge is down, that it 
 fell in the middle of the day when a heavy cart was goin* 
 across it. Mind that. What bridge is down?" 
 
 "Cleena Bridge," said the boy. 
 
 "That's it," said Columb. "Cleena Bridge, and when 
 Cleena Bridge is down the carts to Dungarrow will have 
 to go round Binbawn down the Doochary road and not 
 pass be the house below. It's for their own good that ye '11 
 let them know, for it saves them four miles to the bridge 
 and four miles back again to the foot iv Binbawn when 
 they find that the bridge is down. And keep your eyes
 
 POTHEEN 325 
 
 skinned for the polis," added Columb. "D-tuigean thu?" 
 "D-tuigean," said the youngster. "I'll scoot over the 
 braes if I smell them. ' ' 
 
 "And if ye meet a person don't tell them who ye are or 
 where you come from," Columb went on. "A good lie is 
 more handy than a supple leg many's a time. Don't tell 
 the cart-drivers who ye are, either. If they ask ye where 
 ye are bound for, say to the back iv Sliab League or the 
 back iv Beyond. In this job a close mouth is the best 
 answer to many's a question. Now hook it as if the devil 
 from hell was at yer heels, and if ye fall don't take time 
 to rise. And mind that Cleena Bridge is down when ye 're 
 talkin' to the carters. Hook it!" 
 
 The boy stared in terror at Columb for a moment, then 
 began to tremble at the knees and after a second took to 
 flight and without turning his head rushed from the cave 
 into the darkness. 
 
 m 
 
 Five minutes passed, and Columb remained standing still 
 in the same attitude, his head bent forward and both hands 
 thrust down on his hips between trousers-waist and .shirt. 
 He drew his breath in slowly, holding it for long intervals, 
 then exhaled violently. His eyes, red and contracted un- 
 der the beetling brows, were fixed on the mouth of the 
 worm, through which a thin stream of liquid fell as slowly 
 and soberly as castor oil poured from a bottle. The fire 
 was dying down; the peat turned to ash, and now and 
 again a stone, loosened in the circle, fell inwards and 
 dropped into the fire or outwards and sank with a sough in 
 the slush. Suddenly the sound of effervescence ceased, and 
 the run of liquor into the bucket by the keeve came to an 
 end. 
 
 Columb Ruagh shivered, feeling the cold air of the cave, 
 buttoned his red shirt and lifted his gray woolen coat from 
 the stillion. Glancing at it, he saw that several blobs of 
 mud were sticking to it on the tail, the lapel, the collar 
 and sleeves. Some of these blobs were perfectly dry,
 
 326 MAUKEEN 
 
 others newly formed were moist and damp. The garment 
 was almost worn threadbare, and holes gaped under the 
 armpits and at the elbows. As Columb looked at these he 
 could not help recalling the snugly groomed young men 
 who went to church on Sundays and attended the Sein Fein 
 demonstrations in Stranarachary. 
 
 ' ' And not a penny among them to rattle on a coffin, and 
 all the time I could buy them body and soul, ' ' said Columb 
 defiantly. "Old Columb, too. Ah! the whelps!" 
 
 He took a knife from his pocket and scraped the clay 
 from his coat, starting the job at the collar and finishing 
 at the tail. Then, having snipped the strands of cloth that 
 stuck out from the armpits, he put the coat on, went out 
 into the darkness and made towards the house below. 
 
 He went down the hill, clambering over rocks and ledges, 
 gripping a mountain ash that grew on the edge of a cliff 
 and stepping out into space. For a moment he would swing 
 in the void as his boots felt blindly for the projection which 
 he knew was there. Finding it and securing foothold, he 
 would let the branch go and listen as it swung back again 
 with a swish to its original position. Then he would con- 
 tinue his journey, clambering down inch by inch, finding, 
 by some mysterious instinct known to himself alone, a 
 footing on the smoothest rock and purchase on the flimsi- 
 est ledge. 
 
 Coming to a gully through which ran a turbulent stream, 
 he followed its course as if by magic, jumping across whirl- 
 ing pools with the most perfect self-assurance and landing 
 safely on the other side. For half a mile he followed the 
 bed of the stream, springing from stepping-stone to step- 
 ping-stone in the dark and never losing his footing. When 
 he left the gully he began running down the braes that 
 led to his own home. After covering a few hundred yards 
 he stopped, put his hand over his ear and listened. Not a 
 sound to be heard, and the night so clear and calm that 
 sound could travel a great distance ! 
 
 "It's all right!" said Columb with a laugh, starting to 
 run again. "Cathal Cassidy's not on the road yet, and I
 
 POTHEEN 327 
 
 hope Micky gets hold iv him and turns him back be the 
 fut iv Binbawn. He would call me old Columb, the rip, 
 and I could buy him, body and soul ! 
 
 "Buy him body and soul!" he repeated several times 
 in succession. ' ' They can call me old, but I 've the money, 
 the hard money, and that's more than some iv them have, 
 than most iv them have if it goes to that! They'll not 
 cross me ! They 're f eeard iv me ! ' ' 
 
 He slowed down and came to a halt as he saw a light 
 gleam in the valley below at the Crinnan cross-roads. It 
 was the lamp burning in his home, and there, sitting be- 
 side the fire, was Maureen O'Malley, waiting for Cathal 
 Cassidy and his cart to come. Probably she was asleep 
 now. As he thought of this a strange sensation filled his 
 breast, and something rose in his throat as if choking him. 
 He could hardly breathe, but despite this a wild feeling 
 of joy welled up in his being, causing his feet to lighten, 
 his heart to stand still. Time seemed to cease for a mo- 
 ment; the world stood suspended. In front of his eyes 
 hovered a blue light, a halo in the center of which was a 
 face, the face of Maureen O'Malley. But almost as soon 
 as he saw it the picture faded away and melted into the 
 background of the hills. 
 
 " Columb 's mad!" he said, without moving, for he 
 wanted to recapture the vision again. "You big gawmy iv 
 a fool, Columb, ye 're mad!" He did not speak of him- 
 self as old Columb now. He suddenly felt very young, as 
 if a new increase of young, warm, pulsating blood filled 
 his veins. The light of his home in the hollow of the hills 
 seemed to burn a pale blue, a color which he had never 
 noticed in the light before. 
 
 He walked towards it hurriedly for a distance, but as he 
 drew nearer his step became slower and slower. He walked 
 with shoulders squared and head straight as if wanting 
 somebody near at hand to notice his fine appearance, his 
 youthful gait, his superiority. In fact he was ready to dare 
 anything now, but still he walked slowly, as if afraid. This 
 sudden feeling of timidity annoyed him. Never before in
 
 328 MAUREEN 
 
 all his life had he known such a feeling. Never before, 
 and he was a man well on in years, not so far on, but still 
 so far that he knew what he was about. Not as young as 
 some of the fellows, he would admit, but for all that not 
 BO old. And then he was stronger than most, supple as 
 an eel, and in addition he had the money. If he had not 
 a good suit on his back he could buy one, aye, half-a-dozen 
 suits of the best cloth going, and then not miss the few 
 pence that they cost him. 
 
 When he came near the window he moved slowly, very 
 slowly, taking care to make as little noise as possible. He 
 came within six paces of the window, then stopped as if 
 lacking power to go any further. 
 
 " I 'm a fool, ' ' he said in a whisper as if goading himself 
 to further progress. Then with a manly effort he con- 
 quered his hesitation, approached the window, leant on 
 the sill and looked in, his grubby jaw pressed against the 
 pane, his heart palpitating as if it would burst. 
 
 Maureen O'Malley was inside. She sat by the fire on 
 the only chair which the single-roomed cabin contained. 
 Her head was bent down as if she were looking into the 
 flames, her eyes hidden by the stray tresses that hung over 
 her brows, the lower portion of her face sunk in shadow. 
 
 Bound her shoulders was a shawl, the lower tassels of 
 which rested on her knees. Under the shawl appeared a 
 dark brown woolen skirt, raised ever so slightly and dis- 
 closing to view a pair of boots, a little splashed with mud, 
 but oh ! so small. 
 
 "She has the weest feet in the world," Columb whis- 
 pered. "Just the kind that Kathleen Malley had when 
 she went to the dances years gone." 
 
 He straightened himself with a start as the girl raised 
 her head. Stepping back, he squared his shoulders as if 
 on the point of attempting some hazardous feat. 
 
 "Ye would think that it wasn't me own house at all," 
 he muttered savagely. "And me afeeard to go in." 
 
 He straightened his coat, sorted the neck of his shirt, 
 went to the door, which was open, and stepped inside.
 
 POTHEEN 329 
 
 IV 
 
 "Is it yerself that I see, Maureen Malley?" he asked, 
 holding out his hand to the girl. He felt strangely excited 
 and happy as she caught his hand and said: "It's yer- 
 self at last, Columb. I was waitin' till ye'd come in, for 
 it's a lonely spot iv the world up here with nobody at all. 
 How is it that ye can live here all on yer lone?" 
 
 "People must live somewhere," said Columb with a 
 rough sigh. "If they don't live here they have to live 
 somewhere else, and one's as well here." 
 
 "Without a neighbor or any one to know how ye are!" 
 said the girl, drawing her hand away. "If the sickness 
 came on ye here, what would ye do at all?" 
 
 "Die as likely as not," said Columb with a shrug of 
 bravado. "One might as well die here as down at Meena- 
 roodagh, for it's all the same to the grave-digger." 
 
 "But without a priest to put the Holy Oil on ye and 
 ye goin' out iv the world," said Maureen, her face 
 assuming an expression of pity. Then in a lighter tone 
 and smiling, "Iv course, ye don't mean what ye say, 
 Columb." 
 
 "Well, we'll leave it at that," said the man, implying 
 by his tone that it didn't really matter whether his re- 
 mark was believed or not. "Now, tell me," he went on, 
 as he threw half a dozen turf on the fire, "was it to the 
 Doon Well that ye went the day, Maureen?" 
 
 "That it was," said the girl, in a low and serious voice. 
 "I went there in the morn." 
 
 "Well, I didn't see ye passin'," said Columb. "Was 
 it this way that ye came ? ' ' 
 
 "Round here," said the girl. "But it was so early that 
 nobody was up at all on the first part iv the journey." 
 
 "And weren't ye feeard?" 
 
 "Not a bit," said the girl. "As long as it was dark I 
 kept sayin' me Rosary, and that kept me from thinkin'. 
 'Twas lonely enough here under the black iv the hills and 
 the sounds that was in it iv things flyin' and screechin'
 
 330 MAUREEN 
 
 and makin' a noise like ghosts, and maybe them only moor- 
 hens or weasels for all I knew." 
 
 "They do make a noise at night," said Columb, sitting 
 on a heap of bags by the corner of the wall and taking a 
 pipe from his pocket. "They do make a noise be night, 
 and dark nights more than any other, when ye can't see 
 them. Now if I'd seen ye on the road, Maureen Malley, 
 I'd keep ye company on the journey till the break iv 
 mornin '. ' ' 
 
 He took a spale from the hob, lit it and put it to his 
 pipe. He felt very much at his ease now. 
 
 "But ye weren't up at that hour, Columb," said the 
 girl. " 'Twas about three o'clock in the mornin'." 
 
 "I wasn't in bed at the time," said the man, with a far- 
 fetched laugh. "I was at work then at me job." 
 
 " 'Twas early enough to be on any job," said the girl. 
 "Was it the job?" 
 
 " 'Twas that," said Columb, edging his seat near Mau- 
 reen's chair. He was filled with a sudden desire to tell 
 her everything, his manner of living, his work, the risks 
 he ran, the trials he encountered. "It's a great job," he 
 said. "And it takes a man to grapple with it. None iv 
 them that's down Meenaroodagh would care to face it, I'll 
 warrant. Now, what d'ye think yerself about it? Would 
 any of the raw-bones down there stay up here and live all 
 be themselves just like me ? Would they sit up all the night 
 and not know at what minit the polis would come down on 
 them and grab them ? Could any iv them go up the awlths 
 be night or come down them and not know when they fall 
 and break their necks? Not one iv them I bate, for they 
 haven't the heart like me. No, they haven't the heart like 
 me, like Columb Ruagh." 
 
 He rose to his feet and put his pipe back in his pocket. 
 A strange light in his eyes, drops of perspiration stood on 
 his brow, and the veins on his temple swelled as if they 
 had been inflated by a pump. Maureen 'Malley shrank 
 back affrighted and glanced at the open door through th 
 corner of her eye, mentally debating whether she should 
 run out into the darkness or remain in the cabin.
 
