by 
 
 Powerful New Novel 
 
 Patrick Mac Gill 
 
 BY ELIA W. PEATTIE. 
 
 PATRICK MAC GILL Is in an aus- 
 tere mood in " GLENMORAN " 
 [Doi-an.] He pictures the nar- 
 rowness and superstition of aft 
 Irish village, writing with a certain sad 
 conviction that can come only from 
 ntimate knowledge and depressing ex- 
 perience. Not that the book is pri- 
 marily depressing. It is much too fine 
 a piece of work for that. It sets forth 
 with a grave beauty the characters of 
 the little scandal monging, priest dom- 
 inated, unprogressive town and tells 
 the story of what befell the young na- 
 tive of the village whose talent en- 
 abled him to write of the place and the 
 people and whose cleverness caused his 
 exile. 
 
 However, the reader is not impelled 
 to lament greatly the exile of the 
 young writer. It is true that he 
 grieved his mother and lost his sweet- 
 heart, but as they would in any event 
 have found some perfectly legitimate 
 cause for lamentation the fact that 
 Doalty, the writer, provided it seems 
 not to matter much. The sweetheart 
 found a new lover; Maura The Rosses 
 mother of Doalty mourned with a 
 great mourning; and Doalty is some- 
 where, no doubt her* in America, earn- 
 ing his living with his pen. Or per- 
 haps he is Pat MacGUl himself.

 
 GLENMORNAN 
 
 PATRICK MACGILL
 
 BY PATRICK MAcGILL 
 
 GLENMORNAN 
 THE BROWN BRETHREN 
 THE RED HORIZON 
 THE GREAT PUSH 
 THE RAT-PIT 
 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 NEW YORK
 
 GLENMORNAN 
 
 BY 
 
 PATRICK 
 MAcGILL 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE BROWN BRETHREN,' 
 "THE RAT-PIT," ETC. 
 
 NEW XSJr YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1918, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TO 
 
 MY OWN PEOPLE 
 
 2060714
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I MAURA THE ROSSES . . n 
 
 II GLENMORNAN , 28 
 
 HI DOALTY GALLAGHER . ... . . , . 49 
 
 IV IN His MOTHER'S HOUSE ....... 77 
 
 V OINEY LEAHY ., . 97 
 
 VI THE FAIR OF GREENANORE 135 
 
 VII SHEILA DERMOD ....... . . 167 
 
 VIII BREED DERMOD . . .-* . . . 185 
 
 EX THE MOWING . .213 
 
 X THE WAKE 242 
 
 XI THE FLOOD 265 
 
 XII READ FROM THE ALTAR 285 
 
 XIII A LETTER FROM HOME , . . ' f -'. $' , . 3"
 
 GLENMORNAN
 
 GLENMORNAN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 MAURA THE ROSSES 
 
 I've learned the tale of the crooning waves 
 
 And the lore of the honey-bee, 
 The Mermaid's Song in the lonely caves 
 
 Of Rosses by the sea. 
 As I'm never let out to the dance or wake, 
 
 Because I'm a gasair small, 
 I just stay in the house for my mother's sake 
 
 And never get tired at all. 
 
 Ah ! many a song she has sung to me 
 
 And many a song she knew, 
 And many a story there used to be, 
 
 And mother's tales are true; 
 So I know the tale of the crooning waves 
 
 And the lore of the honey bee, 
 And the Mermaid's Song in the lonely caves 
 
 Of Rosses by the sea. 
 
 The Faith Of A Child. 
 
 MAURA THE ROSSES was a widow with 
 ten children. The oldest of her chil- 
 dren was twenty-three years of age, 
 the youngest five. She was the owner of a 
 farm of land, fifty acres hill and holm, in the 
 ii
 
 12 Glenmornan 
 
 townland of Stranameera, which is saying some- 
 thing, for Stranameera has in pasture and peat 
 no land in the barony to equal it. The townland 
 is situated in the big Glen of Glenmornan, its 
 back against the hills and its toes stuck in the 
 river Owenawadda. Glenmornan is in the parish 
 of Greenanore, or, as it was once called, the Bar- 
 ony of Burrach. The oldest inhabitants of the 
 Glen still call themselves the people of Burrach, 
 the middle-aged speak of themselves, when 
 abroad, as "the ones from Greenanore, it that used 
 to be the Barony of Burrach in the old times," 
 but the young generation of boys who smoke cig- 
 arettes and girls who wear hats, are content to call 
 themselves the Greenanore people. 
 
 Maura The Rosses' maiden name was Sweeney, 
 her marriage name Gallagher. She came from 
 The Rosses. It was there that Connel Gallagher 
 met her one night when he was coming home to 
 his own Glen from the Fair of Reemora where he 
 had been selling wool. It was the night of All Hal- 
 low's Eve and a big gathering of young people had 
 assembled at Maura Sweeney's house, where all 
 manner of games was in progress. This was one 
 of the games : 
 
 , A girl carrying a knife would go out to the corn- 
 stack in the field, thirty yards away from the house. 
 When she arrived there she would stick the knife 
 in the corn up to the hilt. Then, putting two fingers 
 of one hand over both eyes and shutting them, she 
 would walk round the stack seven times. On com- 
 pleting the seventh circle the knife had to be drawn
 
 Maura the Rosses 13 
 
 out and waved seven times round the head. When 
 this had been done the girl would open her eyes 
 and they would rest on the face of her future hus- 
 band. 
 
 Connel Gallagher, on his way home to Glenmor- 
 nan, felt tired and hungry. On seeing a house near 
 the roadway lit up and the door open, he went across 
 the field towards it, with the intention of getting a 
 bit and sup to help him on his journey. He left the 
 road and made for the door, but on the way he 
 passed a corn-stack with somebody walking round 
 it. Connel stopped and looked at the figure. It 
 was a girl with her hair down her back and wear- 
 ing short petticoats that scarcely reached lower than 
 her knees. 
 
 "What's she doin' at all?" Connel asked himself 
 and at the same moment he recollected that the 
 night was Hall' Eve, and he knew what the girl was 
 doing. The same custom was kept in Glenmornan. 
 With a quiet step he went over to the corn-stack, 
 discovered where the knife was and waited there 
 until the girl completed the seventh circuit. When, 
 after waving the knife round her head, she opened 
 her eyes, they rested on Connel Gallagher. 
 
 The girl uttered a stifled cry, recoiled a few? 
 paces, and coming to the stack leant against it. 
 From there she fixed a pair of large frightened 
 eyes on the spectre who had come from nowhere, 
 out of the night. . . . Her man to be! She had 
 never seen him before . . . who was he? Maybe 
 the Devil himself. . . . 
 
 She sank down, but the stranger seized her in
 
 14 Glenmornan 
 
 his arms and pressed her tightly to him. Glenmor- 
 nan was never backward in making love. . . . The 
 girl felt very frightened; not an idea remained in 
 her head. She could see as in a dream the door of 
 her home, the dark forms inside, the lighted lamp 
 on the wall, the delft in rows on the dresser. . . . 
 The stranger seemed to be crushing her ; his hands 
 were so big ; his eyes were looking through her ; his 
 moustache was resting on her lips and his knee was 
 pressing against hers. 
 
 "Gora ! wasn't I in luck's way !" said the man in 
 a low voice. 
 
 "Giway widye and let me be," said the girl, try- 
 ing to escape. Now that the man had spoken just 
 like an ordinary mortal she did not feel afraid. In- 
 deed she became curious. 
 
 "Who widye be?" she asked. 
 
 "I'm from the Barony iv Burrach or Greenanore 
 as they call it," said the man, tightening his hold on 
 the girl. He might not have such a chance again. 
 "But what does it matter?" he said. "I'm here 
 anyway." 
 
 I "What d'ye mane?" asked the girl. ?T>on't ye 
 see that I'm beside me own house?" 
 
 The man released his hold. 
 
 "All right, golong with ye inside!" he said with a 
 contemptuous shake of his head. "It's like the girls 
 down here to be like that. Catch a Glenmornan girl 
 putting up her nose at a man that she meets on a 
 Hair Eve night just when she's out on the look to 
 see who she's goin' to marry. . . ." 
 
 "I wasn't on the look out for a man," said the
 
 Maura the Rosses 15 
 
 girl, showing no haste to get away, now that she 
 
 was free. 
 
 "Well, what did ye come out here for in the dark 
 
 iv night if it wasn't on the look out for a man?" 
 
 said Connel Gallagher. 
 
 "I only came out in fun," said the girl 
 "What is yer name ?" asked the man. 
 "It's Mary Sweeney. And yours will be?" 
 "Connel Gallagher. I have been down at the fair 
 
 of Reemora sellin' wool, and now that I'm on the 
 
 way home and tired and hungry I'm on the look for 
 
 a bit to eat. I saw a light in the house beyont there 
 
 and was just goin' over to it when I came across 
 
 yeself." 
 
 "Then come in now with me/' said the girl. "It's 
 
 our house, mine and me own people's house and 
 
 we'll make ye welcome." 
 
 ii 
 
 Connel Gallagher went in with the girl and there 
 in the house he met her father, Murtagh Sweeney, 
 the Fighter. Connel had seen Murtagh, a great man 
 for using his fists, once before. It was at the fair 
 of Greenanore, and on that occasion Murtagh 
 cleared out the fair with a stone in the foot of a 
 woman's stocking. Sweeney was a tall, well-set 
 man of great physical strength, with shoulders as 
 broad as a half door and legs as sturdy as stakes 
 in a byre. When he was drunk nearly everybody 
 was afraid of him and the pick of men were loth to
 
 16 Glenmornan 
 
 take him up single-handed in a fight. There was at 
 that time a long-standing feud between the people 
 of Rosses and the people of Greenanore and one 
 parish was jealous of another. No harvest fair was 
 worthy of note that had not settled a row between 
 the Rosses people and the people of Greenanore. 
 But no sooner was one dispute settled than another 
 begun and the more blood shed the more compli- 
 cated became the quarrel. Murtagh Sweeney al- 
 ways led the Rosses party and a Glenmornan man 
 named Oiney Leahy always was at the head of the 
 Burrach people. On one harvest fair Oiney fought 
 Murtagh, both men using the ashplant in the quar- 
 rel, and Murtagh got beaten. After that the quar- 
 rels died down, but the hate still lingered. Mur- 
 tagh Sweeney did not like the Greenanore people. 
 
 He had no great handshake for Connel Galla- 
 gher when he went in with Mary, but for all that 
 he made him as welcome as occasion permitted and 
 hospitality demanded. He gave Connel a bit and 
 sup and a taste of duty-free whiskey and let him 
 go in peace. Connel went home, but his heart was 
 not as easy as it might be. Mary Sweeney was a 
 comely girl and Connel thought that she would be a 
 worthy wife for him. His mother had just died 
 and he was all alone on his farm, a well-stocked 
 holding that any girl might be glad to come into. 
 
 A month later he called at Murtagh Sweeney's 
 house again, a bottle of whiskey in his pocket and 
 a next door neighbour on his right hand. He came 
 to ask Mary to be his wife. Murtagh would not 
 hear of the match. A daughter of his marrying a
 
 Maura the Rosses 17 
 
 man from Greenanore! He would see her cold 
 dead at his feet before he would sanction such a 
 marriage ! 
 
 But Mary thought otherwise and youth laughs 
 at age. A fortnight afterwards Connel and Mary 
 were married, and Murtagh did not come to the 
 wedding. The girl was cut off from the decent peo- 
 ple of Rosses for evermore. 
 
 Afterwards, despite the young people's assertion 
 that they were getting far and away superior to the 
 old silly Hallowe'en customs, the growing girls of 
 the Rosses placed a knife in the cornstack every 
 Hall' Eve night and walked round the stack seven 
 times with their eyes shut. 
 
 in 
 
 Married life had its troubles, even in Glenmor- 
 nan. Children came to Connel Gallagher and 
 Maura The Rosses. As the children increased in 
 number, the live stock on the farm diminished and 
 naked poverty held control over the home. Life 
 became a hard struggle for the man and wife. 
 One year out of every three the crops went bad, 
 potatoes were stricken by the blight, and the corn 
 rotted in the swathes. When the weather became 
 wet, the hay was carried away by the floods, and 
 the turf lay useless on the spread-fields. There 
 was no fire in the house and no food on the table. 
 .Connel would then look at his children and turn
 
 !8 Glenmornan 
 
 to his wife. "It's a hard life the poor has," he 
 would say. "But wait till the weans grow up I" 
 
 "It will be a long time that, yet," his wife would 
 answer. "But this was how it was meant to be and 
 God is good !" she would add. 
 
 Connel was a good, hard-working man. He got 
 tip from his bed at five every morning and went up 
 to the hill for a creel of turf, travelling bare-footed 
 to save shoe leather. When he came back he had 
 his breakfast. The meal consisted of cold potatoes 
 (if the potatoes were a good crop) or Indian meal 
 stirabout and buttermilk, followed by a bowl of tea 
 and a slice of Indian meal bread. Dinner consisted 
 of potatoes and milk and on Sundays the fare was 
 increased by a slice of bacon. There was a drop of 
 tea for the afternoon and supper consisted of In- 
 dian meal stirabout and milk. Connel worked from 
 early morning to late night and got poorer every 
 day. Eight pounds a year had to be paid in rent to 
 the landlord, a great gentleman who never set foot 
 in Glenmornan. He lived abroad, out in the world 
 somewhere and was very rich. According to the 
 Glen people he had a great room in his house and it 
 was full of nothing but gold. Connel Gallagher 
 kept adding eight pounds yearly to the landlord's 
 stock of gold and Connel got very poor, which is the 
 way of the world. 
 
 His eldest son was a boy named Doalty, a scholar 
 who was very fond of the learning. This boy went 
 to school and was a most intelligent lad. When he 
 left school, he worked on the farm, then went out 
 into the world. At eighteen he found himself in
 
 Maura the Rosses 19 
 
 London, labouring on the wharves. When there he 
 wrote articles for the press and was eventually 
 taken on the staff of a daily paper. He sent a great 
 amount of money home and his parents were very 
 pleased. 
 
 "I knew Doalty would be a good boy," said the 
 mother. "But it's a pity that we couldn't make 
 him a priest when he was here with ourselves. But 
 we hadn't enough money to put him through." 
 
 When Doalty was twenty-three a number of his 
 younger brothers and sisters were out pushing their 
 way in the world. Columb, next to him in years, 
 was away in America working in a saloon, Murtagh 
 had a job on a Scottish railway, ^Crania and Eileen 
 were on service away from home and money was 
 pouring into the old home in Stranameera. 
 
 There were six cows on the farm now and the 
 hill was white with sheep. Maura The Rosses, a 
 thrifty and sparing soul, was very pleased and 
 thanked God for the children which He had sent 
 her. 
 
 "Them's the kind of weans to have," she often 
 said. "Ones that never forget their own people." 
 
 IV 
 
 Connel Gallagher died from a very short sick- 
 ness. One day when he was threshing corn for the 
 mill he suddenly laid down the flail on the floor and 
 turned to his wife.
 
 20 Glenmornan 
 
 "A sickness has come over me all at once," he 
 said. 'Til go to bed." 
 
 Maura put him to bed in the kitchen, wrapped 
 him up in the blankets and gave him a drink of hot 
 milk. When he had drunk the milk he turned to 
 his wife. 
 
 "Maura," he said, "where is Teague?" 
 
 Teague was a youngster of eighteen and the eld- 
 est boy now at home. 
 
 "He's building up the slap between us and Breed 
 Dermod's," said Maura. 
 
 "Let him finish the work," said Connel. "Breed's 
 cow is always comin' across and eatin' our grass. 
 But find out where Eamon is and tell him to run for 
 the priest." 
 
 "And the doctor, too ?" asked Maura. 
 
 "The doctor's no good this tide," said Connel. 
 "The priest is enough." 
 
 Maura went out to look for Eamon. On the street ' 
 she saw Oiney Leahy's rooster and she had never 
 seen it about there before. It was a bad sign. She 
 crossed herself and said : 
 
 "It's the priest and only the priest that himself is 
 needin'." 
 
 "Run for the priest and* tell him to come at once," 
 she said to Eamon when she found him. "Your 
 father has taken to his bed." 
 
 The priest was a very old man with long white 
 hair and horned spectacles. He was not the local 
 priest, but a man from the next parish who had 
 taken up the job of the Greenanore priest while the 
 latter was away in hospital suffering from some
 
 Maura the Rosses 21 
 
 illness. The name of the old man to whom Eamon 
 
 went was McGee. Father McGee was very fond of 
 
 fishing and had no equal in the barony for casting 
 
 a fly. 
 
 , "Me father has taken to his bed," said Eamon 
 
 when he met the priest leaving home with a fishing 
 
 rod over his shoulder. "He wants you to come and 
 
 see him." 
 
 , "Connel Gallagher isn't it, my boy?" said the 
 
 priest. 
 
 "It is, Father," said Eamon. 
 
 "God keep him!" said Father McGee, "and it 
 such a day for the fishing too. Now, my boy," he 
 continued, "you take this rod and go back and put it 
 against the wall of my house and don't keep foolin' 
 about with the hooks, and I'll go and see your fa- 
 ther, good man that he is." 
 
 Connel Gallagher was dead with the dawn of 
 the next day. 
 
 The offerings over him when buried were 13 
 :ios. 6d., a fine lump sum which showed that Connel 
 Gallagher, a good neighbourly man, friendly to all 
 and bounden to none, was well liked in the Barony 
 of Burrach. Murtagh Sweeney came to the funeral. 
 Everybody noticed this, for Murtagh had never set 
 foot in Glenmornan since his daughter got married. 
 Another thing noticed by the people was the well- 
 seasoned ash-plant which Murtagh carried with 
 him. It was said that this ash-plant was the same 
 that he used when fighting Oiney Leahy at the 
 harvest fair of Greenanore. 
 
 Murtagh threw down a gold sovereign on the
 
 22 Glenmornan 
 
 coffin when offerings were taken. None of the Glen- 
 mornan people ever paid as much as that and they 
 did not like to see a Rosses man display such mu- 
 nificence. 
 
 "It's pride that made him do it," they said, for 
 they knew that Murtagh Sweeney was a very poor 
 man. 
 
 Maura The Rosses, a widow of forty-two and 
 the mother of a boy of twenty-three, was a woman 
 loved by her neighbours. A very hard worker 
 and a good hand at driving a bargain all her life, 
 she now set herself to run the farm. 
 
 To her children she was a very wise woman, 
 knowing everything. What stories she could tell! 
 Sitting by the turf -fire at night she told tales of Fin 
 McCool, Deirdree of The Sorrows, The Red 
 Headed Man and Kitty the Ashy Pet. Kitty, who 
 was once very poor, became a princess and when 
 married she always combed her hair with a golden 
 comb and washed her face in a golden basin. Maura 
 spoke of these people as if she had known them 
 personally and one had to believe her because her 
 words were so simple and full of conviction. 
 
 When the children went to school and learned 
 poetry they would recite it in a sing-song voice over 
 the fire at night. The mother would listen and after 
 a while she would say, "It's nice to know poetry be 
 heart, but it's better to know your prayers/' 
 
 She made a point of not favouring any one par-
 
 Maura the Rosses 23 
 
 ticular child, which was very sensible, seeing that 
 she was the mother of ten. Besides, she knew that 
 it was a sin to love one child more than another. 
 
 Sometimes when a neighbour died her children 
 would ask her if he had gone to heaven. If she 
 liked the man she would answer, "Of course he's 
 gone to heaven, being such a good man." But if 
 she did not like him she would modify her answer 
 and say, " TT C may have gone there for God is good !" 
 If she spoke of a dead man in that way the children 
 knew that his soul had gone to hell. 
 
 The good woman had no time to exert any con- 
 tinuous care over the children. At a certain age 
 they were sent to school, their books in a satchel 
 and two turf under their arms. There they learned 
 their Catechism and could answer any question in 
 the book, but seldom knew what the answers meant. 
 Mere parrots, they could reel off the Three Theo- 
 logical Virtues, the Seven Deadly Sins, The Nine 
 Ways In Which One Could Be Guilty Of Another 
 Person's Sins, in a high pitched sing-song voice. 
 The girls at the school preferred to answer their 
 Catechism in unison, the whole class swaying from 
 side to side as they chanted. Now and again when 
 stopped in their swing they would forget every word 
 of the answer and find themselves in a fix similar 
 to that of dancers in a six hand reel when the fiddle 
 strings break.
 
 24 Glenmornan 
 
 VI 
 
 The children of Maura The Rosses learned their 
 Catechism without understanding it. One fact 
 could not be gainsaid, however. They could an- 
 swer any question in the book. When this stage 
 was reached they were confirmed in their faith. 
 They knew all about it then, its tenets were made 
 manifest to their little souls and they had found 
 them worthy. Their belief in the faith being strong, 
 they were confirmed and ordered to take an oath, 
 promising to abstain from intoxicating liquors un- 
 til they reached the age of twenty-one. And in this 
 way the children of Maura The Rosses were 
 brought up in the love and fear of God. If they 
 went wrong after leaving their home it was surely 
 due to no fault of the good woman. 
 
 Maura was very devout and not in the least emo- 
 tional; but she believed in fortune-telling, charms, 
 omens, ghosts and fairies. To her there were no 
 kind fairies, though she always spoke of them as 
 good people or gentle folk, styling them "gentle" or 
 "good" merely to placate them. When cows calved 
 before their season or went dry before their time, 
 when they fell sick with shot or staggers, the mooril 
 or the lifting, Maura ascribed all these ailments and 
 ills to the fairies. Was it not evident that the good 
 people were tormenting the cattle when the beasts 
 ran wild from the pastures in the hot noon of sum- 
 mer and galloped into the river and stood belly deep 
 in the stream? The woman knew that all this mad-
 
 Maura the Rosses 25 
 
 ness was due to the fairies. The brute beasts were 
 aware of this as well, and also knew that fairies 
 cannot touch running water. That was their reason 
 for rushing into the Owenawadda. After churning 
 milk the good woman placed a pat of butter over the 
 door for the good people. When this was melted 
 by the sun, or washed down by the rain, she knew 
 that the fairies had found it to their liking and taken 
 it away. 
 
 Maura did not like red-haired women and knew 
 that if she met a red-haired woman on the way to 
 market the day would be bad for a bargain. She 
 would not go outside the door of her house on All 
 Souls' Eve, for she did not want to see the dead 
 passing by. She knew that Eamon the Drover's 
 people, next door neighbours but one to her they 
 were, always drank seven drops of blood from a 
 black cat on the day they were born. This made 
 them very fierce and ill-tempered for the rest of 
 their lives. This family had the evil eye, so also had 
 two other families in Glenmornan. If they looked 
 on your stock it would never thrive. 
 
 She also knew that Hudy Heilagh had read 
 Harry Stattle * and was full of black magic and 
 legerdemain tricks. One word from you that did 
 not please him and in the shake of an eyelash he 
 could bring the sea up to your house and drown 
 every living soul inside. Hudy was sib to the Gal- 
 laghers and in his young days he was a wild fellow 
 for the girls. 
 
 Maura was very kindly and never let a beggar 
 
 * Aristotle.
 
 26 Glenmornan 
 
 go past her door without a bite and sup. When the 
 cattle of the people near her went dry she gave 
 them part from her own churning, but if she lacked 
 milk herself she would not take any from a soul. 
 "Our people never took charity," she would say, 
 "and thank God they never will." 
 
 She seldom left her own house, but now and again 
 with a stocking and knit-needles in her hand, she 
 would go out, look over the hedge that circled the 
 house and take stock of all that was happening in 
 the Glen. As she watched she would pass a running 
 commentary on the doings of her neighbours. She 
 knew that the town land was divided amongst thir- 
 teen families and her family could marry into three 
 of these who had acres and cows' grass equal to 
 her own. 
 
 VII 
 
 On the June of 1913 Maura The Rosses got a 
 letter from Doalty. She was standing out by the 
 hedge when she received it. She put down her 
 knitting on a stone and read the letter. Then she 
 called to Norah, to Teague and to little Hughie, a 
 boy of five, her youngest child. "Go down to 
 Greenanore," she said to Norah. "Get a poke iv 
 flour, a bag iv meal, a stone iv currants and raisins, 
 a side iv bacon and a bottle iv whisky." 
 
 She said to Teague: 
 
 "Get the floor scrubbed clean, whitewash the 
 house and pull that grass off that's growin' on the 
 thatch."
 
 Maura the Rosses 27 
 
 "And you, Hughie," she said, "don't go about 
 dirtyin' yer bits iv rags, for ye'll need them all next 
 week, when Doalty's comin' home here to his own 
 people." 
 
 That night the Gallaghers sat up very late pre- 
 paring the house for the returning boy. In the 
 morning a stocking, a clue of yarn and knit-needles 
 were discovered lying in the gutter outside the 
 door. 
 
 "To think that I forgot to put that by yester- 
 day !" said Maura The Rosses as she looked at her 
 ruined knitting.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 GLEN MORN AN 
 
 The Gombeen Man, scraggy and thin, 
 
 Is always getting the money in, 
 
 Round his throat is a red cravat, 
 
 Sixpence at most he paid for that; 
 
 Boots in which Decency wouldn't stand, 
 
 He must have got them second hand; 
 
 Face as dry as a seasoned fish, 
 
 Head as bald as a wooden dish 
 
 Silent and sleekit as a trout, 
 
 With the hair on his chin all sprouting out 
 
 Boast of belly and bare of back, 
 
 A fellow that never paid his whack, 
 
 He has rolls of notes and bags of gold, 
 
 As much as a wooden chest can hold 
 
 This he has and nobody knows 
 
 What will be done with it when he goes 
 
 But where will he go when he leaves it? Where? 
 
 Nobody knows, or seems to care. 
 
 The Gombeen Man. 
 
 GLENMORNAN is a grand glen. The na- 
 tives say it's one of the finest in all Ire- 
 land. The glen is ringed with a line of 
 hills, some of which rise to a height of two thousand 
 feet, and none of which are less than seven hundred. 
 The oldest rocks in Ireland are to be found here 
 28
 
 Glenmornan 29 
 
 granite, quartzite, mica slate and limestone. Look- 
 ing from the glen to the west Sliav-a-Tuagh can 
 be seen, a sharp-edged peak with its feet in the sea \ 
 and its head in the stars. Eastwards Croagh-an- ' 
 Airgead stands aloof, a solitary peak brooding over 
 its own isolation. Carnaween to southwards looks 
 down in immense scorn on the valleys and moors 
 at its feet. 
 
 A river and road run through the centre of the 
 valley, the road, dry and crooked, a good one for 
 travel, and the river, unruly in flood time, a bad 
 one for the hay in the bottom lands. Sometimes in 
 wet weather, a great amount of low-lying hay in 
 the glen is carried away by the floods when the river 
 rises over its banks and covers the fields. In addi- 
 tion to this the streams, coming from the hills, 
 sweep the upper lands, carrying the corn and pota- 
 toes down with them. The peasantry fear the floods. 
 
 The streams falling from the hills have cut deep 
 gullies in the braes, and these gullies "awlths" 
 they are called are thick with birch, holly and 
 hazel bushes. Trees are very scarce ; the country is 
 now almost denuded of them. This has been due 
 to wet seasons when few turf were saved and when 
 wood had to be used for firing. 
 
 On the eastern corner of the glen where the hill 
 rises with a gradual incline, the floods do very little 
 harm. Up there dwell the mountainy people, big 
 limbed, hairy men and strong swarthy women who 
 seldom wear boots. The mountainy man can be 
 picked out at any fair or market. He is a sullen 
 and suspicious creature who walks with a hop on
 
 3O Glenmornan 
 
 the most level path and has his eyes always fixed 
 on the ground under his feet. This is due to his 
 life on the high levels of the glen, where in his daily 
 work he has to hop from stone to stone over the 
 marshy lands. He lives in a wretched house, keeps 
 his cattle under his own roof, is miserably fed, and 
 instead of boots wears thick woollen socks, called 
 mairteens. 
 
 The people further down the glen are better set 
 up, the young men are tall and bold, the young girls 
 good-humoured and handsome. They never have 
 any intercourse with the mountainy people, whom 
 they do not consider fit society and whom they will 
 not allow right of entry to their dances and airnalls 
 (gatherings). With the people down the glen 
 "mountainy" is a term of reproach: an awkward 
 and ignorant person is termed mountainy. "You're 
 a mountainy man and as thick as mud," is a saying 
 of theirs. 
 
 Up the glen the people seldom read anything, hav- 
 ing neither the time, inclination or education. Down 
 the glen they like to hear the news of the world out- 
 side the range of the hills and read whenever they 
 have the opportunity. They are very curious and 
 their nature hankers after knowledge. Superstition 
 gives an imperious explanation to everything which 
 general ignorance cannot solve, and religion is ever 
 at hand to supply the why and wherefore of things. 
 To them any newspaper is always "the paper," and 
 they are indifferent to the edition or date of print- 
 ing. Little boys going to the neighbouring shops 
 with three eggs in a handkerchief are generally told
 
 Glenmornan 31 
 
 to get the goods purchased, wrapped in "the paper." 
 In this manner Glenmornan keeps in touch with the 
 news of the world. 
 
 The distance in time and space from the events 
 described does in no way diminish the readers' in- 
 terest in the stories. That they are so far removed 
 from the world in which such things occur, gives the 
 people a certain amount of comfort. "Strange 
 things are always takin' place in foreign parts," 
 they say to one another. "It's good to be here where 
 things like that never take place." 
 
 But more intelligent and more progressive than 
 any of the glen folk are the residents of the village 
 of Greenanore. These people have got the quality 
 toss with them and have the most genteel manners. 
 The latest English music-hall songs are all the rage 
 in the village. Little Gwendoline Quigley (what a 
 quality name Gwendoline!), daughter of the biggest 
 publican, can sing two songs in French, which is 
 more than any girl in the lower end of the glen can 
 do. Gwendoline, of course, will not associate with 
 any of the glen people, who in her eyes are the low- 
 est of the low and just the merest fraction removed 
 from the mountainy people. Neither will Gwen- 
 doline sing an old Cumallye song like "Nell Fla- 
 herty's Drake" or "Pat O'Donnell." But this is 
 quite right from a quality standpoint, for the village 
 cannot descend to the vulgar level of the glen. 
 Gwendoline's father, old Pat Quigley, is a gombeen 
 man full of money and land. He has a club foot and 
 turns on his heel when walking. His nickname is 
 "Heel-ball."
 
 32 (jlenmornan 
 
 ii 
 
 There are many families in the glen and each 
 family has its own little farm, which rises in a nar- 
 row strip from the river to the top of the hill. The 
 arable land is small in proportion to the extent of 
 the glen and is not in all places of the best quality. 
 The meadow land which fringes the river is sel- 
 dom dug. The ground of the braes is full of stones, 
 both upon and under the surface, and it also 
 abounds in whin bushes, which have to be taken up 
 by the roots before the land can be cultivated. Some 
 of the glen farms stand practically on end, and 
 these have to be dug uphill, a most difficult job. It 
 is of course easier to dig downhill, but if this is done 
 the clay at top will be gradually carried to the bot- 
 tom. But despite the husbandman's care, the clay, 
 continually borne down by the rains, collects in 
 heaps at the bottom of the braes. When this rises 
 to a certain height it has to be carried up again. 
 Therefore cultivation is arduous and expensive in 
 Glenmornan and requires no end of energy and la- 
 bour. But the people never lose heart at the tilling 
 of the soil. On it, the noblest labour of all, depends 
 their daily bread. 
 
 The people live frugally and are for the most 
 part very poor. Most families have sufficient land 
 to keep two cows and some can keep more. A 
 household is judged by its stock, and a family with 
 four cows' grass to its name, will not marry into 
 a family which can only boast of three cattle.
 
 Glenmornan 33 
 
 There are three Protestant families in the glen, 
 but religious rancour is not known. The class dif- 
 ferences are more pronounced than the religious 
 differences. The Quigleys, with one of their fam- 
 ily a priest and another a nun, hold themselves as 
 much aloof from the poor Catholics as from the 
 poor Protestants. 
 
 A Glenmornan house is generally a one-storeyed 
 building with a flagged floor and a thatched roof. 
 Only three or four houses in the place are slated. 
 The roof beams of a house are generally of black 
 oak which has been dug from the bogs. The prin- 
 cipal room of a house is the kitchen, a large and 
 spacious apartment where the household assemble 
 for meals and where all the family foregather when 
 the hours of outdoor work come to an end. There 
 is seldom more than two rooms in a house and both 
 serve as sleeping chambers. The byre is attached 
 to the house, but ducks and pigs are kept in a sep- 
 arate building. 
 
 The food of the people, for the most part, con- 
 sists of tea, bread, butter, potatoes and porridge. 
 This latter dish is always called "porridge" by the 
 quality of Greenanore; those who dwell in the butt- 
 end of Glenmornan generally call it "stirabout," but 
 the mountainy people always call it "brahun-ray." 
 The various degrees of refinement in the barony can 
 be traced by the names given to this simple dish. 
 
 Eating is a very casual matter with the glen peo- 
 ple. The women generally eat standing, breaking 
 off at intervals to do some job or another. The chil- 
 dren squat on the floor when eating, but the men.
 
 34 Glenmornan 
 
 for the most part sit round a table. There is no 
 fixed hour for meals. The glen people eat when 
 they are hungry if there is food to go round. 
 
 There are very few amusements and very few 
 holidays in Glenmornan. Work is always carried 
 on, Sunday and Saturday. Cows have to be milked, 
 fed and tended, children have to be cared for, dishes 
 have to be washed on every day of the week. The 
 labour of a farm never comes to an end. None but 
 the very rich can observe a strict Sabbath in Green- 
 anore. It is just the same in many other parts of 
 the world. 
 
 in 
 
 It was Bonfire Night, the Eve of the Feast of 
 the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist, and Strana- 
 meera, never behind hand in its observance of the 
 night, had its bonfire flaring on the hill. For weeks 
 before the townland people had spent all their spare 
 time gathering in bundles of heather, sticks and 
 brambles to the pile of fuel, heaped high on the brae 
 behind the house of Maura The Rosses, which was 
 now ablaze. The whole townland was gathered 
 round the fire that roared redly over a deep, sloping 
 awlth filled with ash, birch and holly. Through 
 the awlth ran a brook, gobbling like a clutch of 
 young turkeys. 
 
 The night was wonderfully clear and not a cloud 
 hid the glory of the stars. On the other side of 
 the glen, Garnaween could be seen, a calm silent 
 peak, clear cut and dark against the sky. A slight
 
 Glenmornan 35 
 
 breeze rippled up the brae and set the birches 
 a-quiver. The awlth was full of strange whispers, 
 and no wonder, for the place was the home of the 
 gentle people. If a cow strayed in there the animal 
 was sure to be elf -shot; sickness came to the chil- 
 dren who went to gather hazel nuts in the gentle 
 locality, and in the awlth was stored the butter 
 which the fairies had stole from the townland of 
 Stranameera. Whenever Maura The Rosses 
 looked on the place she crossed herself three times, 
 once on the forehead, once on the lips and once on 
 the breast. 
 
 But now that it was Bonfire Night, Maura The 
 Rosses, who seldom left her house, was one of the 
 first to come to the fire. She could be seen a little 
 distance away from the blaze, sitting on a ditch, a 
 white cloud over her head and dressed in a striped 
 blouse, a red woollen petticoat and a pair of heavy 
 boots. She was speaking to one of her neighbours, 
 a crook-backed, barefooted old woman, whose yel- 
 low, wrinkled face peeped furtively out from the 
 folds of a gosling-grey, woollen handkerchief. 
 
 The woman was named Crania Coolin. Crania 
 was a poor widow, skilled in the art of midwifery 
 and the knowledge of the medicinal properties of 
 various herbs. She knew that bog-bine (marsh 
 trefoil) was a remedy for heartburn; that onions 
 would give a person a decent sleep; that tansy 
 could destroy worms and that houseleek was a spe- 
 cific for sore eyes. She also knew several other 
 herbs which were certain remedies for toothache, 
 .warts, gravel, headache and various other ills.
 
 36 Glenmornan 
 
 Crania believed in fairies, but what woman in Glen- 
 mornan does not believe in the gentle people? In 
 addition to believing in them, Crania knew where 
 they were hidden, and she generally placed the first 
 butter from a churning, the first meal from a mill- 
 ing and the first glass of whisky from a keg of 
 potheen on the ground outside the haunted raths. 
 The fairies always accepted Crania's gifts, for on 
 the day following that on which the woman ten- 
 dered butter, meal or whisky to them, not one trace 
 of the gifts could be found on the ground where she 
 had placed them. 
 
 The old woman believed in dreams. One night 
 she dreamt that there was a crock of gold hidden 
 in Hohn-a-Thiel (The Rump of the World), a hob 
 of hill which rose behind her house. Next morning 
 she went out with a spade at dawn and started to 
 dig for the gold. When she had dug for a while 
 a great pain came on her wrist and a wild animal 
 called a dorcha (it had seven legs and an iron nose 
 on it) came and attacked her. Crania had a red 
 woollen petticoat and she took it off of her and put 
 it on a rock beside her. The dorcha does not like 
 red petticoats and it came forward with one roar 
 and hit the petticoat with its nose. And it was 
 killed. Then Crania Coolin came home. Crania 
 believed that this had happened to her and she often 
 told the story to her neighbours. The old people 
 believed the story, but the young of the glen made 
 fun of the old woman. "Poor old Crania!" the 
 youngsters would say with a wink. "She's a plaish- 
 am (fool), God help her!"
 
 Glenmornan 37 
 
 On the brink of the awlth, beside Crania and 
 Maura The Rosses, a number of ragged children 
 jwere rolling over on the ground and tormenting a 
 little puppy. One of the little children was Hughie 
 Gallagher, Maura's youngest child, a brave little 
 rascal of five, who was gripping hold of the pup- 
 pie's tail and striving to drag it into the ravine. 
 When the little dog whimpered Maura would raise 
 her head and shake her finger at the youngster. 
 
 "Now, Hughie Beag," she would say, "don't ye 
 be pullin' the wee dog about. If ye do it again I'll 
 take ye in and skelp yer wee bottom." 
 
 On hearing this Hughie would let go the puppy, 
 stick his finger in his mouth and fix a pair of big 
 eyes on his mother. Standing thus he would wait 
 until the woman took up her conversation with 
 Grania Coolin, then he would turn to the dog 
 again. . . , ; 
 
 IV 
 
 The young boys and girls of the townland, who 
 had come out in crowds, were assembled round the 
 fire, flinging banter to one another and grinning 
 broadly, showing their white teeth. A little distance 
 apart from the fire a boy and girl were seated on 
 the ground, the boy with his arms around the 
 maiden's waist and placing wild flowers plucked 
 from the ground in her hair. The girl was trying 
 to push him away, but even when she succeeded in 
 freeing herself from his embrace she did not get to 
 her feet and run off. This showed that she did not
 
 38 Glenmornan 
 
 object to his attentions. But what girl could? for 
 the boy was Dennys Darroch, or Dennys the Drover 
 as he was popularly called, one of the handsomest 
 youngsters in the glen. All the girls round about 
 the place were wild after him. Even Sheila Der- 
 mod, with whom he was sitting, was said to be in 
 love with him, and Sheila had had the privilege of 
 refusing three wealthy suitors, full of money and 
 land. She was a girl of eighteen, living with her 
 widow mother, a woman who had hard work to do 
 to make both ends meet. 
 
 Dennys suddenly got up to his feet, looked round 
 at the assembled crowd and then bent down over 
 the girl who was still seated on the grass. 
 
 "Well, and if ye won't, ye won't," he said with a 
 laugh, apparently referring to some subject under 
 discussion, and made his way towards the fire. He 
 walked with a great swagger, swinging his shoul- 
 ders. He was a fine rung of a fellow, sinewy as a 
 seasoned ash-plant, with a handsome face, grey 
 shrewd eyes and a voice like an echo on the Done- 
 gal hills. He spoke quickly and as quick speakers do, 
 loudly. Words rushed from his lips like a torrent, 
 just as they would when calling from one hill to 
 another as he was on the look-out for sheep. He 
 possessed a dauntless view of life, had a careless, 
 defiant manner and upright courage. The sharp, 
 steady glance of a face from which a certain ex- 
 pression of scorn was never wholly absent, marked 
 him as a man who was afraid of nothing. He lived 
 with his mother and sister on a little farm which 
 boasted two cows' grass and hill enough for twenty
 
 Glenmornan 39 
 
 sheep. But Dennys did very little labour on the 
 farm. He preferred to deal in cattle at the fairs 
 and made a tidy penny in that manner. He seldom 
 bent over a spade. "Cuttin' worms is not for me," 
 he often said with an oath and nobody was offended, 
 for strength gets its due respect in Glenmornan. 
 
 Having left Sheila Dermod, Dennys went to the 
 fire, raised a heavy lump of wood which was lying 
 on the ground and flung it with one great heave into 
 the centre of the flames. The young girls uttered a 
 startled shriek as a shower of sparks flew into the 
 air and careered away on the breeze. 
 
 "Finished skiftin'* now, Dennys?" asked an old 
 man who was standing near, his hat well back over 
 his white hairs and a fiddle under his arm. Dennys 
 the Drover laughed. 
 
 "Wouldn't ye like to be in my place, Oiney?" 
 he asked the old man. 
 
 "Years ago when I was yer height I wouldn't 
 leave a girl to sit be her own self," said the old man. 
 "I would sit be a girl till she got up! But now- 
 adays young men are not worth their boxty.f Sheila 
 Dermod would rather have meself sittin' be her side 
 than any young man in all the four corners in the 
 glen. Wouldn't ye now, Sheila?" 
 
 "I would indeed, Oiney," Sheila answered, com- 
 ing up to the fire. As she spoke she looked at 
 Dennys and laughed, her teeth sparkling as the 
 firelight caught them. 
 
 * Flirting. 
 
 f Potato-bread.
 
 40 Glenmornan 
 
 "Is it Oiney Leahy that I hear speakin' ?" some 
 one called at that moment. 
 
 "It's me that's in it, Maura The Rosses," Oiney 
 replied. "I've come with the fiddle. But tell me 
 before I begin if it's true?" he asked, going across 
 to the ditch on which the woman was seated. "It 
 must be true, for every one is talkin' about it up 
 and down the glen." 
 
 "Oh! it's true," Maura The Rosses replied. "I 
 got the letther there-yisterday * and he says that 
 he's comin' back to his own people." 
 
 "For good?" Oiney asked. 
 
 "For good as far as I can see," said Maura The 
 Rosses. 
 
 "He'll have made his fortune, I suppose," said 
 Oiney, as he put a short black clay pipe in his 
 mouth. "There's fortunes to be made over there if 
 all accounts bees true. Some people are lucky when 
 they go out into the world. There was Wee Micky 
 Eamon from Meenaroo, second cousin to me wife, 
 God rest her ! he was, and he went away beyont the 
 water and stayed there for short on five years and 
 came back and bought old Columb Beag's farm. A 
 hundred and thirty-five pounds, money down, he 
 gave for it. I was there meself when the luck's- 
 money was handed over. Think iv that ! And all 
 made in less than five years ! And how long would 
 it be now since Doalty went away? Seven years, 
 come the end of next month, isn't it? I mind the 
 time, for there was a big flood in the glen the day 
 
 * Ere yesterday. The day before yesterday.
 
 
 Glenmornan 41 
 
 he went away, and the mountainy sheep came down 
 be the river." 
 
 "It's just short on six years since he went away," 
 said Maura The Rosses. "He's been a good boy 
 since he left us, too, and he's never backwards in 
 sendin' some money home to his own people." 
 
 "And he had the learnin' too," said Oiney. 
 "There's nothin' like the learnin'. D'ye mind the 
 song about it?" 
 
 "Sing it, Oiney," a voice called from the fire. 
 
 "That's Sheila Dermod that's speakin'," said 
 Oiney, putting his pipe back in his pocket. "She's 
 the one to be ski f tin' about with the boys and it looks 
 as if it was only yisterday that she was playin' tig 
 and Jackstones on the road to school. . . . I'll sing 
 the song for ye, Sheila," and without another word 
 Oiney began the song : 
 
 "Labour for learnin' afore ye grow old, 
 For learnin' is better nor silver and gold ! 
 Silver and gold it will vanish away, 
 But learnin' itself it will never decay, 
 And a man without learnin' wearin' good clothes 
 Is like a gold ring in a pig's nose." 
 
 "That's the song and a very true one it is," said 
 Oiney, cuttin' a caper with his legs and jumpin' 
 up in the air. "Not bad, that, for a old shanachie !" 
 he laughed, looking at the party round the fire. 
 "There's many a good honest soul that has gone 
 down the road, carried on big shoulders, since first 
 I stood on a dancin' floor, and there's life and to 
 spare in the old dog yet." 
 
 "Come on, Oiney, and play the fiddle," Dennys
 
 42 Glenmornan 
 
 the Drover shouted. "It's time for us to be shakin' 
 our legs if we want to make a night iv it. Meena- 
 warawor and Meenawarabeag have their fires all 
 lit up and the dancin' is goin' on over there." 
 
 Oiney went over to the fire, sat down on the 
 grass, tuned up his fiddle and lit his pipe. The 
 dancing started. 
 
 Midnight passed by and the fire was dying down. 
 Old women like Maura The Rosses and Grania 
 Coolin had gone down to their homes long since, 
 taking the young children with them. Meenawara- 
 wor was still aflare and the shouting from there was 
 echoing across the glen. Meenawarabeag was silent 
 and lights showed in the houses of that townland. 
 The people there were going to bed. But the danc- 
 ing was yet going on at Stranameera and old Oiney 
 Leahy was still playing the fiddle, a happy look in 
 his eyes and a good-humoured smile all over his 
 wrinkled face. The old man had reached his 
 eightieth year and in his young days he had been a 
 great man for fighting, drink and the women. Even 
 now his day's work was not to be laughed at, and 
 as a fiddler he knew no equal in the barony. As 
 long as boys and girls were able to dance Oiney 
 was willing to play. 
 