 POTHEEN 331 
 
 "111 bate ye that not one iv them would do it," he 
 said, approaching Maureen and touching her on the shoul- 
 der, the forced self-possession and matter-of-fact tone of a 
 few minutes before giving way to a wild outburst of self- 
 glorification. "For why? It's because they haven't the 
 heart in them, the skinny good-for-nothin's. That for them 
 from Columb Euagh" he snapped his fingers viciously 
 and hissed through the corner of his mouth. "Here I am 
 and up here in rags, and I could buy them body and soul, 
 any iv them and all iv them ! And they wear collars and 
 they wear ties and what not, but now I put it to yerself, 
 Maureen Malley. Can any iv them show a well-lined purse, 
 and if it comes to that, put their shoulders under a load 
 that I can carry? Now I put it to yerself, Maureen Mal- 
 ley; can they do it?" 
 
 "No, iv course they cannot, Columb," said the girl, 
 striving to pacify the man. "Old as ye are, ye can do a 
 sight better than many iv them yet." 
 
 As she spoke she rose, went to the door and stood there 
 for a moment in the attitude of listening, her hand resting 
 on the door-post. She looked back at Columb and drew 
 her shawl round her shoulders. The cold night air blew 
 round her and into the cabin. 
 
 "There's not a noise on the road at all," she said, "and 
 the night's as black as a chimley with no fire in it." 
 
 "Then come and sit down here and warm yerself," said 
 the man, touching the turf on the hearth with his boot 
 and sending a shower of sparks flying up against the soot. 
 One caught in the blackness, rested there, merged with the 
 background, and then flared up again. It radiated out- 
 wards in tentacles of flame, streaks and streams of fire, 
 every spark glittering like a diamond on a dress of satin. 
 
 ' ' Sit down here on the chair and warm yerself, ' ' Columb 
 repeated, in a voice which had suddenly become gentle 
 and caressing. "Ye '11 be tired after the long journey that 
 ye've had. And pull the door to and put the hasp in it. 
 The night's bitter cold with the wind from the top iv the 
 black hills." 
 
 Maureen shut the door, dropping the wooden hasp in its
 
 332 MAUREEN 
 
 notch, came back to the fire and sat down. The man looked 
 at her with a kindly, almost tender glance. 
 
 "Ye 're cold, Maureen," he said softly. "And tired, too. 
 The journey to the Doon "Well was too much for them wee 
 feet iv yours." He looked at the boots that now rested in 
 the ashes. "It's the tramp for a man and not for yerself, 
 Maureen. ' ' 
 
 "It's not the first long tramp that I've had," said the 
 girl. "When I went all the way to Strabane two years 
 gone it was a tramp I'm tellin' ye. It took me many's a 
 hard hour to do it." 
 
 "It was far and away too much for them wee feet iv 
 yours," said the man again. Then he rose and gave the 
 fire another kick. As before the body of sparks showered 
 up the chimney, though a few spurted outwards and fell 
 on the hearth and died away. 
 
 "I'll make ye a drop iv tay," he said. "There's a tay- 
 pot in the corner and a kettle." 
 
 "No tay, Columb, thank ye all the same," said the girl. 
 
 "Or a wee drop iv potheen," said the man. "I've it 
 here, lots iv it in a jar. It'll keep ye from goin' to sleep 
 and put heart into ye." 
 
 "I've never put it to me lips," said Maureen. "It's the 
 Bishop 's pledge that I have, and it 's not up for over a year 
 yet. It won't be long now till Cathal Cassidy and his cart 
 comes by. He should be here at any minit now. ' ' 
 
 As she mentioned the name of Cathal, Columb utterly 
 lost his self-control. Anger and spleen distorted his face 
 out of recognition. He rose to his feet, commenced walking 
 to and fro across the room from the fire to the doorway. 
 Several minutes went by while he continued his tramp, 
 muttering something under his breath. Suddenly he 
 stopped and looked at Maureen, his eyes afire, his lips 
 pressed together in a hard thin line. 
 
 "So that's what ye are waiting for?" he asked irritably, 
 though from the beginning he knew that the girl was wait- 
 ing to go home with Cathal Cassidy. "That's what ye 're 
 waitin' for here, is it, Maureen Malley?" 
 
 "Well, I'm wantin* the ride home, and it's not every
 
 POTHEEN 333 
 
 hour iv the day and night that a cart passes this way to 
 Dungarrow," she said in a deep-toned and energetic voice. 
 She smiled. "You didn't think that I was goin' to travel 
 home when there was a chance iv a cart to the very door, 
 did ye now, Columb Ruagh?" she pleaded. 
 
 "Iv course not, Maureen, but I can't stand these fellows 
 down there," said Columb, speaking in a harsh whisper 
 and looking Maureen between the eyes. Then as if coming 
 to a certain decision he added : ' ' But, be that as it may, I 
 must foot it up to the hill again and get to my work." 
 
 "But it's near bedtime, Columb," said the girl. "Ye 're 
 not going out to work at this time, and it 's near midnight. ' ' 
 
 "It's now that I begin my work," said the man resign- 
 edly. "I'll get up to Garry Ruddagh and do something. 
 . . . Night 's the time for doing the work up at Garry Rud- 
 dagh." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Columb Ruagh sat down 
 and slowly drew his black clay pipe from his waistcoat 
 pocket and put it in his mouth. His whole face, the posture 
 of his body, the one leg stretched lazily across the other, 
 the hand fumbling carelessly for tobacco in the pocket of 
 his woolen wrapper, betokened extreme indifference, so ap- 
 parently extreme after the excitement of a few moments 
 before that it could scarcely be considered real. Doubtless 
 he had formulated a project in his mind, of which the 
 issue was certain. 
 
 "Well, I'll stay here and wait for the cart," said the 
 girl. "It'll be sure to come any minit now." 
 
 He took a plug of tobacco from his pocket, cut a few 
 slices from it and put the knife and the plug on the floor. 
 Then he looked at the girl. 
 
 "Ye wouldn't stay here waitin' in the dark for Cathal 
 Cassidy, would ye, if I took ye round and let ye have a 
 look at what's hid behind the back iv Garry Ruddagh?" 
 said Columb Ruagh, holding the pipe in the fork of his 
 hand while he crumbled the tobacco in his palm. "It's 
 somethin' to show ye, mind, and it's a lot the polis in 
 Stranarachary would give to get their eyes on the same 
 sight. Not one body from here to the heel iv the barony
 
 334 MAUREEN 
 
 has ever seen the place be night with the fire lit and the 
 still on the fire. Now, it's not yerself that would mind 
 comin' with me to have a wee sight." 
 
 "It's not me that would care a hair if it was be day- 
 light, ' ' said the girl, ' ' without it being so black on the brae 
 face. Besides, too, it's near time that Cathal was comin' 
 and him that should be back from the fair iv Kineeragh 
 two hours back or more." 
 
 "But it's not him that will be here yet, for more than 
 three hours from now," said Columb Ruagh, spitting from 
 between his teeth into the embers. "It's slack feet that 
 the same Cathal has when it's gettin' away from the fun iv 
 the fair that he bees. He 's a divil for fun, the same laddy- 
 buck I'm tellin' ye." 
 
 "Not more than the other gasairs," said Maureen, 
 slightly nettled. "And if he is itself, it's the way with 
 young blood all the world over." 
 
 "It may be, indeed," said the potheen-maker angrily, 
 spitting into the fire again. "It's the way iv the young- 
 sters, as ye say. But they learn sense after a bit, and al- 
 ways when it is too late. Look at them now! They take 
 it into their heads to marry and they havin' no more than 
 would buy a basket iv sgiddins to their name." 
 
 "But what would that matter if they've strong arms to 
 do a day's work and warm blood in them?" said the girl. 
 "It's better to be married on a man like Cathal and him 
 maybe without a white sixpence than to many's a one with 
 plenty of money." 
 
 Columb Ruagh winced and ground his teeth. Being a 
 man past middle-age, the light-hearted assurance of the 
 young girl annoyed him. 
 
 "Well, be that as it may," he said, rising to his feet and 
 forgetting to light the full pipe which he held in his mouth, 
 "we'll get out and see all that's to be seen at the back iv 
 Garry Ruddagh. Now, are ye comin' with me, or are ye 
 not?" 
 
 "Is it a far step from here?" asked the girl, also get- 
 ting to her feet and wrapping her shawl round her head. 
 
 "Not so far," said the man.
 
 POTHEEN 335 
 
 "Can we hear any noise that may be on the road from 
 there?" asked Maureen. 
 
 "Iv course we can," said Columb. 
 
 "Will Cathal be within earshot if we shout?" Maureen 
 asked. 
 
 "Iv course he will," Columb replied. "It's far that a 
 voice can carry on a night like this. Once we get on the 
 top iv Garry Ruddagh and give a shout yer voice can get 
 down to the bottom of the parish. Come away at once, 
 and we'll be there and back in plenty iv time," said Co- 
 lumb, bustling round with unusual animation. He lifted 
 a bottle from the corner, drew the cork and smelt it. 
 Throwing it in the straw piled by the wall, he buttoned his 
 coat, pulled down an ash-plant from the rafters and beat 
 the ground several times as if testing the pliancy of the 
 stick. 
 
 "A good bit iv a plant, that," he said. "The mark iv it 
 is on more than the head iv one polisman in Stranara- 
 chary. ... It has stopped some iv them from nosin' round 
 this arm iv the world!" 
 
 Maureen looked at the man and crossed herself. 
 
 "What's up with ye now?" he asked irritably. "It's a 
 polisman that I hit with it, not yerself. What are ye mak- 
 in' the sign iv the Cross for? Are ye afeeard iv me?" 
 
 He looked into the girl's eyes and a bitter smile showed 
 at the corner of his lips. Maureen smiled uneasily and 
 looked at the ground. 
 
 "It's not afraid iv ye that I am," said the girl. "God 
 forbid it." 
 
 "Why?" he asked in astonishment. 
 
 "Ye are so old," said Maureen. "And ye are a decent 
 man, one that wouldn't do the like iv me any harm." 
 
 "Well, I suppose I wouldn't do ye any harm," said 
 Columb with an air of resignation. "But I'm not an old 
 man at all. Forty-two I am, come next Hallowe'en, and a 
 tidy penny by me. That's more than some iv them that I 
 know have. And no end iv land, hill and holm, with plenty 
 iv sheep on it, too." 
 
 "Ill wait here for Cathal 's cart," said Maureen as if
 
 336 MAUREEN 
 
 coming to a sudden decision. "It'll surely not be long 
 afore he comes." 
 
 "Well, it's not in me to speak against ye doing what 
 ye like," said Columb with a singularly good-natured 
 look. "Ye can wait for him if ye want to. Everybody to 
 their own way iv doin' things, and I'm not one to prevent 
 them." 
 
 He went to the door, looked out into the night, then 
 turned round and gazed at the girl. 
 
 "It'll be a bit cold waitin' out here," he said. "And 
 it's a lonely place and all. 'Twas here that Myles Andy 
 Og was killed close on forty years back and him buried 
 outside this very door, God rest him ! ' ' 
 
 "There was a man killed here?" gasped the girl. 
 
 " 'Twas a dirty crime," said Columb. "And him on 
 the way home from the fair iv Kineeragh, with his pockets 
 full iv money. He was set on here, killed and buried, and 
 it was close on three years after that that his body was 
 found. And dyin' without the priest, too! A man that 
 goes like that is never at rest ! ' ' 
 
 "God be between us and harm, but I've never heard 
 iv it," said the girl, again crossing herself. "But there 
 be so many stories. ' ' 
 
 "This is a true one," said the man. "It's more than 
 once I've heard steps outside and rappin' on the door 
 when I stayed here me lone at night. It comes every night 
 about twelve o'clock. A week come the morra I was here 
 all me lone and makin' langles for a wether that had a 
 way iv climbin' on the rocks over the brae face. And the 
 darkness that was outside a torch couldn't cut through 
 it. And me sittin' there all on me own, too. All at once 
 there was a sound iv steps outside, quick steps as if some- 
 body was on the run with the fright in his bones. 'Mother 
 iv God! and what will it be at all?' says I to myself, and 
 the cold sweat was out on me forehead. 'It's somethin' 
 that's not iv the world that's in it, surely.' It came to 
 the door whatever it was and began to scrape as if on the 
 grope for the hasp. 'Who are ye?' says I. 'And what is 
 it that ye are wantin'?' But not an answer, only the same
 
 POTHEEN 337 
 
 gropin' and serapin' for the hasp. I went to the winder 
 and up with the blind and looks out. But not a hilt or 
 hair iv anything was to be seen, bar a sheep that was 
 standin' on a knowe forenenst the door. And there was a 
 wind bio win' down from the hills, and the sky was full iv 
 stars just like the night, with a frost over everything. 
 . . . Glory! it's the lonely place that it is here be night 
 and one their lone. But I never stay here at midnight 
 now. I leave the place, hasp the door and get to my 
 work. It's not good for a man or baste to be here with all 
 the dark happenin' iv midnight." 
 
 Maureen's face worked convulsively, her eyes quivered 
 nervously and her lips trembled. When Columb ceased 
 speaking, she kept silent and fumbled with the corners of 
 her shawl. Suddenly she closed her lips tightly and looked 
 at the man. 
 
 "I'll stay here and wait till Cathal comes," she said 
 coldly. "He'll not be long till he's here now." 
 
 "He mayn't be long," said Columb with affected care- 
 lessness. "And again it may be a good while. With his 
 poor ranny iv a horse one never can tell what's goin' to 
 happen. And the pull up the Cleena Brae past Binbawn 
 is more than any animal from Cathal's holdin' can do 
 aisy. And then it's not warm for ye to stand out here in 
 the cold on the knowe where Myles Andy Og was mur- 
 dered." 
 
 "But it's inside here that I'll wait," said Maureen 
 anxiously. 
 
 "If I could let ye stay in here be the fire I'd be more 
 than glad," said Columb, turning away from the girl and 
 speaking out into the darkness. "It goes against the grain 
 in me to turn ye out, but the door has to be hasped. The 
 polis have their eyes on me, and I don't want them to 
 come in when I'm away. If I'd be in when they came, 
 I'd give them a welcome that they'd not forget. But as 
 it's for me to be out at me work I can't lave the door open 
 for everybody. It's beggars and tinkers and tramps that's 
 often about be night, and they would be comin' in maybe 
 and takin' what's not theirs."
 
 338 MAUREEN 
 
 "And is it me to wait out in front iv the house with 
 the ghost iv the dead man, God be between us and harm" 
 Maureen crossed herself "walkin' about at the dead iv 
 night?" 
 
 "I'd stay here with ye if it was in me power to do 
 that, ' ' said Columb in a voice of feigned sympathy. ' ' But 
 honest to God, I can't do it! It's lashin's iv money that 
 has went to the fillin' iv the still, the barley grain, oat- 
 meal and meal seed, and one never knows when the polis 
 will swoop down on it and all yer earnin's go to pot. 
 . . . But I've got to shake me legs now, Maureen. . . . 
 "Will ye be comin' with me?" 
 
 "Not me," said Maureen icily. "Go be yerself and 
 I'll wait outside in the cold." 
 
 "As ye please, Maureen," said the man, standing aside 
 to let the girl pass out. "I would like to let ye have the 
 heat iv the fire, but one never knows when the house is 
 goin* to be searched, Maureen." 
 
 The girl moved a few paces away from the door, sat on 
 a heather brough and wrapped her shawl tightly round 
 her shoulders and neck. The night was very cold with 
 a sharp breeze blowing from the hills and the ground be- 
 neath her feet frozen hard. Overhead the sky was studded 
 with clear stars which seemed to look down on the bleak 
 country with a taciturn and pitiless stare. All round, 
 the bleak hills of Donegal rose to the sky. Not a sound 
 was to be heard save the plaintive bleating of sheep on 
 the braes, the cry of a belated moorfowl and the noise of 
 some far-off stream falling over the rocks. The house 
 of Columb Ruagh, into which the man had disappeared, 
 was grave-silent. 
 
 Presently he came out, however, carrying a bundle under 
 his arm. It was part of the pile of hay which was stored 
 in the cabin. He placed it on the ground at Maureen's 
 feet. 
 
 "This is for ye to sit on," he said, looking at the girl. 
 "Just put yer two wee feet in the middle iv the hay, lie 
 in again the knowe and ye '11 be as snug as a sparrow in 
 the thatch."
 
 POTHEEN 339 
 
 "Thanks to ye," said Maureen in a dry voice, "but it's 
 all right that I am, sittin' here without the hay." 
 
 "Ah! if that's the way ye take a kindness ye can plase 
 yerself, indeed," said Columb resentfully. "But I'm tell- 
 in' ye that the wait will be a long one, for Cleena Brae 
 between Binbawn and the Bridge is a hard pull and a 
 long one for Cathal's bit iv a baste." 
 
 "Well, be it long or short I'll wait, sittin' here on the 
 knowe," said the girl, shrugging her shoulders. "If it's 
 not goin' to let me in and stay be the fire I have nothin' 
 more to say to ye, Columb Ruagh." 
 
 "Plase yerself about that, Maureen," said Columb in 
 a surly voice. " If it 's yer own wish to stay there I 'm not 
 the one to hinder ye. But if ye allow me I'd advise to sit 
 be the other side iv the house. There's more shelter there 
 and it's not as lonesome. Ye 're sittin' on the knowe where 
 Myles Andy met his death, this very minute." 
 
 "And was this the very place ?"" asked Maureen in a 
 trembling voice. 
 
 "This was the place and no other," said Columb. "He 
 was takin' the near cut across the hills here, and the men 
 that was lookin' for him were in hidin' at the back iv the 
 knowe. He was hit with the supple iv a flail across the^ 
 head, and he went down like a bullock fallin' in an awlth. 
 And then the men picked him up, skinned him iv all that 
 was on him and buried him." 
 
 "How d'ye know so much iv what happened and him 
 killed afore ye were born ? ' ' Maureen inquired in a fright- 
 ened voice. ' ' Ye speak as if ye were here at the very time 
 that the murder was done." 
 
 "I wasn't here at the time, but I heard iv it," said 
 Columb. ' ' Things bees done and people speak about them. 
 Maybe it's them that had a hand in the job that told me 
 iv it. It's a lot that a man can hear and him livin' be 
 himself up here on the hills." 
 
 "It's much that he hears," said the girl. "And much 
 that's not good. And it's black hearts they have, them 
 that will wait in the dark night and kill a man." 
 
 "And a man that's killed and put out iv the world with
 
 340 MAUREEN 
 
 never a priest to forgive him and bless him in his last 
 minute cannot rest in his grave at all," said Columb. 
 ' ' It 'ud be better for ye not to sit here at all but come with 
 me up to Garry Ruddagh." 
 
 "It's here that I'll stay whatever ye say," said the girl 
 in a low tone, but turning away from the man. "It won't 
 be long till I hear the cart now." 
 
 "Maybe not," said Columb, putting his hand over his 
 ear. "Maybe not, but it's far that the sound iv anything 
 will carry on a night like this. It's often in the dark that 
 the sound iv a cart comin' round Binbawn can be heard 
 here, and Binbawn six miles away. But as it is, I can't 
 hear anything now, and the wind coming from Kineeragh. ' ' 
 
 "It's a cold place living here," said the girl suddenly, 
 turning to the man and looking him between the eyes. 
 "People down in Meenaroodagh bees often speakin' about 
 ye up here, and it's nothin' good that they be sayin' about 
 ye at all." 
 
 Columb 's eyes glistened and he trembled violently. 
 
 "What do they be sayin'?" he asked in a hoarse whis- 
 per. 
 
 "Ah! that's it," said the girl. "What do they be say- 
 in'?" 
 
 She drew her head closer to the man, speaking in a 
 tragic whisper, and Columb shuddered. 
 
 "What d'ye mane?" he muttered. "What is it that 
 ye 're drivin' at?" 
 
 "Nothin'," said the girl in a calm voice. "Nothin' at 
 all." 
 
 "Tell me what ye mane about what they be sayin' down 
 there?" he entreated, placing his face closer to hers and 
 speaking in a whisper. 
 
 "Not out here," said Maureen. "Not out in the cold 
 like a beggar at the door, askin' for a bit and sup." 
 
 Columb held himself erect and twisted the ash-plant 
 around his shoulders. 
 
 "That's what ye 're wantin'!" he cried, nosing the hid- 
 den purpose. "It's tryin' to keep me here that ye are
 
 POTHEEN 341 
 
 after, till the cart comes and ye can get away. I know 
 them capers. . . . Well, I'll lave ye here and get up to 
 Garry Ruddagh. And mind, when I'm gone I offered to 
 take ye with me." 
 
 ' ' I '11 not forget it, Columb Ruagh, ' ' said Maureen. ' ' And 
 God be with ye!" 
 
 Without another word Columb Ruagh made off and lost 
 himself in the darkness. For a few moments Maureen 
 could hear the sound of his retreating footsteps and felt 
 a certain solace in knowing that some one was near. But 
 after a while the sounds died away and Maureen was left 
 alone with the night. Tucking her feet up under her 
 skirt and reclining on her elbow she mechanically looked 
 along the road to Binbawn. In that direction Cathal 
 Cassidy would come presently. It was now near the hour 
 of midnight, the black hour when Myles Andy Og would 
 rise from his grave and wander over the moor. As the 
 girl thought of the dead man she shuddered and nestled 
 in to the knowe, resting her back against the hob of earth. 
 
 "But it was lies that Columb Ruagh was tellin* me," 
 she said. "It's the bad, black heart that the man has, 
 him and his potheen on Garry Ruddagh." 
 
 But though the girl had an instinctive dread of Columb 
 Ruagh when in his presence, she felt doubly afraid now 
 that he was gone. Now she was alone. Not a light was 
 to be seen anywhere. If a lamp gleamed, even miles away, 
 it would give her some courage. She would know that 
 people were still awake somewhere, and even that would 
 be company. She pulled her feet further up under her 
 skirts, hid her hands in the folds of her shawl and sunk 
 her head on her breast. 
 
 All round her lay the night, menacing and terrible. 
 Here and there at the foot of a bluff or in the fold of a 
 valley the darkness seemed to have massed itself in great 
 patches as if trying to hide some awful tragedy. She
 
 342 MAUREEN 
 
 fixed a pair of frightened eyes on the near distance, where 
 objects the most commonplace took on strange shapes. 
 Maureen crossed herself; then she prayed. 
 
 But her prayers gave her no solace. A simple "Hail 
 Mary" seemed no protection against the darkness that 
 enveloped her. All about her were the phantoms of night 
 and the moor. She opened her eyes, ceased her prayers, 
 and looked round. Near her a stunted shrub waved in the 
 air, oscillating backwards and forwards as if trying to 
 clutch something which evaded its grasp. Further away 
 where the shadows bulked together as if in confer- 
 ence a black object that looked like a coffin lay on the 
 ground. 
 
 Something creaked near at hand as if a step had trod 
 on the frosty heather; a spark rose from the chimney of 
 the cabin and died away in mid air. From somewhere 
 on the left, in the dip of Dungarrow, a dog howled in the 
 darkness, and up on the hills a stray sheep bleated through 
 the night air. Near at hand the darkness seemed to rise 
 upwards in long streaks and take on outlines. These 
 wraiths twisted and turned ; their silent profiles advanced 
 towards the girl, only to fade away as they neared her. 
 These were succeeded by others, phantoms fierce and vague 
 that slowly changed their location in space, faded away, 
 reformed, substance without form, inconceivably outlined. 
 
 And all the time there was no sound on the road that 
 ran to Binbawn. Cathal Cassidy 's cart had not yet rtached 
 Cleena Brae. \ 
 
 VI 
 
 On leaving Maureen O'Malley, Columb Ruagh walked 
 some two furlongs across the braes. Then he stood for a 
 moment and listened, his hand over his ear. Not a sound 
 was to be heard save that which is always with the night 
 on the moor, the rustling of wild animals, the soft scurry 
 of a rabbit, the sleepy flutter of wings as a moorfowl 
 changed its position in the heather. Columb sat down, 
 drew a match from his pocket, rubbed it along his trousers
 
 POTHEEN 343 
 
 and lit his pipe. Away from him, towards the hills that 
 rose higher, was a little gully steeped in shadow. In this 
 something moved and came towards the sitting man. C- 
 lumb, seeing it coming, took the pipe from his mouth and 
 whistled softly through his teeth. The shadow came to a 
 halt and whistled in reply. 
 