 A dance came to an end and the young were slow 
 in starting another. 
 
 "Shake yer legs, me buckos !" Oiney shouted, as 
 he took his pipe from his mouth. "There's life in
 
 Glenmornan 43 
 
 me, an old dog, yet. The hand is ready if the feet 
 are willin'. Get to yer feet again, ye rascals. Show 
 Meenawarawor what ye can do." 
 
 Dennys the Drover and Sheila Dermod got to 
 their feet 
 
 "The six-hand reel, Oiney," Dennys shouted, 
 looking round at the other couples who were wait- 
 ing to start. 
 
 "I wonder what Doalty Connell will be like when 
 he comes back," Sheila remarked to her partner. 
 "He was a nice quiet gasair when he left here." 
 
 "He'll just be like any tea-man or shop-boy when 
 he comes back," said Dennys in a disparaging voice. 
 "A big, high, white collar he'll have round his neck 
 and he'll be looking over it like a donkey over a 
 whitewashed wall. They're all the same when they 
 come home. One wouldn't think that they were 
 brought up on scaddan and sgiddins.* And they 
 won't talk to a soul that they knew. I can't stand 
 them." 
 
 "He'll have plenty of money, no doubt," said 
 Sheila. 
 
 "Maybe he will and maybe not," said Dennys, 
 "but he'll try and look as if he had it, anyway. 
 . . . But Sheila, am I to lave ye at home the night ?" 
 Dennys asked, bending down and almost touching 
 the girl's hair with his lips. 
 
 "I haven't asked ye to come home with me, have 
 I now?" said Sheila. 
 
 "That means that ye're not goin' to let me, then?" 
 
 "Take it that way if ye like." 
 
 * Scaddan and sgiddins sprat and small potatoes.
 
 44 Glenmornan 
 
 "Then I'm goin' with ye." 
 
 "I didn't ask ye to come, did I ?" the girl enquired, 
 with a chuckle. 
 
 "All right then, Sheila Dermod," said Dennys in 
 an impatient voice. "Go home be yerself if ye 
 want to." 
 
 "The first time that I ever seen Dennys The 
 Drover not able to stick a dance out !" Oiney Leahy 
 shouted through the flying figures in the maze of 
 the six-hand reel. Dennys and Sheila edged in and 
 took their places. 
 
 When the dance came to an end Sheila went 
 over to her girl chum, Eileen Kelly, and caught 
 her arm. "I think it's time to be goin' home," she 
 said. "My mother won't know what's keepin' me." 
 
 "But isn't Dennys goin' home with ye?" asked 
 Eileen. "He hasn't left ye all the night. . . . And 
 it's not time yet to go home." 
 
 Eileen was a pretty little girl, with a three-cor- 
 nered mouth and dark eyes that darted to and fro 
 elusively. She was mischievous, merry and fond 
 of fun. 
 
 "Time!" said Sheila. "It's time to be home and 
 past time. I don't want to be beholdin' to Dennys 
 for to take me home. He's so full of pride and 
 thinks that everybody is dyin' after him. . . . Well, 
 I'm not." She spoke emphatically. 
 
 "That's like ye, Sheila," said Eileen. "All the 
 men are mad after ye and ye won't take no notice 
 iv them." 
 
 "But I don't want them to be after me."
 
 Glenmornan 45 
 
 "Ye would then if they took no notice at all iv 
 ye," said Eileen Kelly. 
 
 "That might be," said Sheila quietly. "But I 
 don't want any iv them." 
 
 "It's because ye're so good lookin'," Eileen, who 
 was more than a little envious of her beautiful 
 'friend, remarked. "Well, we'll go home together 
 the both iv us. Come, we'll run down the brae as 
 Quick as we can. Tig on ye!" she laughed, and 
 hitting Sheila on the shoulder she scampered off, to 
 be followed by her friend down the hillside. The 
 pair of them came to the bottom of the hill to- 
 gether and Eileen sat down on the dew-wet grass. 
 
 "Do you know who was wanting to come home 
 with me the night ?" asked Eileen. 
 
 "Not Dennys, was it ?" asked Sheila, catching her 
 breath a little as she spoke. 
 
 "No, not Dennys," said Eileen. "He has never 
 eyes for anybody when ye're there, Sheila Dermod. 
 But who asked me but Owen Briney! He's forty 
 if a day and as near-goin' as an eyelid." 
 
 "But he has money and a good bit of land," said 
 Sheila with a little laugh of mockery. 
 
 "If he had the whole parish and beholdin' to no- 
 body I wouldn't be seen comin' home the same road 
 from a dance as him," said Eileen, puckering up her 
 three-cornered lips and allowing a thoughtful smile 
 to steal over her face. 
 
 "Tig on yerself then !" Sheila cried, touching her 
 friend on the arm with her fingers. Then running 
 away, she skipped across the ditch and made for her 
 home.
 
 46 Glenmornan 
 
 VI 
 
 Eileen walked down to her own house, her head 
 sunk down over her breast, apparently deep ini 
 thought. She went to the door of her home to find 
 it open. Inside all was dark, for her father and 
 mother, who had been up at the bonfire, were now 
 in bed and fast asleep. She went back along the 
 road she had come and was in time to meet Dennys 
 The Drover returning from the fun of the night. 
 
 "Ah! ye're not in bed then, Eileen Kelly?" said 
 Dennys on seeing her. "If the priest hears about 
 this he'll not like it at all." 
 
 "But what'll he know about it?" said Eileen. 
 ''Nobody'll tell him." 
 
 Dennys laughed quietly as if he did not want to 
 be heard. 
 
 "But ye must tell him the next time ye go to 
 confession," he said in a whisper. "And then there 
 will be such a penance. Ye'll have to go to Lough 
 Derg on yer two knees." 
 
 Both of them were silent for a moment. Dennys 
 kept his eyes fixed on the girl's face and thought 
 her wonderfully beautiful. . . . Surely no girl in 
 the glen . . . Even Sheila was not as fair to look 
 at. . . . 
 
 "Why do ye keep yer eyes on me, Dennys The 
 Drover?" she asked. 
 
 "A cat can look at a nice print iv butter if it 
 likes," said Dennys In a husky voice. "Can't it 
 now?"
 
 Glenmornan 47 
 
 "There's somebody comin'!" said Eileen in a 
 whisper as a man could be heard approaching, hum- 
 ming a tune as he walked. "It must be old Oiney 
 gettin' home." 
 
 "Then we'll run down the lane and hide," said 
 Dennys, catching the girl's hand in his own. The 
 two of them ran off together, keeping on the grass 
 to deaden the sound of their footsteps. 
 
 "We'll stand here," said Dennys when they came 
 to the gable-end of Eileen's home. "We've got to be 
 as quiet as two wee mice." As he spoke he pressed 
 her hand with a firm grip. 
 
 "What are ye doin' with me hand, Dennys The 
 Drover?" asked the girl. "Let it be, won't ye?" 
 
 "Why should I?" Dennys asked in a low whis- 
 per. "Do ye think that I'm goin' to run away with 
 yerhand?" 
 
 As he spoke he bent down, caught both the girl's 
 hands and kissed her red three-cornered lips. She 
 tried to break away from him, but her efforts were 
 useless. Instead of breaking free from his arms 
 she felt herself getting pressed closer and closer to 
 his breast. A sense of grandeur and desolation 
 swept over her and she no longer resisted him. She 
 felt as if dropping into a swoon. . . . Dennys spoke 
 and released her from his arms. 
 
 "Ye almost made a fool iv me and iv yerself , too, 
 Eileen Kelly," was what he said. "Away into the 
 house and get ye to bed. Ye should have been in 
 bed an hour ago!" 
 
 He walked away towards his home swinging his 
 shoulders and humming a tune under his breath.
 
 ^8 Glenmornan 
 
 Once or twice he came to a sudden halt and looked 
 at the mountains. "I was near making a fool iv 
 meself," he muttered each time he stopped. "If it 
 isn't one woman it's another, and I suppose they'll 
 get hold iv us in the long run." By "us" he merely 
 meant himself. 
 
 When he entered his home he took a meal of 
 stirabout and milk; then he went to bed and slept 
 soundly till morning. Eileen Kelly did not close 
 her eyes in sleep that night.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 DOALTY GALLAGHER 
 
 I will go back to my father's house and live on my 
 
 father's land, 
 For my father's house is by Rosses' shore that slips to 
 
 Dooran strand, 
 And the wild mountains of Donegal rise up on either 
 
 hand. 
 
 Going Home. 
 
 SO you're going back to Ireland again? Bade 
 to your own people and leaving London! 
 Boys will be boys I suppose and will rove 
 about all over the world before they settle them- 
 selves to the ordinary routine of daily life. . . . 
 But sit down while I pour out a cup of tea and tell 
 me all about yourself." 
 
 The time was late June of 1913, the place a draw- 
 ing-room in "Ermara," a large house on the banks 
 of the Thames near London. Lady Ronan, the 
 owner of "Ermara," was speaking to a visitor, 
 young Doalty Gallagher, son of Maura The Rosses, 
 who was now employed on the editorial staff of a 
 large London daily paper. He had come down that 
 day from London and was going to spend the week- 
 
 49
 
 50 Glenmornan 
 
 end with the Ronans. Young George, Lady Ro- 
 nan's only boy, was working on the paper with 
 Doalty and both men were great friends. 
 
 Lady Ronan poured out the tea, handed Doalty 
 a cup and sat down on a sofa facing him. She was 
 a well-preserved woman of forty-five, who had once 
 been beautiful, and was now graceful. 
 
 "Now, tell me everything, Doalty," she said, 
 speaking in a voice so low and coaxing that Doalty 
 felt that she hoped to hear some wonderful secret. 
 She always called him by his Christian name. 
 
 "There's nothing to tell," said Doalty, "I'm go- 
 ing home. I'm tired of London. That's all." 
 
 "I know you want to go home," said Lady Ronan. 
 -Who doesn't, especially to Ireland, where the peo- 
 ple are so charming. But to stay there !" 
 
 There was protest in the woman's voice. She 
 spread her fingers out on her knee and fixed her 
 eyes on her daintily manicured nails. 
 
 "You have been there," said Doalty. "But you 
 never told me how you liked it." 
 
 "I loved it," said Lady Ronan, nodding her head 
 with the decision of a verdict beyond repeal. 
 "Everything was so nice, and the Irish I met so 
 kind and good-humoured. But it was always 
 raining." 
 
 "It generally is," said Doalty. "WEat part of 
 the country were you in ?" 
 
 "The South. Killarney and about there." 
 
 "Saw the old monastery of Ballyruden?" asked 
 Doalty. 
 
 "I was there," said Lady Ronan, tapping a long,,
 
 Doalty Gallagher 51 
 
 tapering forefinger on her knee as she spoke. "And 
 the old man who told me the history of the place! 
 He was so delightful." 
 
 'Told you how St. Patrick fought the serpent in 
 the adjoining lake and how the serpent got killed?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And called the serpent 'the worm ?' " 
 
 "That's so." 
 
 "And how the story was a true one because the 
 lake is there still as proof of the incident" 
 
 "Yes, that was what he said," said Lady Ronan. 
 ,"And so charmingly Irish!" 
 
 "One could not wish I mean an English person 
 could not wish for anything more Irish," said 
 Doalty Gallagher. "That old scoundrel knows it 
 too. A few stupid remarks like those are his pro- 
 fessional jokes. His little townland is his stage 
 and the English tourists are his audience and his 
 prey. They find him there, looking into the lake 
 as if he had been sitting on its banks since the be- 
 ginning of time and would remain there until the 
 crack of doom. That is how they expect to find 
 him and he knows it. To them, that lazy creature 
 with a faked fund of so-called humour, is Ireland. 
 They put a whole race in the same category as that 
 professional entertainer who has borrowed his jokes 
 from the stage Irishman. Judgment is passed on 
 the Irish race by professional tourists who have 
 come into contact only with Killarney guides and 
 Dublin Jarveys." 
 
 Lady Ronan shrugged her shoulders in a help- 
 less fashion.
 
 52 Glenmornan 
 
 "You young men are so clever/' she said. 
 "George is just like you. He can prove black is 
 white and vice versa. But he is not in earnest about 
 it." 
 
 "But I am in earnest," said Doalty, placing his 
 cup on the floor. "I'm not saying clever things just 
 to drive a point home. I mean what I say. It's the 
 truth. The English don't know the Irish." 
 
 "The poor English!" said Lady Ronan, lifting 
 Doalty's cup from the carpet and pouring the cold 
 tea into the slop-basin. "So you think that they're 
 not as intelligent as your countrymen?" she asked. 
 
 "No, I don't mean that," said Doalty. "Far from 
 it. What I mean is this : the English don't know us 
 and never will. They think we are lazy, for ex- 
 ample." 
 
 "But if that's true about Irish at home it's not 
 true about them when they get out of their own 
 country," said Lady Ronan. "When they're over 
 here they soon get to the top." 
 
 "One or two may get to the top," said Doalty. 
 "You hear about it when they do, but one never 
 hears about the thousands who remain weltering 
 at the bottom. Now take my glen for example. 
 Dozens of young people leave it yearly. They go 
 away to Scotland, to England, to America. The 
 boys become masons' labourers, navvies and rail- 
 way porters, the girls become drudges in the kitch- 
 ens of big houses. One may get on well. I might, 
 for example, if I stuck to journalism." 
 
 "Of course you would," said Lady Ronan. "Your 
 editor who came down here the other day was loud
 
 Doalty Gallagher 53 
 
 in his praises of you. Said that in a couple of years 
 you would have made a great name for yourself." 
 
 "I might even get to the top of the tree," Doalty 
 assented, sarcasm in his voice, "that dear, delight- 
 ful tree under which the poor grovel as they bring 
 sap to its roots. One day people might notice me 
 and then they would say : 'How the Irish people get 
 on abroad!' One man out of every ten thousand 
 might get on as well at home if there was such an 
 opportunity. But there isn't. . . . The people talk 
 about the laziness of the Irish peasantry. Listen." 
 
 Lady Ronan lay back on the sofa, one eye on her 
 finger-nails, one on the window, which looked out 
 on the avenue leading to the road. Her son, when 
 he returned from town, would come in that way. 
 
 "In my glen at home there is an old man," said 
 Doalty. "His name is Oiney Leahy. He has a 
 farm of land, a mile in length and about the width 
 of this floor across. The farm runs from the river 
 to the top of the hill and the public road runs 
 through it. From the river to the road the bottom 
 land is a level strip. From the road to the top of ' 
 the hill the farm stands on end, and half way up 
 this precipice, which the poor man calls (real Irish 
 humour this time) his farm, the farmhouse is sit- 
 uated. Oiney's house, a mere hovel, could not be 
 built from east to west, for the farm is too narrow. 
 It had to be built from north to south, one gable- 
 end looking on the road, the other looking up hill. 
 From the upper gable wall to the top of the hill the 
 brae was one mass of rocks thirty years ago. 
 Oiney took it into his head that this tract of land
 
 54 Glenmornan 
 
 was going to loss, so he decided to turn the rocky 
 brae into a pleasant field. I don't think he ever 
 heard that remark about the man who could make 
 two blades of grass grow where only one had grown 
 before. But whether he heard it or not he set him- 
 self out to do it. When he had any time to spare 
 he put a creel on his back and went down to the bot- 
 tom land by the river, filled the creel full of clay, 
 carried it up the precipice and emptied it on the 
 rocks. It took him three-quarters of an hour to 
 carry the burden up and he did the job bare-footed, 
 for the stoney path up hill was too severe on shoe- 
 leather. And so he worked day after day using 
 every spare moment to make a little field amidst 
 the rocks of Glenmornan. Old Oiney was a man 
 who out-rivalled Columbus the explorer. The lat- 
 ter discovered new land, Oiney made it. And then 
 when this poor peasant had a field laid out on the 
 precipice the landlord saw it and raised the rent of 
 the farm." 
 
 ii 
 
 At this moment a young man and a girl entered, 
 Lady Ronan's two children, George and Myra. 
 George had a certain talent for writing and was 
 gifted with a ready pen. He was a handsome, 
 graceful fellow, a dandy in dress, a master of smart 
 conversation and as much at home in a drawing- 
 room as in an editor's sanctum. 
 
 Amusing and easy mannered, with complete con- 
 fidence in himself, he was received cordially every-
 
 Doalty Gallagher 55 
 
 where. Now and again he was a little violent, but 
 his friends liked him none the less for that, for he 
 looked as if he never meant his words to be taken 
 seriously. He appeared to regard everything tri- 
 fling as serious and everything serious as trifling. 
 In his stories, for example, he would write in a jok- 
 ing fashion about a workman's strike and take up 
 a serious standpoint when dealing with a dog-show. 
 From his utterance one might gather that the for- 
 mer was a holiday amusement and the latter a mat- 
 ter of national importance. Despite this he was 
 very serious about his newspaper work and as a 
 matter of course he spoke lightly about it as befitted 
 a man of the world who tries to act as if he did 
 not attach any particular value to his toil. 
 
 Myra Ronan sat down on the sofa near the win- 
 dow, giving a careless nod to Doalty Gallagher as 
 she did so. She was a girl just past her twentieth 
 year, wilful and passionate, with an impulsive spirit 
 and a great love for out-door life. In her whole 
 bearing, the lines of her perfectly- formed body, the 
 contour of her full bosom, the curve of her neck, 
 the sweep of her eyebrows, the bold look in her eyes, 
 there was something attractive to all men and dan- 
 gerous to herself as well as others. Doalty Galla- 
 gher had known her for eighteen months, but he 
 had never been on very intimate terms with her. 
 She held herself aloof, treated him with an almost 
 wilful carelessness, and even her manner to him 
 had a shade of something like hostility. She was a 
 strange girl, one whom he could not understand. 
 
 Young Ronan looked at Doalty.
 
 56 Glenmornan 
 
 "So you are really here," he said, and went across 
 to his mother and kissed her on the cheek. Then he 
 sat down. 
 
 "Now a cup of tea, mater," he said. "I'm fam- 
 ished. I promised to meet Doalty at Paddington, 
 but couldn't get off in time. I had to scrap one 
 story and work up another. The old man is the 
 deuce of a temper to-day." 
 
 "I never hear about him being other than in a 
 bad temper," said Lady Ronan. "But when he 
 comes down here he is as gentle as a lamb." 
 
 "He is a lion in Fleet Street," said George. "A 
 lion with a thorn in his paw. But putting him to 
 one side, has Doalty been telling you ?" 
 
 "He has," said Lady Ronan. "Going home. . . . 
 Going to remain in Ireland and work on his wee 
 farm just the same as his neighbour . . . what 
 was that man's name, Doalty? I've forgotten." 
 
 "Oiney Leahy." 
 
 "Yes, that's it," said Lady Ronan, nodding her 
 head. "Poor old man. He was. . . . But does 
 not George know the story ?" 
 
 "I suppose I do," said George with a careless 
 shrug of his shoulders. "I hear these tales about 
 Glenmornan so often. . . . It's a funny thing 
 though. When Doalty came to the office two years 
 ago it was impossible to get a word from him. He 
 sat at his desk every evening biting the tip of his 
 pen and brooding, as it seemed, over the destiny 
 of the universe. But one day, he had been a year 
 with us then, he spoke about Ireland and he seldom 
 talks about anything else now. It's strange the way
 
 Doalty Gallagher 57 
 
 Irishmen learn to love their country more, the 
 longer they are out of it. The greatest Irish pa- 
 triots are American born, I believe. . . . Wait till 
 Doalty is three months in his own country and then 
 he'll be glad to come back here. . . ." 
 
 "Never," said Doalty. "I'm never going to come 
 back. I would prefer " 
 
 "A wee Greenanore girl in an ould plaid shawl," 1 
 said Myra Ronan with a malicious shrug of her 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Now children, no argument on such a fine even- 
 ing," said Lady Ronan, rising to her feet and look- 
 ing at her nails. They seemed to be a source of 
 perpetual interest to her. "Run out and take the 
 boat on the river. I'll come with you, if you behave 
 yourselves and leave the Irish questions to Red- 
 mond and Carson." 
 
 Ten minutes later the four of them were on the 
 river. 
 
 in 
 
 Doalty Gallagher and George Ronan were sitting 
 in the library, George on the sofa swinging his legs 
 aimlessly and Doalty on a chair, his hands under 
 his thighs, his head erect and his eyes staring 
 through the window into unfathomable distances. 
 A butler with an official smile on his red, fat face, 
 came in, bearing a tray of coffee. Doalty looked at 
 the butler, took in, with one swift glance, the man, 
 his red face and his smile. This smile seemed to 
 be always there on duty, now and again asleep, of
 
 58 Glenmornan 
 
 course, like a sentry on guard, but ready to wake 
 up at the sound of a foot or the rustle of a skirt. 
 When Lady Ronan's guests asked him to do them 
 a service he did it so hastily that one would think 
 the man was more interested in the guest's welfare 
 than in his own. He placed the coffee on the table, 
 retired a few steps, walking backwards, bowed and 
 went out. 
 
 "Now why are you going back to Ireland ?" young 
 Ronan enquired, lighting a cigarette and lying back 
 on the sofa. "Are you in love with some dainty Irish 
 coleen, like Biddy Cassidy, with a little pig and a 
 brogue and an old mother that sits all day at a spin- 
 ning wheel? And Biddy, God bless her, will have 
 a wolf hound and a harp." 
 
 "The former's extinct and I've never seen the 
 latter until I left Ireland," said Doalty. "It's a 
 funny country," he went on. "Its people are diffi- 
 cult to understand. In the first place they hate this 
 country with a traditional hatred, the hatred of a 
 vendetta. And no wonder, for English laws have 
 ground them down to the very dirt. The gombeen 
 man is just as bad, nay ! he is worse than the land- 
 lord, and the poor respect him after a fashion. Why 
 should they not, for is not the priest and the gom- 
 been man the greatest friends in the world ? Is not 
 one half of the Irish priests the sons of gombeen 
 men? You should hear the priest make a sermon on 
 the torments that await men who are damned be- 
 cause they have not paid the debts due to a gombeen 
 man. Good God! If I had my way with priests
 
 Doalty Gallagher 59 
 
 like those I'd hang every man of them from the 
 crosses of their own altars." 
 
 "Easy, Doalty my boy, easy/' said young Ronan 
 smiling lazily. He looked round to see if an ash- 
 tray were near, but not seeing one he flicked the ash 
 from his cigarette on the carpet. He was always 
 a good listener, and Doalty, when the mood was on 
 him, was a great talker. 
 