 "That yerself, Micky?" Columb called in a sharp whis- 
 per. 
 
 "It's me," was the answer. 
 
 "Come on then, and don't stand there, ye gaby!" Co- 
 lumb called, still in the same sharp whisper, but his voice 
 was charged with impatience. 
 
 The figure came nearer. It was the barefooted youth, 
 legs to the neck, who had been despatched on the errand 
 two hours earlier. He stood looking at the man and rubbed 
 his chin with the back of his hand. 
 
 "Sit down, ye rip, ye!" said Columb. "Glory be! but 
 ye 're a gawny standin' like that! Sit down!" 
 
 The youngster sat down, keeping as far away as pos- 
 sible from Columb. 
 
 "Come anear me," said the man. "I can't speak to ye 
 and ye as far away as that. Everybody about, and there 's 
 more than one on the scringe, will hear me if I've to shout 
 to ye." 
 
 The boy edged a little nearer but still stayed beyond 
 reach of Columb 's arm. 
 
 " It 's nearer than that I want ye, ' ' said the man angrily. 
 "Am I to be payin' ye wages and ye doin' whatever ye 
 like? Closer yet, ye divil's bastard." 
 
 As Columb spoke he reached out, caught Micky by the 
 ear and dragged him close to his side. 
 
 "Now tell me all," he hissed, bending over the trem- 
 bling boy. "Where's the keg? Dropped it down and 
 lost it I'll warrant." 
 
 "It's not there where ye said that it was," Micky fal- 
 tered. "It wasn't there, and it was nowhere else either. I 
 scringed the knowes and all over the brae face at the foot 
 iv Binbawn, but notkm ' at all was to be seen. ' ' 
 
 "God preserve me from ever havin' a plaisham like yer-
 
 344 MAUREEN 
 
 self again!" said Columb angrily. "The directions was 
 aisy and simple. A wain iv two wouldn't go astray on the 
 wee job that I set ye out to do. That's what comes iv 
 havin' a workhouse brat to do the work. . . . And maybe 
 it was the polis that ye met as well and told them every- 
 thing." 
 
 "Not a hilt or hair iv any polisman did I see at all," said 
 Micky, squirming as Columb tightened his hold on the 
 imprisoned ear. "Not a hilt or hair iv any one like that." 
 
 "What did ye see then? Was it ghosts?" 
 
 "Didn't see any ghosts, neither," said Micky. "I was 
 runnin' too quick to see anything." 
 
 "That's the reason then that ye didn't put yer eyes on 
 the wee cask at the foot iv Binbawn," said Columb in a 
 harsh voice, twisting the poor creature's ear in a vigorous 
 squeeze. 
 
 1 ' Let me go, Columb Ruagh ! ' ' Micky yelled. " It 's pull- 
 in ' the ear off iv me that ye are ! ' ' 
 
 Columb loosened his grip, started to his feet and looked 
 round while the youngster bent himself to the ground 
 both hands on the sore ear and began sobbing. 
 
 "Now it's not for the likes iv you to begin blabberin' 
 like that, gasair," said the man in a vindictive voice, going 
 down on one knee and bending over the shuddering crea- 
 ture. ' ' Ye 're a big man and ye should try and carry yer- 
 self like a man." 
 
 "Ye almost pulled the ear off iv me," howled the boy. 
 "I couldn't see the cask at all and I looked round me 
 everywhere in the dark. And it's as black as soot there 
 with not a soul in sight." 
 
 "Then ye didn't see anybody at all?" asked Columb in a 
 startled voice. 
 
 "Nobody at the foot iv Binbawn," said the youngster, 
 catching his breath at every word. It seemed as if he 
 might shriek at any moment. 
 
 "Now go aisy," said Columb, again looking round and 
 putting his hand over his ear. "Tell me everything and 
 go aisy. There's a white shillin' for ye if ye go aisy and 
 tell me everything."
 
 POTHEEN 345 
 
 Columb jingled a number of loose coins in his trousers 
 pocket as he spoke. 
 
 "It was runnin' all the time that I was till I came to 
 Binbawn," said the youngster. "Then I had a look round, 
 but sorra a sight could I get at all iv the wee keg. There 
 was nothin' there, only three sheep and them gruntin' to 
 themselves under the shelter iv a hobeen. Made me afeeard 
 at first when I didn't see them and them gruntin' to them- 
 selves. I said me prayers and went round the hobeen and 
 then I saw the sheep, two wethers and one ewe, and them 
 belongin' to Liam Logan iv Meenaroodagh. It's lost that 
 they were, and them runnin' about the mountains a month 
 come the morrow night. It's from the fair iv Kineeragh 
 that Liam was drivin' them when he lost them, and him 
 tight. And they've ribbigs on their backs and thonags 
 and branded on the horn. And when " 
 
 "The curses iv hell on them sheep," said Columb im- 
 patiently. "What did ye do then?" 
 
 "I was goin' round lookin' for the keg when I hears the 
 noise iv a cart on the road from Kineeragh, and then I 
 thought iv the Bridge iv Cleena and it down and broke," 
 said Micky. "And down the brae I scooted as fast as I 
 could leg it. It's out on the road I went, when I thought 
 iv what I was tould about not lettin' anywan know who I 
 was and what was takin' me out in the dead iv night to 
 the fut iv Binbawn with not a soul at all near by. I got 
 to the road, then I thought about the bridge fallin' and 
 says I to meself, 'How am I to tell a man that the bridge 
 is down and not tell him how I know it, and as well not 
 tell him who told me iv it and not let him know who I 
 was.' 'Twas a puzzle I'm tellin' ye, Columb Ruagh. I 
 thought and thought and there the cart comin' rumblin' 
 along and gettin ' near by every minit. And it was f eeard 
 that I was, and me puzzlin' in me head what it was that 
 I was to say to him that was drivin' the cart." 
 
 "Come on and spit it out, ye rip," said Columb in a 
 threatening voice. "What was in yer mind at the time is 
 no consarn iv any one. What did ye do and what did ye 
 say? That's what I want to know."
 
 346 MAUREEN 
 
 "The cart came anear me, and I could see him that was 
 drivin', sittin' in front with a bit iv a bag round his head 
 because iv the cowld and the air from the hills," Micky 
 continued. "And he had his pipe in his mouth and his 
 whip was lyin' across the front board and him givin' a bit 
 iv a lilt to keep himself company. All at once he saw me 
 standin' on the brough iv the road and says he, 'Who are 
 ye, at all?' 
 
 "I knew him by his talk; Cathal Cassidy from down 
 the country in the townland iv Meenaroodagh. It's more 
 than many's the time I saw him sellin' sheep at the fair 
 iv Stranarachary. " 
 
 "Not much stock that comes off of his holdin'," mut- 
 tered Columb. "Go'n with what ye 're sayin'." 
 
 " 'It's Condy Paddy Og iv Dooran that I am,' I said, 
 letting on to him that that was me name, for Cathal Cas- 
 sidy doesn't know me be sight, not in the black night 
 anyway ! 
 
 " 'Well,' says he, 'it's a funny place, this, to find ye at 
 this hour iv the night. Where would ye be goin'?' 
 
 " 'Home,' says myself. 'I was at the Doon Well. 
 'Twas with me mother that I was, and she was comin ' home 
 on a car and me sittin' on the dickie. 'Twas Hudy Nelis's 
 car, and me mother was taken bad and got a car to drive 
 her home. We just came as far as Cleena Bridge when 
 we saw that the bridge had fell down and the car couldn't 
 get across. Then it was up to us to do somethin', and the 
 driver says to me, says he, 'Ye long-legged plaisham, ye 
 can foot it, and get home and tell them that the bridge is 
 down and yer mother who's not able to walk like yerself 
 can come back with me as far as the house iv Neddy Condy 
 out at the foot iv Aughla and stay there for the night. 
 Then on the morra she can make home be herself and maybe 
 get a lift on the carts that bees goin' to Kineeragh, or 
 maybe the mail-car. So it's on me way home that I am 
 now,' I says. 
 
 " 'And the Bridge is down?' says Cathal Cassidy. 
 'Tis then,' I told him. 
 
 " 'Well,' says he, 'it's a lucky job meetin* yerself and
 
 POTHEEN 347 
 
 savin' six miles iv the journey, three there and three back 
 to here. When had ye somethin ' to ate last ? ' he asked me. 
 " 'Nothin' crossed me mouth since I left the Doon Well,' 
 says I. 
 
 " 'Then get this into ye/ he says, and from the cart he 
 got out a big slice iv bread and butther and gives it to me. 
 Currant bread it was, too. 'And this,' says he, and puttin' 
 his hand in his pocket he gives me a white shillin'.' ' 
 
 As he said this Micky pulled the shilling from his pocket 
 and held it up between finger and thumb. Columb reached 
 out quietly, caught the boy's wrist, took the shilling and 
 put it in his own pocket. 
 
 " 'Twas given to me," Micky protested. "Cathal Gas- 
 sidy gave it to me for me own self." 
 
 "Iv course he did," said Columb in an angry whisper. 
 "It's like some iv them down-the-country men to throw 
 their shillin 's about and maybe not havin' another penny 
 in the world. Full iv pride and consate they are, the rips 
 iv the divil. But what d'ye want with a shillin'? I'd 
 like to know that. Ye get what I give to ye and no more, 
 mind. When I was yer age I never saw the color iv a 
 penny, let alone a shillin'. And the lies that ye told 
 Cathal Cassidy. Goigah, I've never thought it iv ye! And 
 what came after ye got the shillin ' ? " Columb inquired. 
 
 "Are ye goin' to keep it like that?" asked Micky, look- 
 ing at the white coin which his master still held between 
 finger and thumb. 
 
 "What I'm goin' to do, or what I'm not goin' to do, is 
 no consarn iv yours, and mind that," threatened the man. 
 "What happened then? Spit it out and don't spend the 
 whole night about it." 
 
 "Nothin' much after that," said Micky. "Cathal Cas- 
 sidy turned his cart round and told me to get up on it, 
 for he would give me a lift as far back as Binbawn. But 
 I said no, because it was as quick and quicker for me to leg 
 it over the hills, and I went out on the hills and when I 
 got out iv sight I turned back and here I am. . . . Are 
 ye goin' to give me back me white shillin', Columb 
 Ruagh?"
 
 348 MAUREEN 
 
 "Well, if ye 're a good boy and not be up to any capers, 
 Micky, I'll give ye the shillin' in the mornin' and maybe 
 add another one to it as well," said Columb in a good- 
 natured tone. "That'll be two white shillin 's for ye, 
 Micky rascal, great liar that ye are. And if ye go on like 
 that, getting shillin 's for nothin', ye '11 soon have yer for- 
 tune made and have more money in hand than the rich- 
 est man in all Ireland. Now how would ye like that, Micky, 
 me boy?" 
 
 Micky, dreading this bantering tone and fearing that 
 something bad was about to take place, shrunk into him- 
 self. He felt that he did not want the two shillings. In 
 fact, he was ready to forsake any further claim to the 
 shilling which Columb had taken from him a minute ago. 
 All that the boy, whose long crooked legs were sore after 
 the race across the hills, now wanted was to get to bed. He 
 gave no answer to the man's question. 
 
 "Are ye wantin' the two shillin', or are ye not?" asked 
 Columb when he waited a moment for the boy to speak. 
 There was still no answer, for Micky, knowing that his 
 master would forget all about the promise in the morning, 
 kept silent. 
 
 "Well, if ye 're not goin' to trust me," said the man, 
 guessing the thoughts in the boy's head, "I'll give ye the 
 two shillin 's now." He rattled some coins in his pockets, 
 then stretched out his hand towards the youngster, and 
 two white pieces glittered on his palm like a pair of eyes. 
 
 * ' I don 't want them, ' ' said Micky. 
 
 "Don't want them!" Columb gasped. "What's that 
 for? Take them!" 
 
 "I'll not, then, till I know what's to be done after I 
 get them, ' ' said the youth. 
 
 ' ' There 's nothin ' to be done at all, ' ' said the master. 
 
 "Can I go down to the house below then and get into 
 bed?" Micky asked. "If that's what can be done I'll take 
 the two shillin 's and scoot down the hill at once, Columb 
 Ruagh." 
 
 The man with an angry snort threw the money on the
 
 POTHEEN 349 
 
 ground, near Micky, then got to his feet and stepped back 
 a pace. 
 
 ' ' There ! " he said. ' ' There 's the money and all for yer- 
 self, for when ye have it I can't take it from ye again. 
 Put it into your pocket at once, at once, and listen to what 
 I 've to say. ' ' 
 
 The youngster also got to his feet but did not touch the 
 money. 
 
 "Lift it up, now," said Columb in a whisper. "It's all 
 yer own, and think iv what ye can get for it at the fair 
 iv Stranarachary next comin', sweets and apples and gin- 
 gerbread. ' ' 
 
 "I don't want sweets and apples and gingerbread," 
 mumbled Micky. "I want to get to the house below and 
 into bed." 
 
 "And a woman there and the bed beside the fire!" said 
 Columb in a shocked tone. "Ye can't go into bed with a 
 woman there, and ye such a big man. Can ye now?" 
 
 ' ' Well, I '11 sleep be the fire with my clothes on. ' ' 
 
 "That ye won't this night," said Columb. "So it 
 doesn't matter whether ye take the two shillin's or not! 
 "What I want ye to do is this and nothin' else till mornin'. 
 Get up there to Garry Ruddagh and inside the cave with 
 ye where there's a snug fire on in undher the still and 
 keep yer eye on it and light it up if it's goin' out. Just 
 make it up once and put the biggest bucket in the place 
 under the worm, and then ye can lie down and get to sleep 
 and waken up whenever ye like. And take the two shill- 
 in's with ye and mind the grand day that ye '11 have when 
 the next fair comes round in the town below." 
 
 "And ye yerself's comin' with me, Columb Ruagh, 
 aren't ye?" whimpered the boy. 
 
 "I would if I could," said Columb. "But what with 
 one thing and another I can't go up there for a while yet. 
 Ye just go and I'll come up as soon as I can. Maybe I'll 
 be up afore ye, too, for I can climb up the rocks like a 
 two-year-old. ' ' 
 
 1 ' But the cave is that lonesome that if I go up there and
 
 350 MAUREEN 
 
 sit down all on me lone I'd be stone dead in the morn," 
 said the boy, a shudder shaking his frame. "It's that 
 black, Colunib Ruagh, that ye wouldn't know what's to 
 come out iv the corners and get hold iv ye in it. There 
 are eyes that look out on ye and noises like wild beasts in 
 the black holes. ' ' 
 
 "But I go up there and work all night on my own, and 
 nothin' ever gets hold iv me," said Columb. 
 
 "That's because ye 're so big and afeeard iv nothin V' 
 Micky sobbed. "But they'd put me in their pockets and 
 take me away." 
 
 "Who'd take ye away?" 
 
 "The ghosts." 
 
 ' ' But ye 've often been up there with me and ye 've nerer 
 seen anything more ugly than yerself," said the man. 
 * ' Have ye now ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' I could see and hear them, ' ' said the youngster. ' ' Eyes 
 lookin' in out iv the blackness and sounds iv things mov- 
 ing and steps in the corners and now and again grunts and 
 coughs and hiccups the same as if one was gettin' choked 
 dead. It's a wild place up in the cave in the day, let alone 
 in the black iv night." 
 
 "Oh, ye 're a fool, ye damned plaisham!" said Columb 
 Ruagh, irritably making a step towards the boy. The 
 youngster ran off a couple of paces then stopped. 
 
 ' ' Off with ye ! " roared Columb, a wild rage overmaster- 
 ing him. * ' Up to Garry Ruddagh and stay there till morn- 
 ing. Don't let me see ye down here till then, mind ye. 
 If I do 1 11 skin ye alive. Off with ye ! Scoot ! ' ' 
 
 He ran at the youngster, who disappeared into the dark- 
 ness sobbing. Columb stopped and listened to the sobs as 
 they gradually became fainter and fainter. From the 
 sounds that reached his ears he could judge that Micky 
 was taking to the hills. In a few minutes he was out of 
 sight, then out of hearing. 
 
 Columb Ruagh went back, his eyes fixed on the ground. 
 Suddenly he saw the two shillings on the ground. Bend- 
 ing down, he lifted them and put them in his pocket. 
 Then, buttoning his coat, he ran down the hill towards the
 
 POTHEEN 351 
 
 house below. What he was going to do when he got to the 
 house he did not know. He had no idea in his mind, no 
 plan. Why had he sent the boy, Micky, to the cave? He 
 was not certain now, but a moment ago he had some hazy 
 idea that it would be wise to get the youngster out of the 
 way. But why did he want the youngster out of the way ? 
 He could not say. 
 
 He stopped and looked around. The hill was deserted. 
 Not a sound save that of a brook sobbing wearily by his 
 side as it made its way down to the hollows, and the lone 
 sough of the winds as they dreed over the heather, moaning 
 as if tired. Below him he could see the house, looking 
 strangely white in the night. As he gazed at it he reflected 
 that a whitewash-brush had not touched it for close on 
 twenty years, not since it came into his possession any- 
 way. Never before had it appeared so white to the man. 
 And somewhere near it Maureen O'Malley was sitting on 
 the bundle of hay waiting for Cathal Cassidy. 
 
 As he looked at the house and thought of the girl he 
 grew calm and regained possession of his clearness of mind. 
 He had chased the boy Micky away because he did not 
 want him in his company when he spoke to Maureen O 'Mai- 
 ley again. He wanted the girl to himself, the proud, con- 
 ceited Maureen ! And what she had to be proud about he 
 could not realize. She should be gratified that Columb 
 Keeran, a man like him, with money and land, spoke to 
 her. 
 
 Meanwhile as he stood there he heard a strange and 
 singular sound as if somebody was sobbing at the house 
 below. He heard it distinctly, though feebly, as if some 
 one overcome with grief was doing the utmost to stifle an 
 emotion. Was it Maureen? The girl, no doubt; fright- 
 ened as she thought of the ghost of murdered Myles Andy 
 Og. Probably she even saw the ghost, her mind giving way 
 to terror in the darkness. 
 
 As he thought of this he experienced a strange and un- 
 healthy feeling of hatred towards the girl. She was fright- 
 ened, but what else did she deserve! She was so proud 
 and conceited that it would do her a world of good if she
 
 352 MAUREEN 
 
 experienced terror and fright. It would bring her to her 
 senses and show her that she could not always ride the 
 high horse. How fear would bring this about Columb did 
 not know, but he felt that it would and took pleasure in 
 the thought. 
 
 He sank slowly to the ground, resting his head in a bed 
 of wild iris. For a moment he looked at one of the sword- 
 shaped leaves, then pulled it and placed it between his 
 thumbs. Bending down he rested his lips on the thumb 
 knuckles and blew against the sharp edge of the leaf. Up 
 from the darkness of the moor a strange sound rose. It 
 mingled with the drear obscurity, at first low and tremu- 
 lous like the cry of a lost soul, then deeper in tone and 
 louder it rose to the sky. Finally it faltered and died away 
 like a Hope that is lost forever. The lonely moor had 
 found a voice in the night. 
 
 "That'll put the fear into her," said Columb with a 
 hoarse laugh. "When I go to her now, she'll be more than 
 glad to see me." 
 
 He raised himself up on his hands and knees and looked 
 at the house. Something dark, a shade against the shadow 
 of the wall, was moving from one side to another, now 
 stooping and bending down, then rising and resuming its 
 journey. Against the wall this object appeared limp as a 
 cloth hanging on a peg. When this wraith came to one 
 end of the wall it stopped, stood still for a moment, and 
 then retraced its steps. 
 
 As he saw, Columb felt the ground at his knees, picked 
 up a stone, and with a mighty sweep sent it whirling 
 down the brae, his eyes following the line which it trav- 
 eled. He could see it strike sparks from the stones which 
 it encountered on the first part of its journey, then he 
 could hear its hard clatter as it careered over the hillocks 
 further down. Finally there was a soft splosh as it fin- 
 ished its journey by dropping into a pool at the bottom 
 of the slope. 
 
 "There's enough for one night, anyway," said Columb 
 in a whisper. "I'll now get round and come up on the 
 house from in undher."
 
 POTHEEN 353 
 
 Twenty minutes later he arrived at the house, to find 
 Maureen standing at the door waiting for him. So it 
 seemed to Columb Ruagh, though down in the deep of his 
 mind the thought that it was not for him but for Cathal 
 Cassidy that she waited gnawed like a worm. But why 
 should he think of this now ? Here were the two all alone. 
 The girl was at his mercy, and this thought gave the man 
 a feeling of strength and possession. He had known a 
 feeling almost similar, but not so strong and maddening, 
 when he held the "fingers" as final card in a game of 
 "Twenty-five." There was a touch of malicious exulta- 
 tion in his heart as he gazed at the girl, clinging to the 
 latch of the door as if trying to save herself from falling. 
 Perhaps she was asleep. He came up close to her and 
 touched her on the shoulder. 
 
 She roused herself with a start and stared at the man, 
 her eyes wide open and full of fright. 
 
 vn 
 
 ' ' It 's me, ' ' he said. " It 's Columb. Were ye sleepin ' ? " 
 
 "Columb Ruagh!" she cried. "Oh! I'm so glad that 
 ye've come. I was so feeard with the lights risin' from 
 the hills and the cryin' and squealin' that was in it, up 
 above. Oh, I'm glad that ye've come back here, Columb 
 Ruagh!" 
 
 As she spoke she began to sob bitterly, and catching the 
 hands of the old man raised them to her lips. In her isola- 
 tion and terror she had found something sturdy to cling 
 to, something strong, a protection against the terrors of 
 the night. 
 
 "I was so feeard, Columb Ruagh," she went on, kissing 
 his fingers and speaking in phrases that were wildly in- 
 coherent. "I was so afeeard, and the dead man out and 
 me lookin' at him and goin' out iv my mind. And I 
 wanted ye to come back, and I walked round the house 
 with me back to it so that nothin' would catch me from 
 behind. And I wanted to run away, and then I thought 
 that they'd be after me down the road and I couldn't move
 
 354 MAUREEN 
 
 neither hand or foot. Oh, Columb Ruagh ! I 'm glad that 
 ye 're back with me again. . . . Don't leave me here to 
 meself alone. ' ' 
 
 The madness seemed to seize the man. Gripping the girl 
 round the waist he drew her in to him. She did not resist. 
 Looking up at him with wild sad eyes, she surrendered 
 mutely, snuggling close to his breast and catching him 
 with both arms, clinging to him as an ivy to a gnarled oak. 
 With a wild sense of mastery and possession he embraced 
 the light, sinuous body, tightening his arms round it as if 
 it would suddenly slip from his grasp and disappear into 
 the breezes of the moor. 
 
 "You were frightened, Maureen, were ye?" he articu- 
 lated, in a hoarse whisper. "Frightened and feeard were 
 ye, Maureen! But ye 're safe now, aren't ye? That's 
 right, ye wee girl, ye ! That 's right ! Now ye don 't want 
 away, d 'ye, away from Columb Ruagh ! He '11 not let any 
 one do ye any harm at all! Let them try it and they'll 
 see ! Wantin ' away, are ye ? Then off with ye ! " 
 
 The girl pulled herself from Columb 's arm, reeled back 
 to the door and gripped the latch to save herself from 
 falling. For a moment she clung to it, her bosom shaking 
 with sobs. On the ground at her feet lay her shawl which 
 had fallen off when Columb seized her, but as if to replace 
 it her tresses had fallen down and now covered her white 
 neck and heaving shoulders. 
 
 "What is it that's wrong with ye?" asked the man, 
 again reaching out his hand and touching her elbow. The 
 girl looked up at him with a puzzled stare. 
 
 "Is it yerself that's in it, Columb?" she inquired in a 
 faltering voice. 
 
 "Iv coorse it is, Maureen," he replied. "Ye know me, 
 don't ye?" 
 
 "I know ye, Columb," she replied. "But I'm so feeard. 
 'Twas the ghosts first and the bad things on the hills. 
 Then I had a drame, and it means something bad. Oh, 
 an awful drame, Columb! . . . And I'm so cold!" 
 
 "Well, then, come in here and sit down and warm yer- 
 self be the fire," said the man. "It's maybe out, but I'll
 
 POTHEEN 355 
 
 soon get the coals from the greeshaugh and light it up 
 again ! ' ' 
 
 As he spoke he took a key from his pocket, shoved it in 
 the lock and opened the door. Then he lifted the shawl 
 from the ground and handed it to Maureen. 
 