 "It's enough to drive one mad at times to find the 
 way things are done," said Doalty. "Now in my 
 own place, for example, who is left there? The 
 young men and the young girls grow up and when 
 they reach a certain age they clear out of the coun- 
 try. Nine go away out of a family of ten. The 
 tenth remains and he is generally the weakling. 
 Not much good in him going away, so he stays at 
 home and marries a weakling like himself. Soon 
 there will be none in the country but the inefficient." 
 
 "All that is very evident," said Ronan with a 
 smile, flicking some more ash to the carpet "But 
 I can't follow your meaning. Why are you going 
 home? Have you made a fortune and are eager, 
 to spend it?" 
 
 IV 
 
 "My worldly wealth is some thirty pounds," sai'd 
 Doalty. "I'll spend that easily. No place like Ire- 
 land for spending money. I'll have to give some 
 of it to my mother. She is always putting a little 
 by. That is her one ambition, to put some money in 
 the bank. If I gave her ten thousand pounds she
 
 60 Glenmornan 
 
 would put every penny of it in the bank and con- 
 tinue living just as she is living now. She might, 
 of course, buy another bit of land and get so su- 
 perior that she would not speak to a neighbour. In 
 her own townland she is a great swell; she looks 
 down on her neighbours as it is, because she has 
 six cows' grass and most of the people about her 
 have only feeding for two or three cattle." 
 j "But still you have not told me yet why you want 
 to get back there/' said Ronan, again flicking the 
 ash to the carpet. 
 
 "I want to get back to my own people," said 
 Doalty. "I am going to work as they work and 
 toil in the fields and mow the hay and dig the pota- . 
 toes. I am g^ing to do some real work, not such 
 as I do here. What do we, the moulders of public 
 opinion, really do? For myself, I get out of bed 
 in the morning at nine o'clock. In Glenmornan 
 half a day's work is finished by then. I go down 
 to the office and hang about there, chewing the top 
 of a pen until lunch. After lunch I come back to 
 the office to find that the news editor has found a 
 story for me. I have got to call on old Mr. Plodder, 
 who has made a fortune as head of Plodder's Gro- 
 cery Stores. He will be in the next honours list, 
 for he has given piles of money to charity. He has 
 risen from the gutters and now he is at the top of 
 the business world. I have to get his photograph 
 (an easy matter) and interview him, get the story 
 of his wonderful career, how he got rich, etc. Two 
 things I know before I see the man. One is that he 
 had read Smiles' Self-Help and the other is that he
 
 Doalty Gallagher 61 
 
 does not know how he amassed so much money. 
 He will say that he became rich by steady toil and 
 honest endeavour. But that means nothing. Oiney 
 Leahy, of Glenmornan, is as steady a worker as 
 Plodder, and Oiney hasn't got a penny. So I see 
 him, write him up in the most glowing manner. I 
 do it to make my living, the newspaper does it be- 
 cause Plodder advertises in its columns. I'm not in 
 earnest about the job; it gives me no pleasure. In 
 short, I'm sick of it. I'll be much happier in Glen- 
 mornan." 
 
 "And you'll be glad to get back here again, I 
 bet," said Ronan. "Six months will be quite enough 
 for you there. Let me know when you're coming 
 back, Doalty. I'll see that you're taken on the pa- 
 per again." 
 
 Lady Ronan was part proprietor of the daily on 
 which Doalty was employed. She was a very 
 wealthy woman. Her husband who had died re- 
 cently left a large fortune. 
 
 "And if you get any good stuff send it on," said 
 Ronan. "The old man will give it a place, I know. 
 He likes your work." 
 
 There was a tap at the door and Myra Ronan 
 entered. 
 
 "Are you two coming with me for a walk?" she 
 asked. "Down by the river. It's such a fine night 
 for a stroll." 
 
 Doalty had got to his feet and stood looking at 
 the girl. George stretched himself out on the sofa 
 and puffed rings of smoke into the air. 
 
 "I'm not going for a walk at this hour," he said.
 
 62 Glenmornan 
 
 "I've got to go on some job or another (I forget 
 what it is) to-morrow morning. Take Doalty with 
 you, Myra. He's leaving here on Monday and 
 maybe he'll never come back again." 
 
 "Will you come, Doalty?" Myra enquired. Like 
 her mother and brother she always called the young 
 Irishman by his Christian name. 
 
 "I'll be happy if you allow me," said Doalty 
 eagerly. 
 
 Five minutes later they were both on the bank 
 of the river. There was a breath of freshness from 
 the quiet water and a soft breeze rustled through 
 the tall grass that was not yet tramped down by the 
 feet of holiday makers. The night was very clear, 
 with a sky studded with stars. The horizon on the 
 east across the fields glowed a pale white and her- 
 alded the moon which would presently rise. 
 
 "To think of remaining indoors on a night like 
 this !" said Myra in a voice of feeling. "If nobody 
 came with me I would have come out alone. Shall 
 we have a long walk, ever such a long walk? You 
 don't mind, Doalty?" 
 
 "Mind! Certainly not. Where shall we go?" 
 
 "Oh ! anywhere," she said, as if abandoning her- 
 self to Doalty's guidance, then paused as if consid- 
 ering the question. "I know," she exclaimed, after 
 a moment's silence. "We'll go along the river till 
 we pass the church in the fields. Then we'll go 
 across through the meadows to Pyford. . . . 
 lYou've never been to the village of Pyford, 
 Doalty?" 
 
 "Never," he replied.
 
 Doalty Gallagher 63 
 
 "Then you'll like it, especially by moonlight, when 
 all the people are asleep," she said, stepping out 
 briskly, as if on the point of breaking into a run. 
 "It's a little village with a crooked street and such 
 old houses. I have often gone out there on moon- 
 light nights. . . ." 
 
 "Alone?" asked Doalty. 
 
 "Why not?" queried the girl, casting a cursory 
 glance at Doalty. "I'm able to take care of my- 
 self." 
 
 "But one never knows what might happen." 
 
 "So mother says," Myra replied. "But I did not 
 think that you would have ideas like that. They are 
 so old-fashioned. A girl is as well able to protect 
 herself as a man." 
 
 "From whom, and from what?" 
 
 "From anybody and anything, from a tramp or 
 a mad dog," said Myra. "From oh !" 
 
 Doalty bent to lift her almost as soon as she 
 reached the ground. 
 
 "What happened ?" he enquired as he helped her 
 to her feet. 
 
 "My foot caught in a root and I tripped," she 
 said. "It's so dark, and going through this grass 
 you don't know what you are going to step on." 
 
 "Have you hurt yourself?" 
 
 ?'No." 
 
 "Well, let me take your arm, and I'll try and 
 save you from falling when you meet the next 
 root." 
 
 He took her arm as he spoke and both proceeded 
 pn their way along the river. The moon withered
 
 64 Glenmornan 
 
 at one of its corners, rose over the fields and lit 
 up the whole country with a strange misty light. 
 The air was full of the perfume of recently cut hay 
 and from the distance came the sound of a train on 
 its journey to London. 
 
 "What a wonderful night !" Myra exclaimed. "If 
 I had the choice of dying when I pleased I would 
 choose a night like this. And this wonderful walk, 
 Doalty! Do you like it?" 
 
 "Yes, it's wonderful," Doalty replied, then spoke 
 again, as if he had not already concluded his sen- 
 tence. "Very wonderful, Miss Ronan," he said. 
 
 She drew her arm away from his, stood still and 
 looked at him. Doalty knew that she was going to 
 ask a question and he guessed what that question 
 would be. 
 
 "Why do you always call me Miss Ronan?" she 
 asked. "I always call you Doalty. I hope it does 
 not annoy you." 
 
 "I would have called you Myra long ago, but I 
 was afraid to do so," said the Irishman in a voice 
 which had suddenly become strangely husky. "It 
 somehow seems that I have no right to do so." 
 
 "You have as much right as I have." 
 
 "Havel?" 
 
 "Have I what?" 
 
 "Myra." 
 
 "Now you may take my arm again, Doalty," said 
 the girl, with a smile. "There are roots all through 
 this grass. And here is the church." 
 
 It showed through the elms near the river, an old 
 building with its spire standing clear cut against
 
 Doalty Gallagher 65 
 
 the sky. The base of the church was steeped in 
 coal-black shadows, through which wisps of mist 
 were wandering aimlessly. 
 
 "It's hundreds of years old," said Myra, "and 
 there's no road near it. Do you know why that is ?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I don't know, Myra." He dwelt on 
 the name lovingly and his hand touched hers. 
 
 "The church was built at a time when the coun- 
 try was covered with trees and when people trav- 
 elled more by water than land," said the girl. 
 "They came to church by boats. Services were held 
 here hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Proba- 
 bly the ghosts of the old worshippers are about the 
 place yet. Suppose we saw one of them come out 
 now. Oh ! I would be so frightened !" 
 
 As she spoke a slight shudder ran through her 
 and she clutched Doalty's hand. 
 
 "So you are really afraid of something?" he 
 asked, pressing her fingers tightly. "But there are 
 no ghosts, you know," he assured her. "At least 
 not in England." 
 
 "But there are some in Ireland," she said. 
 
 "Oh, yes. Behind every hedge and under all the 
 holly trees." 
 
 "And you want to go back to see all these ghosts 
 again," said the girl. 
 
 "It's not altogether for that purpose, Myra," 
 said Doalty. "I'm homesick and I'm tired of liv- 
 ing here." 
 
 "Tired of us all ?" she asked, but by her tones it 
 was evident that "us all" meant herself alone. 
 
 "Oh! I'm not tired of you, but still "
 
 66 Glenmornan 
 
 "Then I suppose you really are," she said diffi- 
 dently, then as if some work had been accomplished 
 to her satisfaction, she remarked: "It's about time 
 that we went back. Mother will be anxious." 
 
 They turned round and retraced their steps arm 
 in arm, their hands clasped and the little village of 
 Pyford quite forgotten. Doalty's mind was filled 
 with the thoughts which can never be absent from 
 a young man's mind on such an occasion. What 
 Myra was thinking of it was impossible to say. 
 Anyway, she did not withdraw her hand. They 
 walked along the river in silence, passed through 
 the gate and up the carriage drive. The hall-door 
 of Ermara was left half open and a lamp was still 
 alight in the hall. Not a soul was to be seen there. 
 Myra withdrew her hand from Doalty's as they 
 crossed the threshold. 
 
 "I must go up and tell mother that we have 
 come in," she said, and without bidding her com- 
 panion Good-night she tripped upstairs. 
 
 Doalty followed her and went to his bedroom. 
 It opened out on a long narrow passage in the sec- 
 ond floor. Opposite it was the bedroom in which 
 Myra slept. 
 
 Doalty sat down on a chair, lit a cigarette and 
 left the door half -open. The passage outside was 
 in darkness save where the light from Doalty's 
 room showed across the floor and lit up the door of
 
 Doalty Gallagher 67 
 
 Myra Ronan's bedroom. He would see her go into 
 her room when she came along the passage. Why 
 did he want to see her? He did not love her and 
 he was certain that she did not love him. But he 
 did not think of this. All he could think of was the 
 pressure of her hand when she clasped his by the 
 old church, her white throat, her soft delicate 
 cheeks, her charming eyes, the poise of her chin. 
 ... A feeling passionate and primitive, which is 
 never wholly absent at twenty-one, welled up in 
 Doalty's breast, almost choking him with its ex- 
 quisite pain. 
 
 Myra came along the passage, stopped opposite 
 her bedroom door and looked in at Doalty in his 
 room. 
 
 "You're not in bed yet, Doalty," she said in a 
 whisper, as if afraid that somebody, other than 
 Doalty, was listening to her. 
 
 "Neither are you in bed," he replied, getting to 
 his feet. He spoke as if the fact of Myra not yet 
 being in bed was sufficient excuse for him to be up. 
 
 "Oh ! neither of us could be as yet, for we have 
 only just come in," said Myra, placing her fingers 
 on the handle of her door and drawing them away 
 again. "You did like that church in the moon- 
 light?" she asked in a whisper. 
 
 "Yes, it interested me very much," he whispered 
 in reply. It almost seemed that the sight of the old 
 building by moonlight was a secret known only to 
 the two of them and which had to be kept hidden 
 from all other mortals. 
 
 Myra came to the door of Doalty's bedroom,
 
 (68 Glenmornan 
 
 stepping very softly on the carpet and trembling a 
 little as she reached him. 
 
 "There's a picture of the church hanging on your 
 wall near the window," she said nervously, blush- 
 ing as she spoke. 
 
 "A painting?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Which of these pictures is it?" 
 
 He went across to the window and looked at one 
 picture in a gilt frame. It was certainly not the 
 painting of a church, but he looked at it as atten- 
 tively as if his very gaze would transform an etch- 
 ing of two children playing with a dog into an an- 
 cient home of religious worship. 
 
 When he looked round again he found Myra be- 
 hind him, looking at the same picture. 
 
 "That's not it," she said, "I don't think it is 
 really here. It was, some time ago, but I think 
 mother has taken it away for her own room. She 
 is always changing things." 
 
 "And this picture of the boy and girl playing with 
 a dog," Doalty said. "You are the girl, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 "She's not like me, is she?" 
 
 "I don't know. It's so dark here that I cannot see 
 it very well." 
 
 "Well, I'll get up on a chair and have a look," 
 said Myra, drawing forward the chair on which 
 Doalty had been sitting a few minutes earlier. She 
 sprang up on it with a bound, active as a kitten, and 
 her head became level with the etching. 
 
 "It is very dark," she said, "and this chair is so
 
 Doalty Gallagher 69 
 
 woggeldy. Just don't let me fall on the floor, 
 Doalty. If I come down I'll waken the whole 
 house/' 
 
 He held her arm and steadied her while she ex- 
 amined the picture. As he did so his heart was 
 filled with a strange, joyful emotion and a great 
 feeling of tenderness towards the girl. 
 
 "Well, I hope I never looked like that/' she whis- 
 pered. "She's an ugly little creature. . . . Whisht ! 
 there's somebody coming up the stairs. One of 
 the servants maybe, putting out the lights." 
 
 Doalty rushed to the door of the room and looked 
 out. Nobody was to be seen, but the soft thud of 
 heavy feet in slippers could be heard coming up. 
 Doalty shoved the door to and shut it. Then he 
 turned round to see Myra standing in the middle of 
 the room near the bed, her head thrust a little for- 
 ward and one hand over the ear in a listening at- 
 titude. 
 
 Outside the steps sounded along the passage, 
 halted for a moment at the door, then went back 
 again and died away. 
 
 "It's the butler, I think," said Myra in a hoarse 
 whisper. "He's always prowling about like a 
 fox." 
 
 "If he had come in!" Doalty hazarded. 
 
 "If he had," said the girl with a deep intake of 
 breath, and a horrified expression showed in her 
 eyes. Never before had Doalty seen the girl look 
 so beautiful. Her look, her eyes, her round chin 
 magnetised Doalty. Something fierce and ungov- 
 ernable, a mad wild passion took possession of him,
 
 70 Glenmornan 
 
 and the next moment he found himself sitting on 
 the bed by her side, his arm round her shoulders, 
 his lips resting on hers, pressing them in against 
 her white teeth with wild undisciplined violence. 
 And the girl yielded to his embrace, returning his 
 kisses and caresses. . . . Ah, the glorious passion 
 of twenty-one. 
 
 "Suppose somebody saw us in here/' she asked 
 shyly, when several minutes had passed, apparently 
 conscious for the first time of the position in which 
 she had placed herself. 
 
 if lt doesn't matter," Doalty said with a superior 
 masculine smile, resting her head in the crook of 
 his arm and kissing one eye, then another. "You 
 are not afraid, are you?" 
 
 "No, Doalty, but still, it doesn't seem right, 
 somehow," said Myra. 
 
 "If anybody knew." 
 
 She sat up, drew a deep breath and ran on tip- 
 toes towards the door. She stood there for a mo- 
 ment, listening, then waved Doalty, who was ap- 
 proaching her, away. 
 
 "I'm going to my own room," she whispered, 
 looking at him and then averting her eyes. "It was 
 wrong of me to come in. ... Good-night, Doalty." 
 
 With these words she opened the door, rushed 
 out into the passage and disappeared. Doalty could 
 hear the door of her room open and close. Then 
 silence followed. 
 
 He drew his chair up to the door and sat down 
 on it, with his eyes fixed on the closed bedroom,
 
 Doalty Gallagher 71 
 
 and imagined many things for a full hour after- 
 wards. 
 
 "She'll be asleep now," he said at last, and get- 
 ting up he undressed, put on his pyjamas and lit a 
 cigarette. Then he went up to the mirror which 
 stood over the washstand and looked at his face 
 in it, while a wild sensual feeling surged through 
 his blood. The novelty of an hour ago had died 
 away, only the desires remained, leaving Doalty 
 dissatisfied and despondent. He should not have 
 allowed her to run away. If he had been firm she 
 would have remained she would be in the room 
 now. He rubbed his handkerchief over the mirror 
 where his breath had dimmed it and looked at his 
 reflection again. His heart beat violently, the veins 
 on his temples throbbed, and his arms shook as 
 if with cold. He threw his cigarette into the empty 
 fireplace, put another in his mouth but did not light 
 it. Instead he went out of his room, stepped softly 
 up to Myra's door and listened with his ear to the 
 keyhole. No sound was to be heard, no movement, 
 no breathing. He went back to his room again, 
 turned out the light and got into bed. 
 
 VI 
 
 On the following morning he was late in getting 
 out of bed. When he went down to the dining-room 
 he found nobody there. Lady Ronan had gone off 
 to church and George had departed for London. 
 He would return to his home that night. But Myra
 
 72 Glenmornan 
 
 was also absent. She generally had breakfast with 
 Doalty when he had visited the house before. 
 Breakfast was laid for him and he sat down and 
 poured himself out a cup of tea. It was then that 
 lie noticed a letter addressed to him lying on a plate 
 by his side. The writing on the envelope was Myra 
 Ronan's. He opened it and read the hastily 
 scrawled letter. This was what it contained: 
 
 DEAR DOALTY, 
 
 I am sorry that I have to go away without bidding you 
 good-bye. I intended to tell you about my intended depar- 
 ture last night when we were out for the walk along the 
 river. I am going to stay with a girl friend at her home the 
 other side of London and I shall be there for several days. 
 You shall be in Ireland by the time I'm back home again. I 
 hope you'll enjoy life over there. Let us know how you are 
 getting on when you have time to write a line. We'll, all 
 of us, be delighted to hear from you. Excuse this hurried 
 scrawl. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 MYRA RON AN. 
 
 "Well, I'm 'damned !" said Gallagher in a puzzled 
 voice as he placed the letter back in the envelope. 
 " 'Let us know how you are getting on !' " 
 
 He took out the letter again, read it twice before 
 replacing it in the envelope. Then leaning over the 
 table he looked in the cup as if the tea had suddenly 
 possessed some great attraction for him. 
 
 "All this had to be," he muttered to himself. 
 "What was I expecting? I did not love her, I could 
 not love her. She does not love me, and I knew 
 it. ... I amused her I suppose," He smiled bit-
 
 Doalty Gallagher 73 
 
 terly and lifted the tea-cup from the saucer, plac- 
 ing it on the table. Then he sat upright, placed 
 both hands in his pockets, lay back on the chair and 
 fixed a vacant look on the window opposite. 
 
 Doalty was a well-built young man with light 
 brown eyes and very dark hair. He left school, 
 the mountain school of Glenmornan, when he was 
 fourteen. At fifteen he came to London with a 
 crowd of Irish labourers and got a job as nipper 
 in the employ of a jobbing contractor. He was 
 a voracious reader and tried his hand at writing 
 when he was seventeen. At nineteen, when work- 
 ing at the London Docks, he sent some contribu- 
 tions to a daily paper, stories of labourers, sailors, 
 tramps and doss-house residents. All the stories 
 were published and paid for. He sent more stuff 
 to the paper and this was also taken, then he him- 
 self was taken as reporter on the staff. He had 
 now been on the paper for two years. 
 
 Now as he sat there alone in the Ermara break- 
 fast room, thinking of Myra Ronan, he recalled 
 women he had known and a little typist in the news- 
 paper office came to his mind. The journalists 
 called her Fluffie amongst themselves. She was a 
 pretty, fair-haired girl of nineteen when Doalty 
 first saw her. She attracted him and he fell madly 
 in love with her. She was in his thoughts all day 
 and in his dreams all night. But he never dis- 
 closed his passion to the girl. In her presence he 
 felt tongue-tied, impotent. Even once when he had 
 a chance. . . . But no. ... It was in the office, in 
 a dark passage on the ground floor that he met her.
 
 74 Glenmornan 
 
 . . . She was coming along with a sheaf of papers, 
 and as he passed her she gave a little shriek and 
 clutched his arm. 
 
 "What's wrong?" Doalty stammered as if the 
 sweet shiver which ran through his body had com- 
 municated itself to his tongue. 
 
 "I thought I saw a mouse running along there !" 
 said the girl, with a slight catch in her voice. 
 
 "No . . . nothing!" said Doalty with a little 
 laugh. 
 
 "I'm so sorry, but I'm terrified of mice," said 
 Fluffie, and a little smile hovered on her eyelashes. 
 Then she scuttled away. 
 
 That night Doalty sat in his room, lighting cig- 
 arette after cigarette and throwing them in the 
 grate when they burned to his fingers. At four 
 in the morning he went to bed. When he fell 
 asleep he dreamt of Fluffie, and in the dream she 
 was asking him to save her from a dreadful mon- 
 ster that was attacking her. He tried to help her, 
 but his efforts were futile. The monster was drag- 
 ging her down, down along with him into a dark 
 pit. Doalty tried to drag the girl back but could 
 not. Instead of helping her he fell with her down, 
 down. . . . He woke up. 
 
 Next day the editor called him to his office. Fluf- 
 fie was there, bending over the typewriter. As 
 Doalty went in the girl left, first fixing a knowing 
 look on him, as if some secret of his had been re- 
 vealed to her. 
 
 "Well, how do you like this work?" asked the 
 editor when the room was left to the two men.
 
 Doalty Gallagher 75 
 
 '"I like it well," said Doalty. "But it needs get- 
 ting used to a bit." 
 
 "It does," said the editor, smiling slightly and 
 fashioning letters with his forefinger in the air. 
 This was a habit of his when immersed in thought. 
 
 "Life is not the same here as in the East End 
 where you have been working," he said. "There 
 a man can do his job with a cap on; here a man 
 needs to wear a hat. There a man can wear trou- 
 
 ; sers patched and baggy, but here For my own 
 
 part, I don't care what a man wears ; it's the man 
 that counts and not his rags. But when reporters 
 go out on a story they have a better chance of get- 
 ting there in a top-hat than in a cap. It's funny, 
 
 but still Well, I've got a story for you," said 
 
 the editor without changing his tone of voice. "It's 
 about," etc. 
 
 As Doalty went out Fluffie came in again. It al- 
 most seemed as if she had been waiting behind the 
 door. Probably she had been listening to the con- 
 ; versation. 
 