 "Put it round yer shoulders," he said, his voice almost 
 paternal. "And in now with ye to the house and have a 
 warm be the blaze." 
 
 He took her arm, escorted her in and placed her on the 
 chair by the fire. A few sparks still glowed in the ashes 
 like wicked red eyes plotting mischief in the darkness. 
 The man groped in the smother for live embers, heaped 
 them in a little pile in the center of the hearth, ground a 
 dry turf between his fingers and placed the mold on the 
 heap. In a few minutes this flared up; turf were piled 
 on the flame, and presently a hearty fire was burning mer- 
 rily. 
 
 "That'll be a fire that'll warm the heart in ye in next 
 to no time," said the man in a voice of exultation as he 
 fixed his eyes on Maureen. The girl sat on the chair, her 
 shawl wrapped tightly round her throat and shivering as 
 if half frozen with cold. Her eyes were fixed questioningly 
 on Columb Ruagh as if some disturbing but indistinct idea 
 concerning him engrossed her mind. 
 
 "Ye '11 be warm in a minit; just wait till ye see the fire 
 runnin' up against the soot and the sparks jumpin' out on 
 to yer wee boots, ' ' said Columb, who was on his feet again, 
 a look of great excitement in his eyes. Putting his hand 
 in his pocket, he felt for something, brought his hand out 
 empty, buttoned his coat, sat down, got up again, sorted 
 the turf on the fire, spat in the flames, unbuttoned his 
 coat, and all the time his eyes were on Maureen, taking 
 stock of her every movement, every expression on her face. 
 
 "Was it a dream that I had, Columb Ruagh?" she sud- 
 denly asked. 
 
 " 'Twas, iv coorse," said the man, sitting down on a 
 heap of bags which stood near the fire and pulling his 
 trousers up at the knees. ' ' 'Twas iv coorse a dream, with 
 the feear iv the hills in yer head and ye hangin' on be the
 
 356 MAUREEN 
 
 latch. 'Twas a funny way to get the sleep on ye, Mau- 
 reen." 
 
 "I didn't want to sleep," said the girl. "I was in a 
 maze, and I closed me eyes, and all at once I began to 
 dream. ... A terrible dream, too." 
 
 "Don't trouble about yer dream at all," said Columb 
 irritably. "It's notions that got into yer head, that's what 
 it was. But what am I thinkin' iv, Maureen Malley, hav- 
 in' ye sittin' here in me home with the light not on. I 
 must light the lamp." 
 
 The paraffin lamp hung by a string from the roof-beam. 
 Catching it in his hand, he turned up the wick and lit it. 
 A faint gleam lit the near vicinity, but failed to pierce 
 outwards towards the corners of the room where the 
 shadows lurked in ambush behind every projection of the 
 wall, every nook and corner. 
 
 "It's not takin' kindly to it," said Columb, and turned 
 the wick higher up in its carriage. "But that's better, 
 that's better," he muttered as the flame took full purchase 
 of the wick and flared with a brilliant radiance, chasing 
 away the massed battalions of shadows that lurked in the 
 corners of the room. "Now, Maureen Malley, that's better ! 
 Draw in be the fire and have a warm to yer shins." 
 
 The girl looked uneasily at Columb, and her face showed 
 traces of an uneasy inward agitation. She shivered and 
 moved her chair with submissive haste towards the fire. 
 
 "Just sit in and ye '11 warm yerself in less than no time," 
 said Columb. "And have a drink iv potheen, the best iv 
 the makin'. There's some here that has been in the house 
 more years than I can tell." 
 
 Maureen shook her head. 
 
 "More years than I can tell," said Columb, waxing en- 
 thusiastic over the age of the liquor. "Never was the like 
 iv it at weddin' or funeral in the barony for twenty years 
 gone. 'Twas buried in a keg in a bog-hole and kept on 
 improvin' with the years, and now there's nothin' like it 
 in all Ireland. And that's sayin' somethin'." 
 
 He made his way to the bed in the corner, went down
 
 POTHEEN 357 
 
 on his knees and groped in the darkness. When he got 
 to his feet again he held a jar, covered with dry moss from 
 bottom to neck, in his hands. 
 
 "Ye can have a drop from this," said Columb in tones 
 of magnanimous self-sacrifice. "And yer lips will be the 
 only ones that ever tasted stuff that's so old and so good." 
 
 Again without speaking, Maureen, trembling all over, 
 shook her head. 
 
 "It's the cold that ye '11 be gettin' if ye don't put some 
 iv this down," cried Columb, putting the jar on the ground 
 and twisting the cork from the neck with his hand. Plac- 
 ing a large delf bowl on the floor, he poured some of the 
 liquor into it. 
 
 "Not so much iv it, then, if ye '11 have me to take it," 
 said the girl. "It won't be any harm and me so cold, 
 anyway, ' ' she went on in a weary voice. " I do feel f eeard, 
 and the cold's right in me bones. That'll do, that'll do!" 
 
 Columb handed her the potheen. The girl mechanically 
 took the bowl, but her hand trembled so much that the 
 liquor began to splash against the side, and she spilt half 
 of it. 
 
 "Put it down, Maureen," said Columb, touching her 
 sympathetically on the shoulder. "Put it down. It's only 
 a wee drop. That's right! That's right! Now are ye 
 warmed up?" 
 
 He took the bowl from her hand, placed it on the floor 
 and poured some more potheen into it. Raising it up, he 
 looked at it with the air of a judge, sniffed it. 
 
 "Yer health, Maureen Malley," he said and drank. 
 Then in ecstasy he leant back on his seat and closed both 
 eyes with a satisfied air. When he opened them again his 
 glance rested on Maureen. 
 
 The girl was now apparently asleep, one little red hand 
 resting on the other, her shawl thrust back from her shoul- 
 ders, her throat gleaming white against the background of 
 her hair. Columb, as he watched, could see her bosom rise 
 and fall, the flush of color redden her cheeks and die away 
 again. As he looked at her and took in every line of her
 
 358 MAUREEN 
 
 form, the contour of her cheeks, the rounded fullness of her 
 breast, she moved her head ever so slightly. Her eye- 
 lashes quivered and a smile showed on her face. 
 
 Columb Ruagh got to his feet, went down on his knees 
 in front of the girl, rested his hands on her shoulders and 
 looked in her face, his lips close to hers. How smooth 
 and pink her cheeks, how small her hands, how soft her 
 breath ! Even as he looked at her he raised his own big, 
 miry hands and rubbed his chin where the beard, un- 
 shaven for many days, stood out in bristles like the teeth 
 of a currycomb. 
 
 "Are ye sleepin', Maureen?" he asked, and there was 
 no answer. 
 
 "Ah! it's no wonder that they'll have nothin' to do 
 with me, but wait ! " he muttered, as he drew his calloused 
 fingers across his chin again. * ' But just wait ! ' ' 
 
 His head full of conflicting thoughts, he got to his feet 
 again, ransacked a bowl in the chimney brace and from 
 the dust brought out a varied assortment of articles, a 
 fragment of glass which once formed part of a mirror, a 
 cake of soap, last used when he washed his face for church 
 two Sundays before, a razor and a tin can. Filling the tin 
 with water, he placed it on the fire, took off his coat, thrust 
 his shirt sleeves up to the elbow and began stropping the 
 razor on his forearm. 
 
 After a few minutes he took the can of water from the 
 fire, tested it with his finger, then dropped the soap in it. 
 Having no brush, he lathered his face with his hands, soap- 
 ing cheeks and jaw, and watching in the little glass which 
 he had installed in a niche of the chimney brace, the soap 
 foam thicken and overspread the razor-ground of his ruvid 
 features. Then he shaved, his hand trembling a little as 
 he did so and his eyes from time to time turning round to 
 the chair on which Maureen was seated. 
 
 Having finished with his face, he smoothed his hair with 
 the palm of his hand and smiled in the mirror, taking al- 
 ternately front and three-quarters views of his face. 
 
 "It doesn't matter about the rest iv me," he said. "I've 
 the shoulders iv a man and the suppleness iv a hare, and
 
 POTHEEN 359 
 
 I never show it in runnin' away like some iv them. Cathal 
 Cassidy, indeed, the rip!" he exclaimed in a hoarse voice, 
 charged with passion. "I'll show him!" 
 
 He lifted his wrapper from the ground, put it on, but 
 as he was on the point of buttoning it he recollected that 
 when he was younger and as big a fool as the rest of them 
 down the country, he used to take part in the games of 
 his fellows, jumping, running and tug of war. Once, 
 when engaged in the latter pastime, Father Dan, who hap- 
 pened to be one of the onlookers, gazed at Columb, who 
 stood ready for the contest, head uncovered, arms bare 
 to the elbows, the collar of his shirt opened and his muscled 
 breast bare. "What a splendid-looking boy," said Father 
 Dan. "He's like an ancient god!" 
 
 Columb did not know rightly what an ancient god was, 
 but judging from the tone of the priest that a compliment 
 was intended, he appeared at all games for years after- 
 wards in the same dress. Now that there was another 
 game on, the game of love, why not enter the field in the 
 same manner? Columb took his coat off again, thrust 
 up his sleeves and turned down the collar of his red shirt. 
 He looked into the mirror, took stock of his neck and the 
 blue jugular vein that stood out like a rubber tire, the set 
 of his jaw and nose, front view and profile. 
 
 "It'll do, it'll do," he chuckled. "There's life in the 
 old dog yet, and with the money behind ye '11 go far to 
 get better." 
 
 Again he knelt on the ground in front of Maureen, who 
 was sleeping soundly, and put his hands on her knees. 
 All at once the girl, though asleep, had that indefinable 
 impression, felt but not seen, of something foreign in the 
 atmosphere, something that threatened her safety. She 
 awoke with a start and her eyes, wide open, rested on the 
 man. She stared at him for a second, then seized his 
 hands and thrust them away from her. 
 
 "What are ye doin', Columb Ruagh?" she cried. "Is 
 this the way that ye 're tryin' to thrate me?" 
 
 "But I'm doin' nothin' to ye, Maureen Malley," said 
 the man, springing to his feet. A look of annoyance and
 
 360 MAUREEN 
 
 confusion showed on his face. "I'm doin' nothin' to ye. 
 I could have done whatever I liked because ye were asleep, 
 but I didn't, Maureen Malley! It's the potheen that's 
 made ye so bad and cross, Maureen." 
 
 "Maybe that," said the girl, rubbing her eyes. "But 
 it was yerself that gave it to me, Columb Euagh. And 
 ye look so funny, too, Columb, with all the hair off yer 
 face like a young fellow at chapel on a Sunday, and them 
 goin' to their duties. But it's a funny sight that ye are, 
 Columb, and yer face so red and so funny, so very, very 
 funny ! ' ' 
 
 She lay back on the chair and burst into a fit of laugh- 
 ter as she fixed her eyes on the man, who now, looking 
 confused and foolish, stared at the girl, his mouth open a 
 little and his arms, bare to the elbow, hanging limp by 
 his sides. 
 
 "What are ye goin' to do, Columb?" chuckled the girl. 
 "Is it to kill a pig with the way yer shirt is turned down 
 be the neck and yer sleeves thrust up ? Ye look so funny 
 that one wouldn't think that it was yerself that was in it 
 at all. And the razor with the soap on it. Was it shavin' 
 yerself that ye were, and the sleep on me ? ' ' 
 
 As she spoke she pointed at the razor, which was now 
 lying on the bags, still open, with the lather on the steel. 
 Then she burst into another hysterical fit of laughter. 
 
 ' ' What were ye shavin ' yerself for ? ' ' she inquired. ' ' At 
 this hour iv the night and no fair to go to the morrow? 
 Come, tell me what were ye shavin' yerself for? Tell me, 
 Columb Ruagh?" 
 
 She got to her feet, tried to steady herself, swayed and 
 fell on the chair again. 
 
 "It's the potheen that's got to me head," she laughed. 
 "And it the first time, too. It's bad that it will bring me; 
 I'm sure iv it. But, Columb," she pleaded, "tell me 
 what ye shaved yerself for ? I never saw ye look so clean 
 and tidy in all me life." 
 
 The man looked vacantly at the girl for a moment, rub- 
 bing his eyes, as if he and not Maureen had just awoke 
 from sleep. Thus for a moment. Then he seemed to come
 
 POTHEEN 31 
 
 to a decision. Kneeling down, he caught both the girl's 
 hands, raised them to his lips and kissed them. 
 