 Next morning Doalty came to his work in a 
 velour hat, a new lounge suit and trousers that 
 were carefully creased. Hitherto he had worn a 
 cap and trousers that were both a little the worse 
 for wear. A week later Fluffie left the office. He 
 never saw her again. 
 
 Then there was a girl at the tea-shop where he 
 and his mates used to have tea in the afternoons. 
 All the young journalists, with the exception of 
 Doalty, vowed that they were in love with the girl, 
 whom they called Pussie. They made collections
 
 76 Glenmornan 
 
 amongst themselves and bought the girl boxes of 
 chocolate. The boxes were always bound in pink 
 ribbons with pink bows. Pink was Pussie's fa- 
 vourite colour. After a time she went from Fleet 
 Street to a job in a Piccadilly teashop. All the 
 young men, with the exception of Doalty, made 
 love to the girl who came to replace her. Doalty, 
 however, went to tea in Piccadilly afterwards and 
 continued going there until Pussie got married to 
 a taxi driver. 
 
 He read Myra's letter again, crumpled it up and 
 put it in his pocket. 
 
 "It doesn't matter and I don't care," he said, 
 gazing ruefully at the cup in which the tea had be- 
 come quite cold.
 
 CHAPTER IV; 
 
 IN" HIS MOTHER'S HOUSE 
 
 I have been gone from Donegal for seven years and a 
 
 day, 
 And true enough it's a long, long time for a wanderer 
 
 to stay, 
 But the hills of home are aye in my heart and never 
 
 are far away. 
 
 7 Will Go Back. 
 
 F I ^HE soft Summer night was falling and a 
 few stars already showed over Carna- 
 -* ween, though the colours of the sunset 
 still lingered behind Sliav-a-Tuagh, where that hill 
 rose over Meenawarawor to look out on the sea. 
 [The evening twilight settled on boreen and brae 
 and showed densely dark in the awlth behind the 
 house of Maura The Rosses. The brooks reeling] 
 'down to the river looked white and ghostly as they 
 [fell over the rocks. A young girl was driving the 
 cows home from the hills and the cattle could be 
 seen, coming down carefully, picking their way 
 over hillock and hobeen. The girl could be heard 
 shouting in a shrill, clear voice : "Come home with 
 ye now, ye silly crathur! Have sense and get on 
 with ye, ye wee divil ye I" 
 
 77
 
 78 Glenmornan 
 
 The peasantry were coming in from the fields, 
 the men walking with a slow, decided step, their 
 pipes in their mouths and their spades over their 
 shoulders. The women, more in a hurry, were 
 coming into their homes well ahead of their men 
 folk, singing as they made their way through the 
 long grass of the meadows. They had much work 
 to do still, for the cows had to be milked, the stir- 
 about had to be made ready. The men had been 
 working hard all day and it would not do to keep 
 them waiting for their suppers. Many of the cows 
 were already in the byres tied to the stakes, their 
 full udders yearning for the hands of the milkers. 
 
 Doalty Gallagher, home from foreign parts, was 
 sitting on the ground outside the door of his moth- 
 er's house, his soul drinking in all the glory of the 
 Irish nightfall. A bat, whirring in the air over 
 his head, now and again swooped down and round 
 him, almost touching his ear. He had come home 
 that day at noon, and up till a few moments ago, 
 he had been inside the house speaking to the neigh- 
 bours who had come to see him. He felt very 
 happy. Everything in the glen and around him 
 seemed beautiful and full of meaning. His soul 
 was filled with peace and goodwill towards all men 
 and he wished to every one the same happiness as 
 that which filled his own heart. He was looking on 
 everything with a fresh mind in which there was 
 no bitterness. 
 
 The smell of the midden, the turf fire and the 
 rich grass was in his nostrils and all this woke pleas- 
 ant remembrance in the young man. It recalled
 
 In His Mother's House 79 
 
 to him his childhood and the days that had gone. 
 "Ah I how very good it is to be back again," he said. 
 "Everybody is so happy and they are all so glad to 
 see me ! And the little boy, Hughie ! What a rip- 
 ping little rascal. He's not in the least afraid of 
 me. But why should he be?" 
 
 He got to his feet and walked along the field for 
 a couple of hundred yards, then sat down again in 
 the grass that was already getting wet with the 
 dew. He bent his lips to the ground, kissed it and 
 looked round to see if any one had observed him. 
 Nobody was nigh. "If they saw me they would 
 think that I was a fool!" he laughed. "Wonder 
 what mother would do if she saw me kiss Ireland? 
 She would shake the holy water over me, I'm sure. 
 And I saw the bottle of holy water to-day. Under 
 the roof beam, just where it used to be seven years 
 ago. And the bottle was once used for whisky. 
 The label is on it yet." 
 
 The air was pure and fresh, making him feel a 
 little drowsy. He looked down the dip of the 
 meadow and he could see the white streak of the 
 glen road losing itself in the gloom. Lights ap- 
 peared in the houses and more stars were creeping 
 timidly out in the heavens. 
 
 "Just as it used to be," he said. "Just the same 
 as I mind it. In London I used to have pleasure in 
 looking forward; here somehow the pleasure is in 
 looking back." 
 
 "Go on little cow, now! Do ye not want to be 
 milked the night?"
 
 8o Glenmornan 
 
 The girl up on the hill was still calling to the 
 cattle. 
 
 ii 
 
 "Doalty ! Where are ye? Come in and have yer 
 supper !" 
 
 It was his sister Norah who was calling. She 
 had just milked the cows, two of which were giv- 
 ing milk. Three were springing and it was ex- 
 pected that one of these, a white faced animal with 
 a belly taut as a drum, would calve twins. So 
 Maura The Rosses told her son. 
 
 "I'm here," said Doalty in answer to his sister. 
 He had got to his feet and lit a cigarette. 
 
 "Come in then, afore yer supper gets cold," she 
 said. 
 
 He went across to her. 
 
 "How many cigarettes d'ye smoke in a day?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "About I don't know how many twenty 
 maybe." 
 
 "And what d'ye pay for them?" she asked. 
 
 "About a shilling for twenty," he said. 
 
 "A shilling," said Norah. "What a lot iv money. 
 Can I have one?" 
 
 "Of course you can," said Doalty and handed her 
 a cigarette. 
 
 "D'ye know who's comin' to see ye ?" Norah said. 
 She was a very handsome girl, well proportioned 
 and light on her feet. 
 
 "Who?"
 
 In His Mother's House 81 
 
 "Old Oiney," said Norah. "I met him on the 
 hill a minute ago when I was up for the cows and 
 he said that he was comin' in to see ye when he got 
 his cattle in. He is very fond iv ye." 
 
 "I like old Oiney," said Doalty. "Is he as lively 
 as ever?" 
 
 "He's an old omadhaun," said Norah. "He's al- 
 ways talkin' about the old times and we are all sick 
 iv listenin' to him." 
 
 "Go on, wee cow, now ! I'm tired iv ye, ye wee 
 divil ye!" 
 
 "Who's that on the hill?" asked Doalty, as he 
 heard the voice of the girl again. "She seems to 
 have trouble enough with the cows." 
 
 "It's Sheila Dermod," said Norah. "The Der- 
 mods have only two cows on their bit iv land, and 
 to hear her speak one would think that she has 
 whole drove iv them." 
 
 "You're not friendly with her, are you?" asked 
 Doalty. 
 
 "Our ma and her ma fell out two years back, 
 and we have never passed a word with her since 
 then," said Norah. "Breed and Sheila live to- 
 gether and they are as proud and distant as the hills. 
 And Sheila thinks that every boy in the glen is mad 
 after her." 
 
 "So you're jealous of her," said Doalty with a 
 laugh. 
 
 "Me jealous iv her!" Norah exclaimed. "Jeal- 
 ous iv Sheila Dermod and her one iv the lowest iv 
 the low. God forbid me that I would !"
 
 82 Glenmornan 
 
 in 
 
 Doalty and Norah went in home together. A 
 good red turf fire glowed on the hearth and beside 
 the fire Maura The Rosses was seated, on a wooden 
 stool, a stocking in her hand, and her bare toes 
 peeping out from under her red woollen petticoat. 
 Wee Hughie was rolling on the floor, a puppy dog 
 frollicking around his bare legs and barking mer- 
 rily. Doalty's youngest sister, Kitty, a girl who 
 was getting her education at the convent school of 
 Greenanore, was seated at the stirabout pot which 
 stood on the floor, eating her supper. A lamp 
 hanging by a nail from the wall, lit the smoky at- 
 mosphere of the room with a soft, mellow light. 
 The walls were turf brown, a tint which harmonised 
 with the dun colourings of the floor. A long beam 
 of bog-oak stretched across the rigging of the 
 house, under the scraughs, and from this beam and 
 the rafters, raying fanwise out from it, all man- 
 ner of utensils were hanging, trahooks,* scythes, 
 spades and shovels. 
 
 "So here ye are, Doalty," said the mother, ris- 
 ing from her seat and pouring out a bowl of milk 
 which she placed on the table in front of a dish of 
 stirabout. "There's yer brahun-ray, so make a 
 good meal iv it." 
 
 "I'll make a good meal, never fear," said Doalty. 
 "When is Oiney coming in to see me ?" 
 
 "He'll be in at any minit now," said the mother, 
 
 *Trahook: A twister used in making ropes.
 
 In His Mother's House 83 
 
 sitting down again by the fire and resuming her 
 knitting. "There he's comin', I think. I hear his 
 steps." 
 
 At that moment Oiney Leahy entered without 
 rapping. They never rap on the door in Glen- 
 mornan. With his hat on, for the people never re- 
 move their hats when entering a house, Oiney went 
 up to Doalty and caught both the young man's 
 hands. 
 
 "And is it yerself that is back to the barony iv 
 Burrach again, Doalty Connel?" he said, his eyes 
 gleaming with emotion. "I'm so glad to see ye 
 again after all the time that ye were away from 
 yer own home. . . . And ye've got to be a fine 
 hearty man too. And a Gallagher, a Gallagher, 
 every inch iv ye 1" 
 
 "So he hasn't changed so much that ye wouldn't 
 know him?" asked Maura The Rosses, touched by 
 the old man's hearty welcome for her son. 
 
 "And d'ye think that I wouldn't be knowin' 
 Doalty, the oldest son iv Connel Gallagher, God 
 rest him !" said Oiney in a voice of protest. "Know 
 him ! Be Goigah ! I'd know his skin on a bush." 
 
 The old man released Doalty's hands and stepped 
 back a few paces and surveyed him minutely from 
 head to heel. 
 
 "Just as I expected him to look," he said, when 
 the inspection came to an end. "He might just 
 be the same as he is now, if he had never left home. 
 Just sittin' down to his brahun-ray and butther- 
 milk like any one in the glen. . . . And how long 
 will ye be stayin' with us now ?" he enquired.
 
 84 Glenmornan 
 
 By "us" Oiney meant the people of Glenmor- 
 nan. 
 
 "I'll stay for quite a long time," said Doalty. 
 
 "Iv course ye will," said Oiney, again clasping 
 the young man's hands and shaking them. "There's 
 maybe no place like yer own bit iv the world when 
 all's said and done. ... It must be an awful thing 
 to live away in the big town where ye're seein' hun- 
 dreds iv people day after day and never the same 
 face two times over. And I'll bet ye now, that 
 there's no place like Glenmornan after all! Isn't 
 that so, Doalty me boyo?" 
 
 "That is so," said Doalty. "And you're look- 
 ing quite well on it, Oiney." 
 
 "Then I'm as well as can be expected," said 
 Oiney with an air of decision. "But all the same 
 I'm a worn-out old fellow," he continued, not with- 
 out a certain complacency, and paused, as if wait- 
 ing to hear his remark contradicted. 
 
 "Mary and Joseph! but ye're not old lookin', 
 Oiney," said Maura The Rosses, working her knit- 
 needles violently, as if to emphasise her assertion. 
 "Ye look as young this very day as ye did ten years 
 ago. Now what age are ye ?" she enquired. 
 
 "Well, I'll tell ye," said the old man. "And this 
 is how I know. 'Twas on the day that I was mar- 
 ried and Condy Mor iv Meenawarawor, since dead, 
 God rest him! said to me, 'Oiney/ says he, If ye're 
 alive and well, come Candlemas next, ye'll be such 
 and such an age on that day/ So ever since then 
 I know me years. Eighty years, Candlemas past, 
 is my age."
 
 In His Mother's House 85 
 
 "Well, ye look a young man yet," said Maura 
 The Rosses, pandering to Oiney's coquetry the 
 coquetry of years. 
 
 "Do ye think so, Maura ?" 
 
 "Think it, Oiney!" said the woman. "I don't 
 think it. I'm sure iv it." 
 
 "Well, ye may be right, thank God," said Oiney, 
 seating himself on the chair which Norah Gal- 
 lagher had pushed up towards him, and drawing 
 his old, weather-worn hat down over his eyes. 
 -'There's life and to spare in the old dog yet. And 
 happy! Be Jarra! I never was as happy in all 
 me life. An old dog for the hard road and a pup 
 for the level, as the sayin' is ! I was always on the 
 hard road and I've never had a doctor to me in the 
 whole iv me life." 
 
 "Is that true ?" asked Doalty, sitting down again 
 to his interrupted meal. 
 
 "May I die where I sit if there's one word iv 
 a lie in it," said Oiney. "Look at me! Eighty 
 years if an hour I am, and I've never had a doctor 
 to me in all me life. No, nor a taste iv physic 
 either. . . . But what's the good iv it anyway ? It 
 won't keep a man alive for iver. If sickness comes 
 me way it's just what would come to any one, and 
 if it came I would hold me peace and not give it 
 the nose to let it draw one yelp from me. But look 
 at the people in the barony nowadays! If they're 
 goin' to die their first thought is on the doctor and 
 not on the Last Sacrament. It was different when 
 yer father, God rest him, was taken with the sick- 
 ness, Doalty. He said, 'Send for the priest and
 
 86 Glenmornan 
 
 don't trouble about the doctor.' . . . Ah! the old 
 times " 
 
 "There were no times like them," said Doalty 
 Gallagher. 
 
 "There were no times like them and niver will 
 be again," said Oiney, as he pulled out a little black 
 clay pipe from his pocket and put it in his mouth. 
 Oiney was an adept in the art of colouring clays. 
 
 "Don't light up yet for a wee minit," said Maura 
 The Rosses, as she rose from the stool and made 
 her way to the big room. When she came back 
 she had a large bottle of whisky in her hand. Fill- 
 ing a glass she handed it to Oiney. The old man 
 raised it to his nose, smelled it, then put it down 
 again. He reached out his hand and clasped Doal- 
 ty's. 
 
 "Ah! It's glad to see ye back here again that 
 I am," he said, and a new warmth had crept into 
 his voice. "I often have been thinking iv ye, 
 Doalty, me boy. And it's glad that I am to know 
 that ye made any amount iv money beyont the 
 water. Nobody deserves to make it more than a 
 son iv Connel Gallagher." 
 
 He raised the glass to his lips and emptied it at 
 one gulp. 
 
 IV 
 
 "It's good stuff," he said. "And d'ye know," 
 he went on, launching into a fresh subject, as if 
 the drink had given him the inspiration. "I used 
 to make a lot iv money meself at one time. But
 
 In His Mother's House 87 
 
 that was years back. . . . Now it's everybody for 
 himself. But in the times that wor there wor good 
 men in this arm iv the glen. That was thirty years 
 ago, when yer father, God rest him, was a young 
 man, Doalty. He was a splendid gasair and would 
 give ye the very sugar from his tay." 
 
 "And you could make money then?" said Doalty. 
 
 "Lashin's and lavin's iv it, me boy," said Oiney, 
 thrusting his hat back and running his fingers 
 through his white hair. " 'How did I make it?* 
 ye'll ask. Well, I'll tell ye, but never a word, mind. 
 I don't want the people iv the barony to know how 
 I made it. In the old times I was able to help them 
 when their rent was due, but nowadays they look 
 at me and laugh behind me back. They helped me 
 to spend the money and gave me nothin' in ex- 
 change for it but the bad name. . . . And God 
 knows why! I was never stingy, for what is the 
 good of being near-going and close-fisted? Greed 
 puts wrinkles in the soul as well as on the forehead. 
 I have seen this though people may be laughin' at 
 me and callin' me a droll ould card. But mind ye, 
 I can talk sense though I never put money by. I 
 take life easy, have a drink when I can get one, am 
 merry and say me prayers. Take everything as it 
 comes from God is me way and if one job isn't fin- 
 ished at night I can take it up again in the mornin'. 
 But look at some of the people about here," said 
 the old man with a sly grin as he put a live coal to 
 his little black clay. 
 
 "They're workin' late at night and up again in 
 the mornin' before the blackbird shakes itself. Not
 
 88 Glenmornan 
 
 to go further away than next door but one, looE 
 at Owen Briney. . . . He's always workin' and 
 lavin' by and what will be the end iv it all for him 
 and men like him ? They have days to make money 
 but never an hour to spend it. Accordin' to their 
 way iv lookin' at things they have nothin' done as 
 long as there's anything to do. They'll begrudge 
 the hour to die in. 
 
 "When they go there'll be somebody to spend the 
 money for them," Oiney went on. "I know many 
 a man who has gone and left a fortune behind him. 
 Then his sons drank the money or his daughters 
 spent it on hats and dresses. I don't know what's 
 comin' over the glen girls nowadays," said the old 
 man, fixing his eyes on Norah Gallagher as if the 
 remark was meant for her. "It's all flounces and 
 hats and fine boots and shoes, and paper pads over 
 their breasts and over their bottoms. They puff 
 out their bodies in a way that God never intended 
 them, and they think that they are queens. But in 
 the ould days yer hand could feel what the eye saw 
 and ye were never disappointed. Now it's hood- 
 winkin' us that they be all the time. They can't 
 go outside the door without puttin' their boots on. 
 
 "But look at me," continued Oiney, running the 
 pipe-shank through his chin-whiskers. "Eighty 
 | years if a day and I can go out and do a night's 
 cuttin' iv green rushes on Meenawarawor without 
 a boot to me feet. Once ye wouldn't think it 
 now, widye? I had as much money as any man in 
 Glenmornan and ye know what that means." 
 
 "What does that mean?" asked Doalty.
 
 In His Mother's House 89 
 
 "Mean !" said Oiney. "It means everything, me 
 boy. I could at that time go into the fair iv 
 Greenanore and put every man in shoe-leather as 
 drunk as a king. I was a man then and could 
 carry a bag of Indian-buck, two hundredweight 
 that, home on me back after drinking glass for 
 glass with every man I met. That, too, at the 
 heel iv the day, and never put me bottom down for 
 a rest on the whole journey, and all the way up- 
 hill. But look at the men nowadays ! Not one in 
 the whole barony, bar young Dennys The Drover 
 maybe, can do the same. I would be ashamed to 
 be like that, wouldn't I now, Maura The Rosses?" 
 
 "Ye would, indeed, Oiney," said the old woman, 
 placing her stocking on the floor and bringing out 
 her snuff-box from her breast. She handed it to 
 Oiney Leahy. He got hold of the snuff between 
 finger and thumb and drew it through one nostril. 
 Then he tried the other, the right, but finding it 
 stopped, he drew it a little apart and inhaled vio- 
 lently. 
 
 "It never gives me the sneeze iv late," he said 
 and looked round. . . . Nobody was up now ex- 
 cept Doalty and his mother. Little Hughie was 
 lying in the kitchen bed, his two big blue eyes star- 
 ing out at the old man. 
 
 "Oo don't see me, Oiney," he called. 
 
 "I see ye, ye vagabone," Oiney said. "Ye're 
 there in the bed and yer two eyes lookin' out." 
 
 "Not my two eyes," said Hughie. 
 
 "Whose eyes, then, tell me?"
 
 9O Glenmornan 
 
 "Eyes iv the Wee Red Head Man," Hughie an- 
 swered. His mother often told Hughie the story 
 of the Wee Red Headed Man who went to Tir- 
 nanoge, The Land of Eternal Youth, to marry the 
 jQueen of The Fairies. 
 
 "Ye get to sleep, Hughie," said Oiney as he got 
 Jo his feet. "I've got to go home now and have me 
 sleep meself." 
 
 "Another drop of this before you go," said 
 Doalty as he filled a glass and handed it to Oiney. 
 
 "Fuxey very nice," Hughie called from the bed, 
 but Oiney did not hear him. Raising his glass the 
 old man gripped Doalty's hand once more and tears 
 started to his eyes. 
 
 "I'm glad to see ye here again," he said. "Ah I 
 Doalty Connel! it's grand to see ye back again, a 
 big man. And I can mind when ye were a wee 
 gasair not the height iv me leg. I can mind it well, 
 Doalty Connel, and yerself not the height iv me 
 knee!" 
 
 So saying, the old man drank the glass at one 
 gulp and walked out sideways through the door; 
 without another word. 
 
 Maura The Rosses looked at her son, and her 
 half-drowsy, half-watchful eyes had in them a look 
 of tenderness, not unmixed with curiosity. 
 
 "Well, and how d'ye like him ?" she enquired. 
 
 "He's a grand old man," said Doalty.
 
 In His Mother's House 91 
 
 "He'll be at the turf now," said Maura The 
 Rosses. 
 
 "What?" Doalty questioned. 
 
 "He'll be at turf now and taking a creel home 
 with him," said Maura The Rosses. "He hasn't 
 got one turf on his bit iv a hill, for he didn't cut 
 them in time last year, and so he did not save a 
 clod. But all the same he must get his bit of a 
 fire, poor man. And he's so proud that he'll not 
 ask any one about the place for the len iv a creel. 
 He comes round at night and steals them. It's us 
 one night, and then it's Owen Briney the next 
 night, and round and round he goes, stealin' them, 
 the old fool, when he could get them for the askin'." 
 
 "Oiney's a feef," said Hughie from the bed. 
 
 "Ye get to sleep, ye rogue," said the mother. 
 "If ye don't get a sleep on ye this very minit I'll 
 give ye no breakfast in the mornin'." 
 
 "Come into bed, maw," the little boy called after 
 a moment's silence. "Want oo tell me a story." 
 
 "That's like the wee vagabone," said Maura The 
 Rosses, looking at her son Doalty. "It's a story 
 every night before he goes to sleep for him, and he 
 won't sleep one wink without it." 
 
 "Me want story, maw," the little boy called again 
 from the bed. 
 
 "And what's that Oiney was saying about the 
 time when he could make plenty of money?" 
 Doalty asked. "Was it when he belonged to the 
 Schol Gaelig (Irish School) ?" 
 
 "That was the time he was talkin' about," said 
 Maura The Rosses. "He was making good money.
 
 92 Glenmornan 
 
 as a Cath Breac * then. Twelve pounds a year it 
 was, I think." 
 
 "And he was trying to turn everybody Protes- 
 tant, wasn't he?" Doalty enquired. 
 
 "I think that was what it was for, the Schol 
 Gaelig," said Maura The Rosses. "Oiney had a 
 wee school in his house, and the glen boys used to 
 go there just to help poor Oiney to make a decent 
 penny. There used to come a man twice a year and 
 put out the Catechis on the boys, but the Catechis 
 was different to that put out in the schools. One 
 question used to be: 'How many Apostles were 
 in it ?' And the answer to that was : There was 
 twelve Apostles and one iv them was the divil/ 
 . . . The man who used to come and put out the 
 questions was always dressed in black, and one 
 night when this man was seen going away from 
 Oiney's house the glen boys that lay out be the road 
 to have a look at him, saw that he had two horns 
 stickin' out iv the top iv his head. Think iv that! 
 and the man used to say that he was teachin' the 
 Gospel. His money was good anyway, arid Oiney 
 at the time that he was gettin' the money was one 
 iv the best dressed men that went to Mass iv a 
 Sunday. 
 
 "Yer father, God rest him in peace! used to go 
 to Oiney's and was a scholar in the Schol Gaelig 
 school," said Maura The bosses. "Oiney in ad- 
 dition to his pay, used to get two shillin's for every 
 scholar he had in the school, and one shillin' he 
 used to give to the scholar and one Oiney kept him- 
 * Speckled cat.
 
 In His Mother's House 93 
 
 self. . . . And sometimes on a dark night the 
 young gasairs used to go before the Man in Black 
 three times, dressed different each time. . . . 
 Oiney had no light in the house barrin' the turf 
 fire and it was hard to say whether a man had been 
 in before or not Sometimes a scholar used to pass 
 three times and that would be six shillin's to the 
 good iv the glen. Often, too, after an examination, 
 when the strange man left, the boys used to get 
 hold iv him as he was crossin' the bogs on his way 
 to the town in Donegal and pitch him into a hole. 
 But it has all stopped now because the priest came 
 to hear about it and he said, from the steps iv the 
 altar, that he would make every Cath Breac in the 
 parish go to Lough Derg on their knees as penance 
 for their sins. After that was read out the peo- 
 ple did not like Oiney because they thought that 
 he was half a Prodesan." 
 
 "Isn't oo comin' bed the night?" Hughie called. 
 
 Doalty got to his feet and went outside, to smoke 
 a cigarette. When he returned his mother was in 
 bed and telling a story to Hughie Beag. 
 
 VI 
 
 "Once upon a time when the cows were kine and 
 the eagles iv the air used to build their nests in the 
 chin-whiskers iv giants," Maura was saying, in a 
 low monotone, "there lived a funny people in a 
 funny wee wood. There was the cow and the 
 sow, and the ox and the fox, and the cat and the
 
 94 Glenmornan 
 
 bat, and the wren and the hen, but one day there 
 came a big famine and all died iv the hunger, all 
 bar the cat and the bat and the wee red hen." 
 
 "Maw!" said a little voice from the blankets. 
 
 "What's wrong widye, now, Hughie Beag?" 
 
 "Don't like that story, maw. Tell me nuvver 
 story." 
 
 "Ye get a sleep on ye and close yer eyes, Hughie 
 Beag," said the mother, and went on with her tale. 
 
 "Well, when it was Spring the cat and the bat 
 and the wee red hen went out to dig the ground 
 for the corn. They had a wee crooked spade " 
 
 "Oiney has a cookit spade, maw," said Hughie. 
 
 "True for ye," said the mother. "Well, they 
 went out to the field and looked at one another. 
 'Who's goin' to dig the ground?' they asked. 'I'll 
 not/ said the bat I'll not,' said the cat. 'But I 
 will/ said the wee red hen." 
 
 "Me never heard cats or hens say anyfing," said 
 Hughie from the blankets. The mother took no 
 heed of the remark of the youngster but continued 
 the story. 
 
 It told how the cat and the bat would do no work 
 at all and the wee red hen did everything, dug 
 the ground, planted the grains of corn, one for the 
 mouse and one for the crow, one to rot and one to 
 grow. When the corn grew up the hen cut it with 
 a wee crooked scythe in the harvest season. Then 
 when it was winnowed the hen carried the corn to 
 the mill in her beak and it took her seven days to 
 do the job. The miller was a wee hedgehog who 
 had a wee mill, in a wee hole, in under the holly
 
 In His Mother's House 95 
 
 bush, beside the holy well. He milled the corn 
 and the hen carried the meal back to her little 
 home in the funny little wood. 
 
 Her neighbours never did a hand's turn to help 
 her, for the cat was always washing its whiskers 
 and the bat was always blind. But for all that, 
 they were, both of them, ready to eat the bannock 
 of bread, made from the meal, when it was baked 
 by the wee red hen. The brown bannock was 
 placed on the floor when ready and the hen went 
 out to the well to get some water for the tea, and 
 when she came back the bat and the cat had eaten 
 the whole loaf. 
 
 "And that is the way iv the world, Hughie 
 Beag," said Maura The Rosses, in the same low 
 monotone. "It's the hardest workers who go most 
 often without their bit iv bread. Isn't that the way 
 iv the world, Hughie Beag?" she asked in a whis- 
 per. There was no answer. The little boy was 
 asleep. 
 
 Doalty went into the big room, and began to 
 undress. How grand and great this day had been, 
 he thought to himself. How dull and useless Lon- 
 don seemed compared to this. The hills, the mead- 
 ows, the turf smoke, the girl calling the cows in 
 from the braes, old Oiney. ... "I love them all," 
 said the young man. "To-morrow I'll go out to 
 the bog and gather the turf. . . . I'm so happy. 
 ... 'It must be awful not to see the same people 
 one day after another.' ... It is, Oiney. Here 
 everything stands still. The table, the stool by 
 the fire, the holy water bottle. . . . All the same
 
 96 Glenmornan 
 
 as when I left years ago. If I was away fifty 
 years and came back there would be no change. 
 The hills, the glen, the river, the thatched houses, 
 the lamps getting lit in the evening, all, all the 
 same. . . . And old Oiney. . . . What a fine story 
 I could make about him. . . . But that would be a 
 sin." 
 
 Doalty went into bed and was presently asleep.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 OINEY LEAHY 
 
 If there's no woman in the house, 
 
 To milk the cow, or wash the delf, 
 The poor, old man, who's left his lone, 
 
 Is always talking to himself. 
 He makes the fire and rakes it out, 
 
 He leaves the ashes by the hob, 
 And all the time his heart is sore 
 
 For there's no woman on the job. 
 It's funny when a man gets old 
 
 And no one heeding what he'll say, 
 He'll sit beside the fire his lone 
 
 And speaking to himself all day. 
 
 A Peasant Song. 
 
 OINEY LEAHY lived all alone, in his little, 
 house on the brae. He had married when 
 he was a young man of twenty, and twa 
 sons were born to him. These went out into the 
 world, and as he never heard from them after-, 
 wards, he did not know what had become of them. 
 Probably both were now dead. His wife, a good 
 upright woman, died when Oiney was fifty years 
 of age. Since then he had lived by himself and 
 worked hard, tilling his little bit of land. 
 
 Strange stories were going the rounds of tha 
 
 97
 
 98 Glenmornan 
 
 barony about him. His neighbours knew that he 
 had been a Cath-Breac in his young days, and 
 gossip had it, that he had often stuck a red-hot 
 dagger through the statue of the Virgin Mother. 
 For this he was supposed to receive the sum of 
 twelve pounds. The fact of the matter was that 
 Oiney belonged to the Hibernian Bible Society, a 
 body which had for its aim the propagation of the 
 Gospels through the medium of the Irish language. 
 Oiney became a teacher of the Gospels and as a 
 teacher he received a certain wage from the Soci- 
 ety.. The Glenmornan peasantry were not loth 
 in aiding and abetting Oiney to get as much money 
 as possible from the "dirty straps that were trying 
 to make everybody a Protestant," and the young 
 of the glen came to the old man's school for ex- 
 amination once a year, when a mysterious Man 
 In Black attended Oiney's house to ask questions 
 on the Gospel. These scholars got a shilling 
 apiece when the examination was over, and for 
 each scholar who appeared Oiney got another shill- 
 ing in addition to his regular pay. When the Man 
 In Black left Oiney's, the master and his scholars 
 had a night of feasting and drinking. Duty-free 
 whisky was plentiful in Glenmornan then and the 
 stills were always at work on the hills. 
 
 Being a Cath-Breac gave Oiney a bad reputa- 
 tion, however, and the more educated people of the 
 glen did not like it. Old Heel-Ball, of the village 
 of Greenanore, who had a son a priest and a daugh- 
 ter a nun, disliked Oiney, not so much owing to 
 the fact that Oiney was a Cath-Breac, but because
 
 Oiney Leahy 99 
 
 he was one of the most clever makers of potheen 
 in the parish. The publican did not like the 
 potheen makers, for their illicit stills interfered 
 with his legitimate business. He complained to 
 the village priest, old Father Devaney. The priest 
 put a curse on Cath-Breacs from the steps of the 
 altar and Oiney gave up teaching the Gospel from 
 that day forward. 
 
 Oiney, handy man with his fists, was also very 
 strong, and as a young man he had no equal at 
 cudgel-play, wrestling or fighting, in the whole 
 barony. He also had a reputation as a poacher, 
 and no policeman had ever caught him at the job. 
 Once, after his marriage, a process-server came to 
 his house to serve him with a process for the rent. 
 The neighbours went into the house an hour after- 
 wards to see how Oiney was dealing with the man 
 and they found the process-server, sitting in front 
 of the fire, eating the process while Oiney stood 
 over him with an ash-plant in one hand and a bot- 
 tle of potheen in the other. The ash-plant was 
 needed to give the man an appetite; the potheen 
 would help to wash the meal down. So Oiney 
 explained to the neighbours. 
 
 His little house was not a very clean one. The 
 outer wall had once been whitewashed, but the 
 lime, having grown dim, now formed a back- 
 ground for various layers of dirt which had settled 
 on it. These layers, drying up, grouped them- 
 selves into strange and fantastic patterns. Near 
 the ground the wall was slimy black and plastered 
 with dung, but further up towards the thatched
 
 ioo Glenmornan 
 
 roof, on which the corn was sprouting, the dirt 
 lay in solitary little dots that stood out in strong 
 relief against the white lime. 
 
 Inside, Oiney had a dresser for crocks and delf, 
 a bed, with a straw mattress, a fireplace flush with 
 the flagged floor, a fiddle, generally out of tune, 
 a dog, always busy hunting fleas, and a cat with 
 a taste for eggs. When alone and not busy, Oiney 
 was either speaking to the animals, or playing the 
 fiddle. 
 
 But the old man was seldom idle. He had a 
 ready hand for any job. He could gueld young 
 cattle, kill a pig, apply a leech to a sick neigh- 
 bour, treat a cow for disease, build a creel, let 
 ropes for the thatching of a haystack, cut scollops 
 for a house, mediate between neighbours who had 
 a quarrel about trespassing cattle or march bound- 
 aries, wash a corpse and dress it for burial. 
 Oiney was a handy man and very willing to oblige 
 a friend when called upon to do so. Despite the 
 fact that he was read from the altar, the neigh- 
 bours liked the old man. 
 
 II 
 
 Doalty Gallagher left His Home the next morn- 
 ing and made his road over the braes to see Oiney 
 Leahy. On his way he had to go through Breed 
 Dermod's bit of land, and there he saw Sheila, 
 the girl whom he had heard driving the cattle in 
 from the hill on the previous evening. She was
 
 Oiney Leahy 101 
 
 herding a cow on a green verge of grass which 
 ran round the cornfield. Now and again when 
 the cow reached out and plucked a mouthful of 
 corn Sheila ran up with a switch and hit the ani- 
 mal's flanks with it. "Get away from here, ye 
 wee divil ye," she would shout. "Can't ye be- 
 have yerself?" Suddenly the girl looked round 
 and saw Doalty gazing at her. The blood rose 
 to her cheeks, she laughed shyly and began beat- 
 ing the green corn with her switch. The jcowj 
 which had just run off, came across the field to the 
 corn again. 
 
 "Away with ye, ye rogue," the girl shouted, and 
 ran after the cow. 
 
 Without speaking a word to her, Doalty went 
 across to Oiney's house. He had only a very dim 
 remembrance of Sheila, but he recollected that she 
 was a girl going to school with two turf under 
 her arm when he left Ireland seven years ago. 
 
 Oiney was in his home as Doalty went in. He 
 found the old man feeding the dog and cat with 
 milk from a hole in the earthen floor. 
 
 "Ah! it's a stranger ye are, me boyo," he said, 
 looking up and seeing the young man. "It's a 
 long while since ye've crossed this door-step now, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "A long while indeed, Oiney," said Doalty. 
 
 "Lie down widye, won't ye!" said the old man, 
 catching the dog by the tail and drawing it away 
 from the milk. "Let the wee cat have her's. It's 
 wantin' it all, ye are, yerself."
 
 102 Glenmornan 
 
 He gripped the dog by the tail, raised it in air 
 and let it hang head downwards. 
 
 "Not a yelp," he said, turning to Doalty. 
 "That's what shows ye what it's like. A good dog 
 and no mistake. And the cat," he continued, "it's 
 a wise wee divil. Washin' itself behind the ears 
 it was this mornin'. That's a sign iv rain." 
 
 "How does it know that the rain is comin'?" 
 Doalty enquired. 
 
 "Oh! he knows," said the old man. "An ani- 
 mal is as cute as anything. Look at the hare! 
 He can see out iv the back iv his head. And he 
 has two holes to his den, one at the back and one 
 to the front. He never sleeps and he can always 
 see what's comin' at the front or back and he al- 
 ways rests with his tail to the storm. And the 
 weasel! If ye annoy him he'll spit poison into yer 
 milk. I saw him do it. 'Twas in a bowl iv milk 
 that I left outside the door that he spit. I would 
 be a dead man this good day if it was not that old 
 Micky Thady of Meenawarawor came over here 
 to help me at a day's work; and Micky, he's dead 
 now, God rest him! never did any harm to a 
 weasel. So when the little animal saw him comin' 
 it came up again and turned the bowl of milk over 
 on the street. It did not want Micky to be killed 
 because its spite was only against me. Wasn't that 
 a strange thing now ?" 
 
 "It was indeed, Oiney," said Doalty. 
 
 "The animals have more sense than people allow 
 them," said Oiney. "There's the granaghay 
 (hedgehog), a cute fellow. He'll climb an apple
 
 Oiney Leahy 103 
 
 tree, stick his pins into an apple and carry it down 
 on his back. Then there's the cat that can come 
 home even if ye lose him at the other end iv the 
 barony, and the bee that can find his nest in a ten- 
 acre meadow. Then there's the trout that ye put 
 in the well to keep it clean and eat the worms. I 
 have two meself in the well under the rock behind 
 the house. When one of these will die he'll turn, 
 belly up, to let ye know. They have more sense 
 than a man has. Don't ye think so, yerself ?" 
 
 "I think so, Oiney," said Doalty. "Where are 
 these two trout?" 
 
 "I'll show them to ye in a minit," said Oiney. 
 "Just a minit. But wait now." 
 
 The old man went across to the bed which stood 
 in the corner of the room, groped under the straw 
 mattress and brought out a big bottle. 
 
 "Not a word, Doalty Gallagher!" he said, plac- 
 ing his left eyelid flush on his cheek. "Just have 
 a drink iv this, and tell me what ye think iv it." 
 He poured part of the contents into a bowl and 
 handed it to the young man. 
 
 "Drink it," he said. 
 
 Doalty drank. 
 
 "It's good stuff, Oiney," he said. "Where did 
 it come from?" 
 
 "Not a word, me boyo, not a word," said the 
 old man, and he winked as he spoke. "Seven years 
 old, if a day, and duty free. But they never make 
 a drop like it in the hills now. It's potheen, and 
 ye'll go far before ye'll get a better sup. . . . 
 Come out with me now and see the well."
 
 104 Glenmornan 
 
 The two men went out to the well, which was 
 hidden under a rock. Oiney bent over it, shoved 
 a twig under a stone, which lay at the bottom. 
 Two trout came out, circled round and round the 
 Stone for a moment, then disappeared. 
 
 "They know me," said the old man proudly. 
 "They're not in the least afeeard!" 
 
 "And that's me wee pratee patch," he said, get- 
 ting to his feet and pointing at a plot of potatoes 
 which lay behind the well. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Doalty. "That was the little 
 field that it took you years to make. Had to carry 
 it up from the holm?" 
 
 "That's right," said the old man. "There's 
 some blood and sweat in that wee patch, I'm tel- 
 lin* ye. And then the foreign lady that came to 
 Glenmornan some years back!" The old man 
 shook his head, and a curl of superior disdain 
 showed at the corner of his lips. 
 
 "Who Was she?" asked Doalty. 
 
 in 
 
 "Oh! a grand lady intirely," said Oiney. "She 
 came here, and her goin' to cure the decline. 'Ye 
 are to be much cleaner than ye are/ she says, 'and 
 ye're not to have yer duhals (dung-heaps) so near 
 yer houses/ She came up here one day and 
 pointed out where the duhal was to be. 'Well back 
 there/ she says, and points to that wee gubben iv 
 pratees. 'Dig down there/ she says, 'and make
 
 Oiney Leahy 105 
 
 a hole, and it will do well for a midden. It'll be 
 a good distance away from the house and then 
 ye'll be free from disaise/ she says. I looks at 
 her. 'Lady/ I says, 'that gubben iv land was at 
 one time nothin' but a bare rock and I set about to 
 improve it. I began to carry up creels iv clay from 
 the holm, and every creel took me the best part iv 
 an hour to carry. I did it all barefut too and I'm 
 tellin' ye I left some blood and sweat on the wee 
 caisin (path). It took me hours and hours, and 
 days and days, and years and years to make a lit- 
 tle patch iv land fit to bear a crop. 'Now/ says 
 I, 'if I make a duhal in the middle iv that spade- 
 land, it will take away the ground-space iv four 
 pratee ridges. Besides that/ I says, 'it's not the 
 place for a midden at all, for the soft iv the byre 
 will ceep out between clay and stone and get lost. 
 Also, how am I to get the soft iv the byre up here?' 
 I asks. 'I can't carry it in a creel, and to take it 
 in a bucket will take the whole day, every day, at 
 the job/ j 
 
 " 'But what about yer health?' outs me lady. 
 
 "I looks at her. There's not much bad health 
 about here, lady/ I says. 'In this, a townland iv 
 twelve families, there are fourteen old people get- 
 tin' the old age pensions. And people have to die 
 anyway, when God sees fit to call them. If a man 
 has decline he'll go, it doesn't matter how far away 
 from the midden he is.' . . . But sorrow take the 
 woman away, the foreigner! Her people sucked 
 the marrow out iv our bones in the old days and 
 now they come over here and teach us how to keep
 
 106 Glenmornan 
 
 in good health. . . . I'm gettin' the old age pen- 
 sion," said the old man, looking at Doalty, "and 
 it's more than some iv them will ever get, though 
 they maybe haven't seen a midden in all their 
 life." 
 
 Doalty Gallagher laughed, but it was not at 
 Oiney's remark. 
 
 "That drop of potheen you gave me, Oiney, was 
 very strong, I think," he said. "It has gone to 
 my head." 
 
 "Iv course it has," said Oiney, and a good-hu- 
 moured twinkle stole into his eyes. "It's the best 
 stuff goin'." 
 
 "Where was it made?" Doalty asked. 
 
 "Ah!" said Oiney, winking and laughing. 
 "Where was it made? Ah, me boyo, that can't be 
 said! Ears and tongues are too long in Glenmor- 
 nan nowadays, to say where anything is made. 
 Where was it made?" the old man repeated, with 
 a chuckle. "I don't know," he replied, as if in 
 answer to his own question. "And if I knew, wild 
 horses wouldn't draw it from me." 
 
 Doalty lit a cigarette. 
 
 "Will you have one, Oiney?" he asked. 
 
 "I'll keep to the pipe," said the old man, pulling 
 his little black dudheen from his pocket and put- 
 ting it in his mouth. "There's nothin' like a clay," 
 he went on. "Look up there, in that pratee field, 
 and see the white rocks." 
 
 Doalty looked and saw a number of white stones 
 placed here and there amidst the potato tops. 
 
 "What are they for, Oiney?" he asked.
 
 Oiney Leahy 107 
 
 "They're markin' me pipes," said the old man. 
 "I put the pipes under the ground there and let 
 them lie for a while. Then I dig them up again, 
 and to smoke them then, it's somethin' not to be 
 forgot for many a season. It's like havin' a 
 woman's arms round ye and ye behind a holly bush 
 and nobody about." 
 
 "So you like the women, Oiney V Doalty en- 
 quired. 
 
 "Once on a time I would go far to spend a night 
 with one," said the old man. "That was when I 
 was yer size, Doalty. And yerself," he enquired. 
 "Don't ye like to speak to them at all? There's 
 many a nice girl in this glen now, and mad after 
 the boys. There's Ellen Kelly and Sheila Dermod, 
 both iv them laughey cutties and wild for the 
 gasairs. Did ye not see Sheila this mornin' when 
 ye were comin' across here?" 
 
 "I saw her, but I didn't speak to her," said 
 Doalty. 
 
 "Young Dennys The Drover is mad after her," 
 said the old man. "But she'll not have anything 
 to do with him, for she is so proud. She'll have 
 to have a man shortly, for only herself and her 
 mother are workin' the farm and it's too much 
 for two women to do. But Sheila!" he added. 
 "As nice a make iv a girl as ever put white feet 
 on green grass !" 
 
 "Her father died shortly after I went away, 
 didn't he?" Doalty enquired. 
 
 "That was the time he died, God rest him," said 
 Oiney. "He was a thran man, as busy as a pis-
 
 io8 Glenmornan 
 
 mire and hasty as a brier. . . . Speak a man fair 
 he would not, for he was full iv malice, which is 
 not a good thing, for malice kills itself with its own 
 poison. He was always tellin' lies about every- 
 body, and though the way to truth is but one and 
 simple, he never found the way there. God for- 
 give me for sayin' the hard thing about the dead, 
 but old Shan Dermod was a hard man to put up 
 with. And ye've never heard how he died, I sup- 
 pose? Well, this was how it was. He was lyin' 
 on his death-bed and it was a harvest day, and the 
 hay was lyin' on the holms, ready for the tramp- 
 cocks. All at once he got up and goes to the door. 
 'Breed,' he says, turning to his wife, 'there's a big 
 black cloud over Carnaween, so it's better for yer- 
 self and Sheila to go out and gather the hay in 
 at once.' He goes back to his bed, and just as he 
 lay down, he heard the rain rattlin' on the window 
 panes. Then he dies, God rest his soul! He'd 
 have died happier if he went away an hour earlier. 
 ... I hope it won't be rainin' the morrow," said 
 Oiney, as if the memory of Shan Dermod's death 
 had turned his mind to the weather. "I'm goin' to 
 get some iv me turf rikkled the morrow and young 
 Dennys The Drover is comin' to give me a hand." 
 