 "Maureen, my wee Maureen," he mumbled, placing his 
 head on her hands and holding them so tightly that she 
 could not pull them away. "I shaved, I tidied meself, 
 because, Maureen, I want ye! I want ye to be my wife! 
 Maureen, I've the money and maybe I'm old as they say, 
 but that and all I've shoulders as strong as the best iv 
 them. I want ye, Maureen. It's long and many's a day 
 since ye came into me mind, and I've been savin' and 
 scrapin' the money, puttin' a bit by one day and a bit by 
 another day, and, Maureen, it was all for yerself. Ye '11 
 be mine, won't ye? Say that ye will. Let me kiss ye; let 
 me hold ye! It doesn't matter who they are, I'll not let 
 them put a hand on ye! I'll work me fingers to the bone 
 for ye. Maureen, my wee Maureen! I'll put boots and 
 dresses on ye the best in all Ireland. And now, it's not 
 wantin' to get away that ye are, Maureen?" 
 
 vm 
 
 The girl had risen to her feet and was doing her best to 
 free her hand from the madman. She was now terribly 
 frightened. Added to fear was her weariness. She had 
 been out of bed for some twenty-four hours, had been 
 traveling most of that time on the rugged mountainy roads. 
 During this time she had eaten very little. She had some 
 tea, bread and butter when she left home in the morning, 
 a similar repast at the Doon Well, in a peasant cottage, and 
 since then nothing. 
 
 Then, when her vitality had reached its lowest ebb, when 
 with muscles strained, nerves weary, she reached the Crin- 
 nan cross-roads and sought for a moment's rest in Co- 
 lumb's house, she was turned out into the darkness and 
 cold, and left there a prey to the weirdest fancies of her 
 susceptible imagination. The sup of potheen taken almost 
 blindly had cheered her for a moment and soothed her 
 nerves. From this she woke up to the further infliction 
 of Columb Euagh's attentions.
 
 362 MAUREEN 
 
 "Leave me be, Columb Ruagh," she pleaded, still try- 
 ing to free her hand. But in this she was unsuccessful. 
 Holding both her hands in one of his, he put his arm round 
 her white, supple neck and pressed her back into the chair, 
 every futile effort on her part to free herself seeming to 
 add fire and strength to the man's passion. She sank into 
 the chair and gazed up at him with terror-stricken eyes, 
 afraid to move even a finger now lest the slightest motion 
 would bring her to a fearsome and horrible end. 
 
 "Now," said the man, gripping both her arms in a grip 
 of iron. "Now, what have ye to say? Ye don't want me, 
 don't ye? And amn't I as good as the best of them? 
 Amn't I? Amn't I? Amn't I?" 
 
 There was no reply. The girl's eyes suddenly closed 
 and a ghastly pallor overspread her countenance. Columb 
 Ruagh was startled, then scared. He put his hand to his 
 ear as if listening for sounds from the outside, then he 
 bent down over the girl. 
 
 ' ' Maureen Malley ! " he whispered. ' ' Maureen Malley ! ' ' 
 
 There was no answer, not a quiver of an eyelid. Columb 
 shuddered. 
 
 ' ' God ! " he stammered. " I've killed the girsha ! What 's 
 wrong? "What's wrong with her? Maureen Malley. Wee 
 Maureen ! ' ' 
 
 He looked at her again, taking stock of her face as she 
 lay there limp and motionless, her eyes closed and cheeks 
 colorless. Her face had the pallor of death. 
 
 "But ye 're not dead, Maureen!" said the man thickly. 
 "It's only makin' fun iv me that ye are, makin' fun iv old 
 Columb that never meant ye any harm. Waken up! 
 Waken up ! Waken up ! " 
 
 He caught her arm, lifted it and felt the pulse with his 
 thumb. Under the skin he felt the slow throb of blood in 
 motion. 
 
 "That's right, girsha, that's right," he laughed. "Just 
 a drop iv water on yer face, and it '11 bring ye to yer senses. 
 Tryin' to frighten Columb were ye, ye rascal?" he de- 
 manded, shaking his fist in mock anger at the girl. "But 
 he wasn't to be caught in that way. No fear! Ye '11 not
 
 POTHEEN 363 
 
 catch Columb like that! There's more in his head than 
 a comb can take out. Just a drop of water and the job is 
 done, or a drop iv potheen! Potheen's better!" 
 
 He poured a drop from the jar into the bowl and held 
 it to her mouth, spilling a portion of the liquid over her 
 lips. Maureen gasped, then swallowed. Her eyes opened 
 and she sat up. 
 
 "Was I sleepin' again, Columb Ruagh?" she asked in 
 a terrified whisper. 
 
 Columb seized both her hands in his, raised one of them 
 almost to his lips and dropped it again. 
 
 "It's the fear that ye've put in me, Maureen Malley," 
 he said. "You fell in a sort iv faint, and I thought that 
 ye were dead." 
 
 She looked at him, then gazed round the room, at the 
 fire first, then at the lamp swinging from the roof. 
 
 "I must go, Columb," she said in a tone of decision, 
 drawing her hand away and tightening the shawl round 
 her shoulders. "It must be close on the mornin', and 
 not a cart comin'. I shouldn't have waited at all here. 
 Keepin' ye from yer sleep and frightenin' them that's 
 waitin ' for me down in Meenaroodagh. ' ' 
 
 "But don't go and the light iv day so near now," Co- 
 lumb entreated in a thick voice. ' ' Stay where ye are, and 
 when it's light I'll leave ye at home. I don't see what 
 ye 're thinkin' iv waitin' for that cart and the man that's 
 drivin' it, havin' no thought iv ye at all, but up to capers 
 iv his own and after fun iv his own, for that's the way 
 with the most iv them fellows down the country. Spendin' 
 what few ha'pence they have they are, then it's talkin' iv 
 marryin' and makin' love that they're to. But a man like 
 me, Maureen, that never says anything about what I have, 
 has more money than them all put together. Take the 
 whole pack iv them and I could buy them body and soul! 
 That's what Columb Ruagh could do! That's what I 
 could do ! For look, Maureen Malley, look and see this. ' ' 
 
 As he spoke he stood on the bags, and reaching up 
 grasped a pick which was stuck in the roof under the raft- 
 ers. With this he began digging furiously at the floor,
 
 364 MAUREEN 
 
 picking up the flags embedded in the spread of dank earth. 
 
 "Down!" he roared. "Down yet, Columb Ruagh, and 
 show them! Down!" he gasped, raising the pick over his 
 head with a mighty swoop and bringing it floorward with 
 such force that it raised sparks from the stones and scat- 
 tered clods of earth all over the room, even as far as the 
 doorway. "Down yet! Into it, Columb Ruagh!" he 
 yelled, foaming at the mouth and putting all the force of 
 his body into the labor. 
 
 Something gave back a hollow sound. "That's it," he 
 grunted, spitting on the disturbed pile which his pick had 
 torn up. "Now, Columb Ruagh will let them see what's 
 to be seen here at the Crinnan cross-roads ! Now ye '11 let 
 them see, whoever they are ! An old dog for the hard road 
 and a pup for the level ! That 's it. In inundher it ! Up 
 with it! Up with it! That's the way, me boy! That's 
 the way! Let them see what it is! Let them see!" 
 
 Maureen, as if in a dream, watched the whole scene 
 enacted in front of her, saw Columb Ruagh in the light 
 of the lonely cabin struggling with his pick, tearing the 
 very bowels from the floor. Over his head, as if moved by 
 the tremendous vitality of the man, the lamp swung back- 
 wards and forwards, keeping time with his labors. It 
 swung down so that the man's shadow was thrown on the 
 further wall; up, and the beads of perspiration on his 
 tanned face were lit like jewels on brown satin; it swung 
 back as if keeping out of the way of the sharp-edged pick, 
 and forward shedding its light on the labor-polished steel. 
 
 But unequally distributed, the two lights, fire and lamp, 
 while throwing the man into such prominent relief, hardly 
 illumined the corner recesses of the room. Here a thou- 
 sand fantastic effects were produced, picturesque and 
 weird. A creel, a basket outlined so faintly, might have 
 been taken for phantoms of a disordered mind; the moist 
 streak on the wall where water ran in the wet weather 
 gleamed with the borrowed light like a bar of polished gold. 
 Here and there, where the damp oozed through the wall, 
 the stones reflected facets of light that were mischievous 
 eyes staring from the blackness. The clatter of the striking
 
 POTHEEN 365 
 
 pick, the grunts of the man, echoed from every corner ; and 
 the whole cabin was instinct with life, but life so grotesque 
 and fantastic that Maureen shuddered. 
 
 "This is it!" yelled the man. "Here, Maureen Malley. 
 Come and look at it! See what Columb Ruagh has in his 
 keepin' and all for yourself!" 
 
 As he spoke he threw down his pick, went on his knees 
 by the hole newly made, and dragged therefrom a large, 
 rusty iron box. 
 
 "This is it!" he yelled, "this is it!" and lifting the 
 pick again he crashed it through the lid. "This is it, 
 Maureen Malley ! " he shouted, raising the box in his arms, 
 coming over to the girl and emptying its contents on the 
 floor at her feet. From the box fell a shower of coins, 
 gold and silver ; sovereigns, crowns, and florins. They fell 
 at her boots, rolled across the floor, under the bed, into 
 the fire, making themselves beds in the ashes. 
 
 "There, there, it's running away from me!" he yelled, 
 as if an overmastering passion had suddenly reasserted its 
 sway, and, rushing to the fireplace, he groped amidst the 
 cinders for the gold which had rolled that way. "It went 
 here, a yellow boy," he said, taking a red-hot coal in his 
 hand and looking beneath it. "And in these ruts anything 
 can be lost," he screamed, running his fingers through a 
 groove in the hearth and tearing out the ash which filled it. 
 "No, it's gone, it's lost," he groaned. "Where is it, the 
 one that fell here? I saw it run into the ashes. It's hard 
 to get, but it goes easy. Did ye see it, Maureen Malley? 
 Did ye see it?" 
 
 He suddenly realized that he was talking to the girl, 
 that she was watching him, and he stood upright, his shirt 
 open down the front, exposing the red hairs which, knotted 
 and twisted, lined his massive chest. 
 
 "That'll do!" he said in a voice of self -reproof, as if 
 suddenly regaining control of himself. ' ' That '11 do ! Ye 're 
 goin' off yer head, that's what ye 're doin'. A guinea less 
 or more and what does it matter? There's enough and to 
 spare left. So enough iv it," he said, and a ghastly ex- 
 pression showed on his face. "Enough iv it! It's all for
 
 366 MAUREEN 
 
 yerself, Maureen, every penny and every piece. I don't 
 want it any more! It's all saved for yerself, Maureen. 
 Take it, take it!" 
 
 He bent, lifted a handful of gold and placed it in the 
 girl's lap. She thrust it away, and, terror-stricken, she 
 rose to her feet. 
 
 "I must go home," she said in a strangled whisper, fix- 
 ing a vacant, horrified stare on the man, while thoughts 
 danced in her mind like feathers in a whirlwind. To 
 make her way out and go home seemed simple and conclu- 
 sive enough, but at the same moment a premonition of 
 something horrible and hideous which was about to take 
 place filled her mind. In a maze she could hear tke 
 last coin, which had fallen from her apron, finish its roll 
 on the floor. At the same moment a pair of cruel red eyes 
 afire with brutish rage looked into hers, and a shower of 
 gold again fell into her lap. The hands that dropped the 
 gold seized hers. She was lifted in the air, almost to the 
 swinging lamp, then felt herself laid down again on the 
 bed in the corner. 
 
 "Columb Ruagh, is it goin' to kill me that ye are?" she 
 screamed. "Let me go! Oh, Mother iv God!" 
 
 IX 
 
 At eight o'clock in the evening Cathal Cassidy, the busi- 
 ness of the day completed, took his way homewards from 
 the village of Kineeragh. The cart rumbled out from the 
 streets and their lines of houses into the valley that twisted 
 and turned to the foot of Binbawn. 
 
 The wooden fences, earthen dykes and sparse hedges 
 which lined the roadway began to crawl by. Here and 
 there stood a few thatched cottages which seemed to have 
 strayed out from the village like chickens from a clutch. 
 Lamps were lit, and through the open door of one house 
 Cathal could see a number of men sitting down, round a 
 table, gambling. An old woman wearing a white frilled 
 cap was stirring a stirabout-pot, and a dog lay on the 
 floor hunting for fleas.
 
 POTHEEN 367 
 
 One by one the houses gradually disappeared and Cathal 
 was out on the road, crooked and unfenced, that ran across 
 the moor towards Binbawn and the cross-roads of Grin- 
 nan. But it was miles to Crinnan yet. However, the pony 
 knew the road and the little animal had only to go straight 
 on, which it would do, needing neither whip nor rein. 
 Cathal could lie at the bottom of the cart and sleep if he 
 wished to do so. He was sleepy, for he had been out of 
 bed since three o'clock in the morning. 
 
 He tied the reins to a breeching-link, shoved a bag of 
 plants near the front board of the cart, stretched out his 
 legs, and rested his head on the bag. Here he could sleep 
 without taking any further heed of the pony, which, know- 
 ing the mountain road so well, would be sure to bring the 
 young man to Crinnan cross-roads. 
 
 He closed his eyes and thought of Maureen. She would 
 be traveling by foot on the road from the Boon Well by 
 now, her eyes a little tired maybe, but her heart full of 
 thoughts of him. Perhaps even now she had arrived at 
 the cross-roads and was sitting there by the fire waiting. 
 
 He thought of the previous night and the time when he 
 clasped her in his arms by the roadside ! Her lips so soft 
 against his! Her little fingers pressing his hand just in 
 this manner! With the fingers of one hand he pressed 
 the palm of the other softly, and in dreams he was again 
 in Maureen's company. 
 
 He suddenly awoke. It was now close on nine o'clock, 
 and Cathal as he sat up could see the road in front of him 
 stretching upwards towards the hills of Crinnan. On his 
 right was the peak of Binbawn rising coldly and sternly 
 towards the stars. Under him the wheels of the cart 
 gritted the gravel of the roadway. 
 
 It was four miles to the summit of Crinnan now, to the 
 cross-roads and Maureen O'Malley. He should have been, 
 there by this time, but having so much business to do at 
 Kineeragh Cathal could not get away as early as he in- 
 tended. But Maureen would wait for him. She would 
 understand. 
 
 He was now on the outer lip of the parish, in a district
 
 368 MAUREEN 
 
 common to all and owned by none. Here were no houses. 
 The waste was buried in deep, sullen slumber, gloomy and 
 forbidding. In the whole perspective of mute lands there 
 was something not alone dumb but menacing. 
 
 Apart from the mysterious sighs of Nature there was 
 not a sound. The stillness and solitude inspired awe. 
 Coming through here at night as he had often done, cut 
 off from the society of his kind, from the wise, year-mel- 
 lowed words of the old and the heedless laughter of the 
 young, a feeling of fear always settled on the soul of 
 Cathal. In the desert peace of the uplands, with the 
 hard, distant stars glaring pitilessly down, there was some- 
 thing cruel and austere. Death rose from the soundless 
 depths of distance and space and breathed coldly on the 
 man. 
 
 Oh, Donegal! of the dark-haired passes and haughty 
 peaks, gloomy, unknown depths and cold heights, what 
 have* you to say? Is there a message to be heard in the 
 persistent moan of the wind in your glens, in the discon- 
 solate sea wailing on your surf -bitten shores? Is there 
 something to be learned from the sun-bright luster of 
 Croagh an Airgead, the haughty coldness of Errigal, the 
 drum of the sea on Tory and the white laugh of the waters 
 on the teeth of Gweebarra Bay? Errigal has listened to 
 the thousand light feet on the dancing-floors of Gweedore, 
 but the white bones of the time-forgotten dancers curve 
 and curtsey now in the waters of many a gale that threshes 
 the shores of Tirconail. They were and are not, they are 
 and will not be. And we shall go also. So they chant, the 
 winds in the dark-haired passes, the waves on the sea-bit- 
 ten shores. 
 
 The cart rumbled on round the hem of Binbawn. Cathal, 
 unable to sleep again, was sitting on his bag of plants, his 
 pipe lit and his mind filled with dreams of Maureen and 
 love, memories of the past and hopes of the future. 
 
 Cathal was very well-to-do and had some money laid 
 by. His farm in Meenaroodagh was a good strip of land, 
 hill and holm, the former containing bog without bottom,
 
 POTHEEN 369 
 
 the latter, fields that rose higher than the biggest flood. A 
 road ran from his door to the spreadfield on the uplands, 
 and possessing a pony and cart he could draw all the turf 
 to the very hearth. The hay dried quickly, and with fair 
 weather to harvest Cathal was sure of a strong winter 
 house, potatoes in piles, meal in plenty from Stranarachary 
 mill, good milking cows and a warm hearth-stone. 
 
 Cathal's mother, Sheila Shemus Bawn, was a great 
 worker, with ready hands for any job, washing, baking, 
 milking and herding the cows, letting ropes, rickling turf, 
 spreading manure on the potato ridges. Three cows were 
 under her care in the byre, and she had many ducks and 
 hens, all good layers and easy feeders. In fact the whole 
 farm was a very good one, none like it in the barony, with 
 fields well fenced, turf snugly clamped and hay and corn 
 neatly stacked. The thatched and limewashed home of 
 Cathal Cassidy had a hearty door for the woman to be, 
 for Maureen O'Malley. 
 
 When Cathal Cassidy encountered Micky Og on the road 
 near Binbawn and heard of the fallen Bridge of Cleena, 
 he turned his horse round and drove back again. From 
 where he turned the road to the summit of Crinnan was 
 five miles by Cleena Brae, but going back, circling Bin- 
 bawn and taking the Boon Well road, the journey would 
 be lengthened by a league and more. It was the only way 
 home now; the Dungarrow-Kineeragh road ran through a 
 land of bog and mire, and it was impossible for a wheeled 
 vehicle to make headway outside the confines of the high- 
 way. 
 
 Cleena Bridge was a very rude construction made by 
 the peasantry. The structure was one of the simplest ; two 
 beams of bog oak were laid across a mountain stream, their 
 ends resting on the banks at opposite sides. Transverse 
 boards were laid from beam to beam; these were nailed 
 down and the structure was complete. For years this 
 bridge, when the weather was dry, carried the traffic from 
 many a fair. In the wet weather the roads which it joined 
 were absolutely impossible for a vehicle with wheels. But
 
 370 MAUREEN 
 
 now that the bridge was down Cathal Cassidy was in no 
 way surprised. For many a long day he had marveled that 
 it should stand so long. 
 
 In the morning at one o'clock he arrived at the house 
 of Columb Ruagh Keeran on the Crinnan cross-roads.
 
 FINALIT7 
 
 Once 'twas my song at a ball, 
 
 My dance at a wedding; 
 
 But now the bones of me call 
 
 For bed and bedding: 
 
 Sheet and sheeting that's sound, 
 
 And I will go off in 
 
 Pomp to the house in the ground, 
 
 The clay, in a coffin. 
 
 'Tis seed-time at Candlemas, 
 
 Then, there let it! 
 
 There are, when I come to pass, 
 
 Fine men to set it; 
 
 Men, and them hale and strong 
 
 Of breed and breeding. 
 
 Their hands won't idle long, 
 
 Sowing and seeding! 
 
 It's a brave turf fire the night 
 In the house I've grown old in 
 A narrow home is vn sight, 
 But room to grow cold in! 
 Is it Candlemas now with its rainf 
 Or Lammas Day with the mowing t 
 Neither will know me again, 
 And it time to be going. 
 
 371
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE ANCIENTS 
 
 TOWARDS noon of the same day, news of a tragedy, 
 grave and horrible, began to pass from lip to lip 
 through all the cabins from Crinnan in the hills to 
 Drimeeney on the sea. The police in force and fully armed 
 passed eastwards through Meenarood and Meenaroodagh. 
 Then came the newspapermen on motor cars with note- 
 books and pencils and cameras. They took photos of the 
 byre which was once Maureen's home, of the house by the 
 Crinnan cross-roads, the house of Columb Ruagh Keeran, 
 and the cabin where lived Sheila Shemus Bawn, the mother 
 of the Sein Feiner Cathal Cassidy. The telegraph wires 
 of Stranarachary hummed, carrying abroad the details 
 of a great crime, a Sein Fein tragedy, which on that night 
 would be an extra course for a Dublin dinner, and on the 
 morning to be a titbit for the London breakfast-table. 
 
 It was rumored that armed soldiers were already on 
 their way towards Stranarachary, their remedial bayonets 
 in readiness. For what? For something that surged 
 higher than the administration of man, an ancient passion, 
 which like a new thought brooked no dominance and ad- 
 mitted no hindrance. 
 
 The news of the tragedy gripped Dungarrow like mighty 
 tentacles, drawing the people together as a rake draws the 
 wisps of a haggard into one heap. Never in the memory 
 of the oldest was such an assemblage under one roof as 
 that which filled the house of Condy Heelagh when dark- 
 ness had fallen. The old had gotten new vigor into their 
 bones, the young were frightened and stared one at the 
 other with wild eyes ; the men were silent and the women 
 wept while they prayed. 
 
 373
 
 374 MAUREEN 
 
 Coy Fergus Beeragh, bed-ridden for the past three weeks 
 and hastening death by leaving his blankets, was there. 
 Condy Heelagh had left his customary seat by the fire and 
 was up and about, taking the greatest interest in things 
 which had not attracted his attention for many years; the 
 delf on the dresser, the hang of the lamp suspended from 
 the roof-beam, the curve and finish of his long-discarded 
 last. Sally Rourke told her beads, her eyes and ears open 
 to the expressions on the neighbors' faces and the words 
 that they spoke. Cassie Shemus Meehal was there, the 
 clay as yet unsettled over her man that was. But noth- 
 ing was now out of place. The end of the world was near 
 at hand, surely. 
 
 "The sojers are comin'," said Condy Heelagh. "That's 
 the talk on the road now." 
 
 "Under God, the day and the night," said Peggy Rib- 
 big, her wrinkle-lidded eyes trembling wearily as if she 
 were waking from a sleep. 
 
 "Shid a vaha Wuirra," sobbed Sally Rourke, giving 
 utterance to the first words of the Ave to show that the 
 calamity had bitten deeply into her heart. 
 
 "The three iv them, all in one night!" said Cassie She- 
 mus Meehal. She was standing upright, and the shadow 
 of her long, black form swayed backwards and forwards 
 on the earthen floor. 
 
 "And the floor was covered with gold, in the ashes and 
 under the bed," said Peggy Ribbig with a husky groan. 
 "The polis will have their hands on all iv it." 
 
 "Micky Og saw the three iv them lyin' dead in the 
 house," said Liam Logan. "Columb Ruagh with his head 
 in the ashes and it walloped in, and Cathal beside the door 
 with a bullet through him." 
 
 "And Maureen was lyin' on the bed, dead," said some 
 one from near the door. 
 
 "It was maybe one iv the guns," said Sally Rourke, 
 crossing herself while her face contracted as if she were 
 terrified of something. 
 
 "There's no guns, I hear," said the voice from the door.
 
 THE ANCIENTS 375 
 
 The speaker was Corney McKelvie. "Columb Kuagh sold 
 them back to the polis." 
 
 "Micky Og's out iv his mind, too," said Liam Logan, 
 clutching a chair convulsively and fixing a hard look on 
 the fire. 
 
 "It's past talkin' about," said Cassie Shemus Meehal. 
 
 "It is that," whimpered Coy Fergus Beeragh with a 
 cold shudder, raising his arm to his chin, then dropping 
 it to his side and sinking into himself again. 
 
 "If Maldy Kennedy were to see this day," said Condy 
 Heelagh, setting four wet turf upright, head to head, on 
 the ash-powdered embers of the hearth. 
 
 "Aye that! And Nancy Logan, too, God rest her!" 
 said Sally Rourke, trickling her beads through her fingers. 
 
 "One wouldn't wonder if it was only Maureen Malley," 
 groaned Anne Heelagh in a thick voice. 
 
 "Aye, if it was one itself, but three iv them, God rest 
 them!" Peggy Ribbig moaned. "Was a thing like it 
 ever seen or heard tell iv in the whole wide world!" 
 
 "I mind once, fifty years ago," said Coy Fergus Bee- 
 ragh in a wheezy voice, as he sat down on a chair near 
 him. "Fifty years the Christmas past or the Christmas 
 comin', I'm not sure. And there was a man " 
 
 THE END

 
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