 "I'll come too and help you if you'll let me," 
 said Doalty. 
 
 "Come if ye can and I'll be glad iv yer help," 
 said the old man. "I'll be needin' the new turf 
 in a wee while, for I haven't many left over from 
 last year now. So ye'll come, will ye, Doalty?" 
 
 "Of course I'll come," said the young man.
 
 Oiney Leahy 109 
 
 "Well, a dhrop to sweeten our partin'," said 
 Oiney. "Come in with me to the house and have 
 a drink afore ye go back across the brae." 
 
 IV 
 
 Doalty went up to the hill with Oiney Leahy 
 and Dennys The Drover the next morning. They 
 had their breakfasts at Oiney's house and Oiney 
 brought out the black bottle again. The bottle was 
 filled with potheen to the neck. 
 
 "So you've got some more," said Doalty. 
 
 "Ah ! a wee drop," said .the old man. "It was 
 the fairies that gave it to me." 
 
 "If the polis sees them fairies it'll be a black 
 day for them," said Dennys The- Drover, lying 
 back on his chair and lighting his pipe. 
 
 "Isn't it a good thing that the rain didn't come 
 this mornin'," said the old man, as if to change 
 the conversation. "I thought that it would be rain 
 after the cat was washin' himself behind the ears 
 yesterday." 
 
 Dennys The Drover winked at Doalty, as if to 
 show that he thought old Oiney was a fool. 
 
 Doalty liked Dennys, liked his hearty laugh, his 
 frank, open countenance and alert and supple fig- 
 ure. Dennys had a quiet look of assurance in his 
 eyes and a proud bearing; in. fact, he had the car- 
 riage of a young man who had a very high estima- 
 tion of his own worth. When Doalty asked him 
 a question, he closed his eyes and pondered for a
 
 no Glenmornan 
 
 minute before answering. No doubt he was en- 
 deavouring to discover why the young man back 
 from beyond the water was anxious to know so 
 many things. But The Drover liked Doalty. "He 
 doesn't dress up like a shop-boy or a teaman/' 
 Dennys said to Oiney that morning when he saw 
 the young journalist coming across the fields to 
 the day's work. "But ye never can tell what the 
 like of him is up to," he added, with the air of a 
 man who was not as yet certain of his own judg- 
 ment. 
 
 When speaking to Oiney, Dennys was never at 
 a loss for words. He spoke rapidly and without 
 the awkwardness which he showed when convers- 
 ing with young Gallagher. 
 
 "We'll get up to the hill now, me boys," said 
 Oiney, when breakfast was at an end. "It's a 
 long step from here to the top iv the hill. So, God 
 with us! and we'll get away." 
 
 The journey from the house to the bog was a 
 long, trying one, and Doalty was glad when he got 
 there. The turf lay all over the spread-field, 
 bundled together into little heaps. A fair amount 
 of the turf, not yet ready for stacking, but dry 
 enough for a slow fire, had to be built in clamps. 
 A clamp is a narrow little heap in which the turf 
 could dry a little more before the stacking season 
 came round. In the event of wet weather com- 
 ing, the clamps would hold through the winter, 
 though the turf in them might not be the best qual- 
 ity for the fire. Still it was better to have turf 
 half -dry than to have none at all.
 
 Oiney Leahy III 
 
 From the spread-field Doalty could see the whole 
 of Glenmornan below him, the white road running 
 through the meadows from the mountain down to 
 the village of Greenanore, and the river, a sliver 
 of silver, that sparkled brilliantly under the rays 
 of the sun. A light haze rose from the meadows 
 and cornfields, but Carnaween and Sliav-a-Tuagh 
 stood aloof, clear cut against the blue sky, looking 
 at one another. The little thatched houses rested 
 snug and warm under the cliffs, the cows were out 
 on the pastures, eating the green grass, and the 
 young children were herding them. Sounds of 
 laughter and singing could be heard, rising shrill 
 and clear over the roar of the waters falling from 
 the rocks. . . . Everything down there was in 
 amity and repose. Never had Doalty beheld such 
 peace. A great happiness, not unmixed with sor- 
 row, filled his soul. Conscious life, at that mo- 
 ment, seemed a very meagre interval to him, a mere 
 moment, giving so little time to enjoy the great 
 glory and wonder of created things. 
 
 "That's Sheila Dermod that I'm seein' down 
 there, isn't it?" asked Oiney, fixing his eyes on a 
 green field in which a young barefooted girl with 
 a shawl over her head was herding her cow. 
 
 "Sheila it is," said Dennys The Drover. 
 
 "A fine girl she is, isn't she?" asked the old man, 
 fixing a pair of roguish eyes on the young man. 
 
 "Not so bad," said Dennys. 
 
 "She's wild after ye," said Oiney. 
 
 "He thinks that every girl in the parish is mad 
 after me," said Dennys, looking at Doalty and al-
 
 112 Glenmornan 
 
 luding to Oiney. "I do find them willing to dance 
 with me," he continued, not without a certain 
 pride, "but that is nothin'. They must have their 
 bit iv fun, just the same as ourselves." 
 
 "I know the kind iv fun ye want," said Oiney 
 with a laugh, winking at Dennys, and poking him 
 on the chest with a miry thumb. "Ye're just the 
 same as I was when I was yer own age. And the 
 girls I used to have hangin' about me. Ah!" 
 he shook his white head mournfully "I don't think 
 they ever told the truth about their doin's at con- 
 fession after I spent a while with them," he added. 
 
 "Why not?" asked Doalty with a laugh, which 
 could not hide his interest in the old man's avowal. 
 
 "Why? Ah! me boy, why?" said Oiney, draw- 
 ing himself up and pulling his chin in. "If they 
 told everything that took place between themselves 
 and me ye would see all the girls in Glenmornan 
 goin' to Lough Derg on their two knees. I was a 
 funny bucko then. . . . And Dennys The Drover! 
 He's just the same now as I was then. I was just 
 the same cut iv a boy. And ye do have yer bit iv 
 fun with the girls, don't ye now, Dennys?" 
 
 "I do iv course, Oiney," said the young man. 
 "I try and have any fun that's goin'." 
 
 "And what sort of fun is that?" Doalty asked, 
 looking at the young man. 
 
 Dennys closed his eyes for a moment, then 
 opened them again. 
 
 "Oh, just any kind iv fun at all," he said in a 
 non-committal voice, nodding his head as he spoke. 
 
 "That's the way to hide it," said Oiney in a
 
 Oiney Leahy 113 
 
 bantering voice. "Yer fun can't bear the light iv 
 the world on it, Dennys. I mind once, a good 
 many years back it was, and it was at a hay-stack 
 that old Shan Dermod God rest him ! was build- 
 ing. I had a drop too much in me when night 
 came on, and if my legs were stiddy my head was 
 in a maze. That's always the way with me in the 
 drink. Well, I got up to me feet in Shan Dermod's 
 house when all the townland were there and I says, 
 : I was told of what I said afterwards, for I didn't 
 mind a word iv it meself, I says, 'Hide it as much 
 as ye like, but one person is as bad as another in 
 this glen. There's a down-drop in every thatch,' 
 says I, 'and I'm goin' to tell everything that bad 
 report has about everybody in the townland. Aye/ 
 says I, 'if the priest iv the parish was here himself 
 I could tell him things about his own doin's that 
 ud make him redden to the butts iv his ears. Now 
 I'll tell ye/ I goes on, 'tell ye all yer sins that ye 
 think are hidden, for ye are all sinners in the eyes 
 iv God and man/ I was as wild as a March hare 
 then, and there was no stoppin' me when I made 
 up me mind to go on. Well, widye believe me! 
 but not a soul stopped in the house to hear what I 
 had to say barrin' Sheila Dermod, and she couldn't 
 leave the house, for she was then a child in the 
 cradle. But the others went out and I often won- 
 der what it was that took Anna Gorth first out iv 
 the house, and her holdin' up to be the holiest 
 woman in the barony." 
 
 "But who told you about it afterwards, seein'
 
 114 Glenmornan 
 
 that ye didn't remember it yerself ?" asked Dennys 
 ,The Drover. 
 
 "Who, guess, but Owen Briney, the sly cadger !" 
 said Oiney. "He told me all about it the next 
 mornin'. 'And ye went out too?' I says to him. 
 'I didn't want to stay in when all went out,' says 
 Owen, and be the way he spoke ye would think that 
 butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. 'So ye stayed 
 outside iv the door,' says I, 'and listened to hear 
 what I said?' 
 
 " 'I did not, for I didn't want to hear any bad 
 about meself,' he says, laughin' as if to put it by. 
 
 " 'Ye would endure that,' says I, 'to hear bad 
 about yer neighbours.' And if ye, yerself, Dennys 
 <The Drover, were there that night, ye'd have gone 
 out too," said the old man. 
 
 "I'd have been one iv the first," said Dennys, 
 laughing as if a compliment had been paid him. 
 
 "Well, we've done very well for the mornin'," 
 said, Oiney Leahy, as the three men sat down for 
 their dinner at noon. A peat fire was ablaze in 
 the heather and on it a can of tea was bubbling 
 merrily. Oiney had brought up the food for dinner 
 in the morning. The meal consisted of homemade 
 bread, baked by Oiney, butter, eggs and tea. 
 There were three eggs for each man. All were 
 hungry and they left a very poor decency bite for. 
 the birds when the meal was at an end.
 
 Oiney Leahy 115 
 
 "Yes, ye've worked very well the two iv ye," 
 said Oiney as he lay back in the heather and lit his 
 pipe. "And Doalty, boy, ye've made a good fist 
 iv the work, which is more than some who come 
 back from foreign parts can do. Now the shop- 
 boys, the scrape-the-pots, look at them ! When they 
 come back, it's a collar and tie they have on, all the 
 time they are here. Indeed, it's not much iv their 
 time they spend here at all. Glenmornan is not 
 quality enough for them and it's all the while down 
 in Greenanore that they are 'tryin' to get on the 
 skift with Heel-Ball's daughter or somebody like 
 that. But yerself, Doalty," said the old man, and 
 a note of deep feeling crept into his voice, "yerself 
 is just like one iv ourselves." 
 
 "And damn it, Oiney, why shouldn't I?" asked 
 Doalty. "Could I have any better company than 
 you now?" 
 
 The old man fixed a startled look on Doalty. 
 Oiney had spent so much of his time defending 
 himself against censure, imaginary and otherwise, 
 that he was utterly at a loss when confronted with 
 words of praise. Now, he sought security by 
 changing the conversation. 
 
 "Ye can carry a good creel iv turf, and swing it 
 on yer shoulder almost as good as Dennys him- 
 self," Oiney remarked. 
 
 "He's every bit as good as me," said Dennys. 
 
 "You are far and away too modest, Dennys," 
 said Doalty. "If I had shoulders and arms like 
 you I would become a boxer or a wrestler or some- 
 thing like that. You are wasting yourself here."
 
 n6 Glenmornan 
 
 "Do ye think that I'd make much iv a wrestler?" 
 asked Dennys, and a look of interest lit up his face. 
 "I never tried it much, but when I did, I was fit 
 to hold my own." 
 
 "Ha! ye limb iv evil, ye!" laughed Oiney. "Al- 
 most fit to hold yer own ! Listen t'ye ! The night 
 the four polismen tried to collar ye, ye almost held 
 yer own! Ye couldn't tell a Greenanore polisman 
 from a bundle iv bandages for six weeks after ye 
 had finished with them. Ah! no, ye're not able to 
 hold yer own, Dennys The Drover, me boy," said 
 Oiney, and an ironical smile showed in his eyes. 
 He was amused at the modesty of Dennys The 
 Drover. 
 
 "Can ye wrestle at all, Doalty?" asked the young 
 man. 
 
 "I used to a little at one time," said Doalty. 
 
 "Will ye show me something about it the way 
 ye have of doin' it and that?" 
 
 "I don't mind, in the least," said Doalty, getting 
 to his feet. "I'll show you some of the throws that 
 I learned. ... If I fling you over my shoulders 
 you are not to be annoyed, mind. I'll show you 
 how it's done afterwards, and you'll find that you'll 
 be much better at it than me when you have a little 
 practice." 
 
 The two young men, their sleeves thrust up, 
 their breasts bare, faced one another on the 
 heather. 
 
 "We'll try catch-as-catch-can at first," said 
 Doalty. "It's the kind done away from here. . . . 
 In this way. . . . You catch me wherever you can
 
 Oiney Leahy 117 
 
 and try and throw me down to the heather. When 
 you get my shoulders square with the ground it 
 will be a fall in your favour. Now, try and grip 
 me." 
 
 Oiney, sitting down and smoking, put the pipe 
 in his pocket and fixed himself in a contemplative 
 attitude. The one-time master cudgel-player of 
 the Barony of Burrach was eager to see every 
 move in the game. The first move mystified the 
 old man. He saw Doalty and Dennys come to 
 grips and the next instant Drover Dennys was 
 lying flat on the ground. 
 
 "Well, how is it done?" asked the old man, get- 
 ting to his feet and looking at Doalty with eyes 
 that were full of new interest. 
 
 "I'll show you," said Doalty, whose face was 
 flushed and red with excitement. "You put your 
 arm round my neck, turn your back on me, shove 
 your buttocks under my stomach and bend down 
 as sharp as you can and pull me with you. Then 
 you'll do the same to me as I've just done to Drover 
 Dennys. 
 
 Oiney did as he was directed and bent down, 
 pulling Doalty with him. In some mysterious man- 
 ner the young man left his arm and when Oiney 
 looked round he saw Doalty lying in the heather. 
 
 "Ye went over me back just like a feather," said 
 the old man, in a pleased voice. "Ah! I wished I 
 knew that trick in the old times. I would have let 
 them see. . . ." 
 
 Two hours afterward Oiney looked at the sun, 
 then at his own bleeding arm, at Dennys' torn shirt
 
 n8 Glenmornan 
 
 and Doalty's peat-covered face. Wrestling prac- 
 tice on the Glenmornan hills on a hot July day is 
 a weary pastime. 
 
 "It's past three be the sun now, and it's time to 
 be clampin' some more iv the turf," said Oiney, 
 his voice betraying his reluctance to leave a sport 
 into which he had entered with an enthusiasm as 
 great as that of the younger men. 
 
 VI 
 
 Having taken a few sups from the bottle of 
 potheen which Oiney Leahy handed him, Doalty 
 bade the old man good-night and left for home, 
 feeling weary after the hard day's work. Dennys 
 The Drover remained behind and Doalty guessed 
 that part of their conversation would be about him 
 when he left them, and also about the fairies who, 
 now and again, supplied potheen to the inhabitants 
 of Glenmornan. 
 
 The sun was setting behind Sliav-a-Tuagh and 
 behind that giant crest the sky was flushed and 
 glowing. Red rays slanted down the braes of Glen- 
 mornan, colouring the waving grasses in the holms 
 and gleaming on the ripples of the river Owena- 
 wadda. Overhead, in the clear, blue sky a flight 
 of crows was winging its way homewards to the 
 rookery in Meenawarawor. The sparrows were 
 chirping in the bushes and a dog was barking some- 
 where on the hills where the young girls of Strana- 
 meera were bringing their cattle home for the milk-
 
 Oiney Leahy 119 
 
 ing. The streams were reeling over the rocks and 
 Doalty could see the foam flying in air as the tor- 
 rents bounded down to the river. The sound of 
 the waterfalls made the young man's eyes and ears 
 quiver as he heard it. His nostrils were filled with 
 the scent of the glen, of the growing grass, the 
 peatfires and the generous earth, and his heart was 
 deeply moved by it all. 
 
 His life was mapped out clearly now, his future 
 career defined. It almost seemed that whatever 
 would come to him now, it would be the work of 
 his own hands. He was living simply, a peasant, 
 beset with the cares and worries of a peasant's life 
 and he was very happy. He had forsaken every- 
 thing that would make for fame and advancement 
 in the field of life; he had put all that London held 
 for him aside, and his mood of self-abnegation 
 pleased him. "Will this happiness last?" he asked 
 himself and answered in an audible voice, "Of 
 course it will, for I am doing the right thing." 
 
 Deep in thoughts like these he strode across 
 Owen Briney's land and entered a hazel clump on 
 Breed Dermod's farm and it was here he met 
 Sheila. 
 
 The girl was sitting on the ground under a hazel 
 bush, her bare feet tucked up under her skirt, her 
 head wrapped in a shawl, her hands busy knitting 
 a stocking. As Doalty entered the glade, she 
 sprang to her feet and fixed a pair of big, blue, 
 startled eyes on the young man. He looked at her 
 and felt that a thing more beautiful he had never 
 seen or imagined in all his life. The young girl
 
 120 Glenmornan 
 
 gazed at him, a blush mantling her cheeks; her 
 mouth a little open, the hand which held the stock- 
 ing hanging by her side. The bold sweep of her 
 high eyebrows, the straight nose, the nostrils, dilat- 
 ing slightly, as if to the promptings of some hidden 
 passion, the eyes glowing and darkening at the 
 same moment, the splendid shoulders and full 
 throat caused a strange yearning to rise in Doalty's 
 heart. But he felt more courageous now than on 
 the previous morning. When he saw her then, he 
 could not summon confidence enough to enter into 
 conversation with the girl. But now Oiney 
 Leahy's potheen was very strong and gave a man 
 heart. 
 
 The girl was still looking at him, apparently 
 debating as to whether she should run away or 
 remain where she was. 
 
 "Good evening, Sheila Dermod," said Doalty 
 Gallagher. 
 
 "Good evening," said the girl in a shy whisper, 
 letting one of her knit-needles drop to the ground. 
 Neither herself or Doalty saw it fall. 
 
 "You've got so big since I saw you last," said 
 Doalty, "I hardly know you." 
 
 "And I hardly would know yerself," said Sheila 
 Dermod, making this remark, because it was the 
 only thing she could think of saying. 
 
 Doalty was at a loss for a moment. He looked 
 diffidently at Sheila's bare feet as if to find a topic 
 for conversation. Then he turned his glance to 
 her face again. The girl was blushing crimson, 
 ashamed no doubt at being seen barefooted.
 
 Oiney Leahy 121 
 
 "You are such a beautiful girl," said Doalty 
 boldly, a little amazed at his own coolness. 
 
 "Am I?" asked Sheila in an almost indifferent 
 voice, which might mean that the compliment 
 would be- gratefully received from a man more to 
 her liking. She laughed and her nose puckered 
 up slightly. 
 
 "Ye've been drinkin' some of Oiney Leahy?s 
 potheen I suppose," she added. 
 
 "No, I've not," Doalty replied, colouring a little. 
 
 "Oiney would not be pleased if ye went out iv his 
 house without a drink," said Sheila, as if she knew 
 that Doalty was not telling her the truth. 
 
 "What have you been doing here?" Doalty en- 
 quired. "Knitting your stocking?" 
 
 "That's what I was doin'," said the girl, pulling 
 her shawl tighter about her shoulders and turning 
 half round as if with the intention of going into her 
 home. 
 
 "Sheila," said Doalty in a low voice and coughed 
 awkwardly as he spoke. 
 
 "What is it?" she enquired, turning round and 
 gazing, as it seemed to him, over his shoulder at 
 the setting sun which was reflected in little points 
 of fire in her eyes. Her beautiful hair straggled 
 out in little curls from under her shawl; one hand 
 held the stocking and the fingers of the other were 
 fumbling with her petticoat. 
 
 "What is it that ye're goin' to say to me?" asked 
 Sheila again, when she had looked in silence at 
 Doalty for a moment.
 
 122 Glenmornan 
 
 "Nothing, only that you are very beautiful," 
 said Doalty, hardly recognising his own voice. 
 
 "Then ye must be drunk," said the girl, with 
 a laugh, and she ran away through the hazel 
 bushes, leaving the young man staring after her. 
 In a moment she was out of sight, but presently 
 she stuck her head through the branches again, 
 fixed a mischievous glance at Doalty and a con- 
 fused smile showed on her face. 
 
 "Good-night, Doalty Gallagher," she called in 
 a loud whisper, peeping slyly out from under her 
 eyelids. 
 
 "Good-night, Sheila Dermod," Doalty replied, 
 and Sheila disappeared. 
 
 "She thinks that I am drunk," he repeated to 
 himself, as he bent down and lifted a shiny needle 
 from the ground. Then he made his way home- 
 wards, pondering over the girl's remarks. 
 
 "Maybe I am drunk," he said with an air of de- 
 cision after a while. "I wouldn't behave as I've 
 done if I was sober. . . . And Drover Denny s is 
 going to marry her one of these days," he mused 
 as he was entering his mother's house. "I hope 
 he does, for she is a good girl and he couldn't do 
 better. . . . But such a throat and chin and such 
 eyes. . . . That's the reason. . . . I'm drunk." 
 
 He kept continually repeating this latter remark 
 during the evening, repeating it with the peculiar 
 insistence of a man who wishes to believe it.
 
 Oiney Leahy 123 
 
 VII 
 
 The days passed quietly for Doalty Gallagher 
 and he felt very happy and contented in Glenmor- 
 nan. London, its rush, worry and excitement, 
 seemed to belong to an age beyond recall; when 
 people whom he had known, Lady Ronan, George 
 and Myra recurred in Doalty's memory, they 
 seemed to be shapeless impressions of a troubled 
 dream. Soon these impressions would be dulled 
 beyond restoring. 
 
 He got out of bed in the early morning, sprinted 
 down to the river Owenawadda, and plunged in 
 for a dip. Now and then Drover Dennys accom- 
 panied him and both went into the stream together. 
 By the time Doalty got back to his house, his* 
 breakfast was laid out and all the family was afoot, 
 Maura The Rosses and Norah busy with the house- 
 work, Teague at work in the fields, Hughie Beag 
 playing with the puppy, his favourite pastime, and 
 Kitty getting ready to go to the convent school of 
 Greenanore. Amongst other branches of educa- 
 tion, the young girl was learning cookery, and it 
 was said that she was one of the most skilful cooks 
 at the school and she could make dishes fit for the 
 table of a queen. But she never made those dishes 
 at home because suitable ingredients could not be 
 purchased in the village. Even if they could be 
 obtained, there was not an oven in the whole 
 glen. . . . 
 
 Oiney Leahy heard of the young girl's tuition
 
 124 Glenmornan 
 
 in the culinary art, and what he said, when he 
 heard it, was common gossip in Glenmornan for 
 many weeks. 
 
 "I don't know what the learnin' is comin' to," 
 said Oiney. "The young girsas go down to Grena- 
 nore and they learn to make the grandest meals in 
 the world, and when they come back home at night 
 they have to feed on scaddan and sgiddins. If 
 they were learned to cook just like their mothers, 
 it would be all right ; but here they go down to the 
 town and learn how to cook what God doesn't send 
 us. It's a sin and a shame the kind iv learnin' 
 that's in it nowadays. . . . The other day I went 
 over to Phelim Biddy Wor to get the len iv a garra 
 madagh* and Phelim's wee gasair was sittin' on 
 the stool be the fire and his head sunk in a book. 
 What is it that ye're readin', Gasair Phelim?' I 
 put to him. 
 
 " I'm readin' about the many miles that this 
 world is away from the sun/ he tells me. 
 
 " 'And how many will it be now?" I asks him. 
 
 " 'So and so," he answers me. 
 
 " 'And how many miles is it from the head-end 
 iv the Barony iv Burrach to the butt end iv the 
 Rosses?' I asks him. 
 
 " Then I don't know, Oiney Leahy/ he says. 
 
 "So I don't know what kind iv learnin' it is 
 that's comin 5 to the people now," said Oiney. 
 "They learn how to cook things that they never 
 see and to measure distances that are no good to 
 man or beast. The lady that came to make me 
 
 *A creel-rest.
 
 Oiney Leahy 125 
 
 move the duhal away from the front iv me house 
 must have learnin' just the same as that. De- 
 stroyin' me bit iv a farm just to cure me from the 
 decline that I never had. I would, if it was left 
 to me, rather die with the decline than with starva- 
 tion. . . ." 
 
 During the day Doalty Gallagher used to see the 
 old man at his work, delving the jealous earth, his 
 old back crooked over his spade, his face stream- 
 ing with sweat and his mind full of vague thoughts, 
 reveries and dreams of old times. The old man 
 worked slowly, silently and without any apparent 
 waste of effort. But with a judicious expenditure 
 of strength and a steadiness that brooked no dis- 
 traction, old Oiney on the spadeland, was a worker 
 second to none in Glenmornan. 
 
 Oiney spoke about his house one day when 
 Doalty Gallagher went across to see him. 
 
 "It's not much to look at now, is it, Doalty?" 
 he asked. "But one time ye could travel far before 
 ye could set two eyes on a neater house," he con- 
 tinued. "Ah! Doalty, if ye saw it when I took in 
 me wife, God rest her, to it. It was then as clean 
 as the white stone at the bottom iv a spring well, 
 with a floor hand-smooth, and not a trace iv dirt 
 on it, with thatch that threw the water off, just 
 like the wing iv a wild-duck, and walls that were as 
 white as the shell iv an egg. It would do a man's 
 heart good to look on it. 
 
 "And the way the two iv us were gettin' on and 
 puttin' a bit by. There was milk and to spare from 
 the cows in the byre, and the corn was sproutin*
 
 126 Glenmornan 
 
 on the brae-face, and Breed used to do good work 
 at the spinnin' iv the wool. That was enough to 
 make any man glad, for what did they say of old? 
 What, but this : Three slender things support the 
 world best : the thin blade iv corn on the holm, the 
 thin stream iv milk into the pail and the thin thread 
 runnin' through the fingers iv a woman. And the 
 cloth that used to be made then, Doalty! It sat 
 well on man and woman; elegant and comfortable 
 it was and it was fit to wear out the years of a 
 hearty life. . . . But now, look at the times that's 
 in it! ... 
 
 "But maybe things will change a bit some day," 
 he added, after a short silence. "Maybe I'll be 
 well-to-do yet. For ye know, Doalty, that I can 
 work as well as any man in the glen yet and I can 
 go up and down that hill for turf, just as easy as 
 I was able to do it thirty years ago when I was a 
 youngster. . . . And ye did see me at the rassle 
 the other day on the bog. I was fit to get me hand 
 in at it very quick and I made a good fist iv it afore 
 .we stopped, didn't I now?" 
 
 "You did indeed, Oiney," Doalty replied. 
 
 "Iv course I did," said the old man with a com- 
 placent smile. "If I practice it a bit, I'll be able 
 !n another couple iv years to uiake some iv the 
 young ones sit up." 
 
 "Or fall down, Oiney," said Doalty with a laugh. 
 
 "That's it," said Oiney. "Fall down! They'll 
 go down if I get me arms roun' them. Ye know 
 who I would like to show some iv the tips to." 
 
 "Owen Briney," said Doalty, who was by this
 
 Oiney Leahy 127 
 
 time aware that there was no love lost between 
 the cattle dealer and Oiney Leahy. 
 
 "Yes, Owen Briney, since ye say so," said Oiney, 
 in a voice which tried to suggest that he was think- 
 ing, not of Owen, but of some other person. "Yes, 
 I would like to put Owen Briney flat on his back, 
 the dirty toe-rag." 
 
 VIII 
 
 The fresh life of the glen and mountain was a 
 tonic to young Doalty Gallagher. He lived con- 
 tent and was happy. After breakfast he went out 
 to his work on the fields or hills, gathered in the 
 turf and helped to build them in big stacks on the 
 high hillocks of the spread-fields. His brother 
 Teague worked with him and this youngster was a 
 bit surprised at Doalty's readiness to take part in 
 the labour of the farm. Maura The Rosses was 
 a little bit annoyed. 
 
 "I don't know why Doalty just goes about the 
 same as if he had never been away from here," 
 she said once. "He goes out and works, just as if 
 he had only been away at the harvest in Scotland 
 or England. The Greenanore people (Maura 
 meant the Greenanore people of the Quigley class) 
 will think he has been nothin' at all, when he was 
 abroad in other parts." 
 
 But she never showed her annoyance to Doalty, 
 though one day she asked him why he never put a 
 white collar round his neck.
 
 128 Glenmornan 
 
 "I'm more comfortable without a collar," said 
 Doalty. 
 
 But Maura, who did not like seeing her son 
 descend to the ordinary occupations of the farm, 
 was herself a great worker and she never had an 
 idle moment. One job followed fast on the heels 
 of another, and Doalty, who often watched her 
 toil, marvelled at her energy. He often saw her 
 go out to the well for a bucket of water to make 
 the stirabout. On her way out she would stop 
 for a moment to lift a stray peat or a thorn from 
 the street. On the way back she would place her 
 bucket on the ground, tie a stray strapper in the 
 byre, or chase the pigs or ducks into their croaghs. 
 On bringing the water in, she would place it in 
 the pot that hung by a crook over the fire, sit down 
 and knit a sock while she waited for the water to 
 boil. Not a moment was lost, and even at night, 
 when she knelt to say her prayers, she would place 
 her knitting on the chair near her, so that no time 
 would be lost in resuming her work when she got 
 up from her knees. Maura The Rosses had never 
 had a day's illness in her life. 
 
 Doalty went to mass every Sunday. On the first 
 occasion he knelt when all the others knelt, but it 
 was rumoured in the barony afterwards that he 
 failed to bless himself when others did so. On the 
 second Sunday he did not kneel during the whole 
 service and this was noticed by the congregation. 
 
 "It's the faith that he has lost abroad," they 
 said, and shook their heads. "It's bad for the 
 young to leave their own country."
 
 Oiney Leahy 129 
 
 The priest of the parish was an old fellow 
 named Devaney, a man belonging to a bad type, 
 the peasant-born extortionist. Doalty knew him 
 of old, when a barefooted boy at the national 
 school. He feared him then, now he detested him. 
 Devaney was a gombeen priest, who played on the 
 fears and dreads of the poor and drained the needy 
 of their last penny. For collecting stipends, offer- 
 ings and plate-money, Devaney had no equal. 
 Nothing escaped him and it was said by the people 
 of the parish that the priest could make a corpse 
 blush in its coffin if the offerings were small. 
 
 Devaney had built himself a large residence near 
 the village, making the peasantry pay the money 
 for the building, taxing them to the extent of eight 
 pounds per family. In addition to this the men 
 folk had to go and work, wage free, at the building 
 of the house, the quarrying and carting of stone, 
 the draining of the garden and the upkeep of paths 
 leading to the residence. 
 
 One day Maura The Rosses spoke to her son. 
 The woman had been down at the village market 
 selling a butt of butter, and as she got a good price 
 for it she was in a high humour. It was in the 
 evening after her return that she spoke. 
 
 "On me way back I met the priest," she said, 
 and a pleased look appeared on her face. "He just 
 came up to me and spoke so kindly." 
 
 "And why not?" Doalty asked with bitterness, 
 in his voice. "Are you not ten times better than 
 he is?" 
 
 "Better than the holy priest?" asked Maura in
 
 130 Glenmornan 
 
 a shocked voice. -'To think iv ye sayiri' that, 
 Doalty!" 
 
 "But surely, mother, you don't think that he is 
 a more worthy creature than old Oiney, for ex- 
 ample." 
 
 "Oiney's an old plaisham, and ye know that yer- 
 self, Doalty," said Maura The Rosses. "Why ye 
 mention him in the same voice with the priest I 
 don't know. And he's comin' up to see ye too." 
 
 "Devaney?" Doalty asked. 
 
 "Father Devaney is comin' up to see ye," said 
 the mother. 
 
 "But I haven't asked him." 
 
 "I don't know what's come over ye at all, to 
 speak in that way, Doalty," said the woman. "It's 
 not to every house that he would come, even if he 
 was asked." 
 
 Doalty grew angry and tried to prove to his 
 mother that the priest was a most unworthy man, 
 that he was a tyrant and a rogue. But his words 
 seemed to make no impression on his mother. She 
 listened, her hands resting on her lap, but Doalty 
 felt that his words redounded from her as from a 
 stone wall. She heard them, but she had her own 
 convictions which nothing could -shake or drive 
 away. 
 
 "If he comes here to see me without being in- 
 vited I'll pitch him into the midden," Doalty cried. 
 
 "And for doin' that the house and yerself will 
 never have any luck," said Maura The Rosses. 
 
 "And you believe that?" Doalty enquired. 
 
 "Nobody with any faith would doubt it/' said
 
 Oiney Leahy 131 
 
 Maura The Rosses in a dogmatic tone. "Nobody 
 in the whole wide world." 
 
 Doalty was a puzzle to the neighbours. That 
 he did not behave like a shop-boy pleased them at 
 first, but after a while they became a little suspi- 
 cious. The peasantry are always suspicious of that 
 which they do not understand. That a young fel- 
 low, with money and learning, behaved as Doalty 
 behaved was something they could not understand. 
 "He's curious," they said, when speaking amongst 
 themselves, a world of meaning in their voices. 
 "Well, if he is, he must have taken it from his 
 mother's ones, for there's no understanding the 
 Rosses people," they added. Even Dennys The 
 Drover did not know what to make of Doalty. One 
 day he said to him : 
 
 "Are ye never for leavin' here again, Doalty?" 
 
 "I'm not, if I can help it," said Doalty. "I'm bet- 
 ter here than anywhere else." 
 
 "Well if ye look at it in that way !" said Dennys 
 The Drover, but down in his heart he thought that 
 Doalty had left London because he had got into 
 trouble there. 
 
 The two young men often went out fishing to- 
 gether. They would sit by the river throwing their 
 flies on the stream. Now and again, when they 
 saw the water-keeper coming along the bank, Den- 
 nys would turn to Doalty and say, "We'll run in 
 and hide in the wood," alluding to one of the spin- 
 neys near the banks. Then the two of them would 
 hide there until the water-keeper had gone out of
 
 132 Glenmornan 
 
 sight. When danger was past they would come 
 out again and resume their fishing. 
 
 One day Doalty saw the water-keeper coming 
 down the glen. 
 
 "We'll get into the wood," he said, turning to his 
 friend. 
 
 "What for?" Dennys enquired. 
 
 "I see the water-keeper coming," said Doalty. 
 
 "Let him come then," Dennys replied, a gleam 
 of anger lighting up his eyes. "To think that we 
 cannot get fishin' under our own houses! Didn't 
 God make the water for us to fish in, just as much, 
 and more, than for them that comes from abroad!" 
 
 He sat there with Doalty until the water-keeper, 
 who had observed them, came down to the bank 
 of the river. 
 
 "Have you permission to fish here?" asked the 
 water-keeper, looking at the two men. 
 , "What the hell is that to ye?" asked Dennys 
 The Drover, and gripping hold of the man he flung 
 him with one mighty heave into the river. Then 
 he pulled him out. 
 
 When he stood on the bank, wet and shivering, 
 Dennys looked at him. 
 
 "Hook it!" he yelled, catching the man by the 
 collar of the coat and shaking him. "Get about 
 yer business, and if ye say anything about this I'll 
 kill ye, be God I will!" 
 
 The water-keeper went away and Dennys heard 
 no more about the matter. 
 
 Next time the water-keeper came along the glen 
 -road both men hid in the wood.
 
 Oiney Leahy 133 
 
 '"There's some things that can be done once," 
 said Dennys The Drover. "But there's danger in 
 doing them too often." 
 
 The two young men often wrestled with one an- 
 other and Dennys, who was much stronger phys- 
 ically than Doalty, was making great progress in 
 the art. He was willing to attempt anything and 
 when he scored a point, his face would light up 
 with delight and he would say, "I'm gettin' me 
 hand in, Doalty. I'll soon be almost as good as 
 yerself." 
 
 Now and again Doalty met Sheila Dermod and 
 Eileen Kelly going down the road to the village. 
 The two girls were great chums and always went 
 to mass and market together. Eileen was a win- 
 ning slip of a girl, charming but capricious, good- 
 hearted but coquettish, fond of her parents but 
 fonder of the boys. She would be a good match 
 for some young man when her parents died, for 
 she was the only child and the farm coming to her 
 was a good one, with grass for three cows and 
 twenty sheep. She lived next door, but one, to 
 Sheila Dermod, and Owen Briney's land divided 
 the two farms. If Owen was a younger man he 
 might have married one of the girls, but as it was, 
 he was no match for either of them. Owen was 
 a stingy, near-going creature, one of those who 
 asks a pipe of tobacco in return for a light. Glen- 
 mornan girls were loth to have their knitting spoilt, 
 as they say, by a man like Owen Briney. Sheila 
 or Eileen never spoke to Owen. "As if we would
 
 134 Glenmornan 
 
 give him the nose/' they often said. "We wouldn't 
 be seen on the same side of the road with him." 
 
 Sheila Dermod was of a very retiring disposi- 
 tion, but despite that every one was aware that she 
 was very proud and conscious of her own beauty. 
 Eileen Kelly was good looking, but whenever 
 Doalty Gallagher met the two together and his 
 eyes rested on Sheila, he would forget all about 
 her friend. Sheila, gracefully built, hardly seemed 
 to have reached her full development yet. Meet- 
 ing Doalty on the roadway, her big, blue eyes 
 would look at him direct and bold for a moment, 
 then her eyelids would faintly droop and the ex- 
 pression on her face would become very deep and 
 tender. On these occasions a strange thrill of ex- 
 citement would pass through Doalty's whole body ; 
 his heart, stirred by a vague, endless anticipation, 
 would fill with a happiness which he could neither, 
 analyse or explain. 
 
 On Sundays Sheila wore a hat when going to 
 the village, but on week-days she wore a shawl. 
 Doalty thought that she looked better in the latter 
 garb, but he never noticed what apparel became 
 Eileen Kelly best. 
 
 "Well, I hope that she gets married to Dennys 
 The Drover," he often remarked. "The two are 
 made for one another. And he's such a fine fel- 
 low. . . . I've never met a man whom I liked so 
 much."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE FAIR OF GREENANORE 
 
 At night when the old ones 
 
 Have finished their jobs, 
 And trading is over, 
 
 They sit by their hobs, 
 Counting their money, 
 
 For that is their way, 
 When they're back from the fair 
 
 At the shut of the day. 
 
 At night, when the young ones 
 
 Are doing a lot 
 Of kissing and courting, 
 
 And paying their shot; 
 They spend all their money, 
 
 For that is their way, 
 When they're down in the fair 
 
 At the shut of the day. 
 
 The Fair. 
 
 IT was early morning of Lammas Day, the day 
 on which the fair of Greenanore was held, and 
 Doalty Gallagher stood on the glen road, 
 where it ran through Stranameera, watching the 
 people go by on their way to the village. The road 
 was black with men and women, cattle and carts, 
 with mountainy men, straggling by, driving their 
 135
 
 136 Glenmornan 
 
 sheep and cows, accompanied by barefooted 
 women, carrying their big hanks of yarn on their 
 backs and their boots slung over their shoulders. 
 These women would put their boots on, when they 
 came near the village, for though their own per- 
 sonal comforts vetoed boots, convention and moun- 
 tainy pride demanded that they should be worn at 
 the fair. The mountainy people had been on the 
 road all night, for the journey from the head-end 
 of the barony to the village of Greenanore was a 
 distance of twelve or fourteen miles. 
 
 Every townland in the parish was passing by; 
 Croagh An-Airagead and Croagh Gorm, with their 
 carts of wool and droves of sheep; Knock Letter- 
 ha and Greenans, with their helfted cows from the 
 pastures and their butter from the churning; Cor- 
 nagrilla, a townland of looms, with its webs of 
 homespun heaped on the weavers' backs, and Gra- 
 naroodagh, the townland of sally bushes, with its 
 bundles of home-made creels and baskets. Parties 
 of drovers, dark-skinned men, with vigorous eyes, 
 who swore with every breath and prefaced every 
 remark they made, by spitting through their teeth, 
 hurried along, driving their wild bullocks before 
 them. In the midst of the crowd came a cart, 
 heaped with butts of butter, the results of a 
 month's churning in the upper arm of the glen. On 
 one of the white butts sat the driver, his head bent 
 forward and a short black clay pipe in his mouth. 
 Behind him sat two women, their shawls wrapped 
 tightly round their heads, one, sitting very still, her 
 .eyes fixed on the ground and her thoughts on the
 
 The Fair of Greenanore 137 
 
 price which she would get for her butt of butter, 
 the other woman, telling her beads, praying, no 
 doubt, for a good market. 
 
 Immediately behind, came an old, bearded man, 
 in a white, woollen wrapper, leading a little lame 
 nag, which was drawing a cart of apples. When- 
 ever the wheel of the cart creaked as it ran in a 
 rut, the old withered man, who was chewing a plug 
 of black tobacco, turned to the nag, shouted, 
 "Whoa eep, now ! ye limb iv the divil, ye !" and spat 
 on the dusty road. 
 
 "It's a nice morning," said Doalty. 
 
 "'Tis, thank God," said the man. Then the 
 wheel creaked. "Whoa eep now, ye limb iv the 
 divil, ye!" said the old fellow, spitting in the dust 
 and continuing his journey. 
 
 Following the apple cart came Dennys The 
 Drover, driving a dozen short-horned bullocks, a 
 cigarette between his lips, an ash-plant in his hand, 
 and his cap thrust well back from his forehead. 
 From his swinging gait and the careless look on 
 his bold, open face it was easily seen that he was 
 in a high, good humour. 
 
 "Good mornin' to ye, Doalty!" he called in a 
 ringing voice and his face lit up with a smile. 
 : "Are ye ready to come in with me now ?" 
 
 "I'm ready," said Doalty. On the preceding day 
 the two young fellows had arranged to go to the 
 fair together. 
 
 "There'll be some 'fun the day, I'm tellin' ye/' 
 said Dennys, catching his ash-plant by knob and
 
 138 Glenmornan 
 
 ferule with both hands and curling it round his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 "And the girls that'll be there!" said Drover 
 Dennys, giving one of the bullocks, which stopped 
 to eat some grass from the roadside, a skelp on 
 the rump with his ash-plant. "I have two or three 
 in me mind for the night, so I'll try and get rid iv 
 all the stock the day, for I don't want to take them 
 home again and miss the fun. . . . Ah! the girls 
 that'll be there!" he repeated with a laugh. "No 
 man need go empty the night." 
 
 "But you can have any girl that you want," said 
 Doalty. By this he really meant that Dennys could 
 have Sheila Dermod if he so desired. 
 
 "Sometimes I'm in luck's way," said Dlennys 
 carelessly. "But then, ye never know what to 
 make iv them. But if yerself comes with me the 
 night we'll be sure to get two. I'll see that ye don't 
 go without a girsa." 
 
 He spoke in an off-hand manner, as if he had 
 control of the whole female element at the fair of 
 Greenanore; then he hit a bullock near him with 
 his ash-plant and the two young men made their 
 way together to the fair. 
 
 Dennys had a worthy reputation amongst the 
 cattle dealers. He never exaggerated the number 
 of brilliant bargains which he had made, a rare 
 trait in a drover. But despite his successes, things 
 did not prosper with him and hard work was not 
 at all to his liking, "What he makes in the fair
 
 The Fair of Greenanore 139 
 
 he loses in the field," the neighbours said, when 
 speaking of him, and this was in a great measure 
 true. His mother and sister did most of the work 
 of the little farm, carried in the peat from the hills 
 and planted the potatoes and corn. Bending over 
 a spade was not to the liking of Drover Dennys. 
 But he was very generous and straightforward. 
 He haggled over shillings and pence in a bargain, 
 of course, but that is as it should be. That a drover 
 must never have the worst of a bargain is a tradi- 
 tion, which men, who deal in cattle, must live up 
 to. But after a bargain was concluded, Drover 
 Dennys was ready to spend the money that he 
 made, not on himself, but on his boy and girl 
 friends. Even when he had not a penny to spend, 
 he was still popular, and this is good testimony 
 to the worth of a man. 
 
 r' 
 
 II 
 
 The market place was crowded when the two 
 young men got there. A great amount of hand- 
 shaking, shouting and bargaining was going on. 
 Owen Briney was there and Doalty stopped for a 
 moment to watch him bargaining for a cow, with 
 an old barefooted woman whose thin weasened face 
 was almost hidden in a gosling-grey handkerchief. 
 The woman was Crania Coolin of Stranameera, 
 next door neighbour but two to Maura The Rosses. 
 But, although living so near Doalty' s home, she 
 had never come to see him since his return. The
 
 140 Glenmornan 
 
 reason for the old woman's unfriendly attitude was 
 this. 
 
 When Doalty was a little boy of eight, Crania 
 had a white duck which used to lay out. At night 
 Crania would try this duck and find that it had an 
 egg. Putting the duck under a creel, she would 
 wait for it to lay. But the duck was generally ob- 
 stinate and refused to part with its egg when in 
 confinement. Morning and noon would pass, but 
 still no egg would be seen. By that time Crania's 
 husband (he died one day with a great pain in his 
 side) required the creel to carry in turf from the 
 hill. Then the duck had to be released, but Crania, 
 before allowing the bird its freedom, used to tie a 
 string to its leg, and for the rest of that afternoon 
 she would follow the string through the meadows 
 and woods near the house. But for all that, she 
 never could find the white duck's nest. She found 
 out something else, however, and this cleared up 
 the mystery of the duck in her eyes. She discov- 
 ered Doalty Gallagher fishing for gillets* in the 
 Owenawadda, and his fishing line was made from 
 the strings which Crania had tied to the leg of 
 the white duck. Afterwards she never spoke a 
 civil word to Doalty Gallagher and never broke 
 discourse with his people until he left the country. 
 
 Doalty looked at Crania, then turned his eyes 
 to Owen Briney. Owen was an ungainly man of 
 medium height, with yellow wrinkled skin, furtive, 
 cunning eyes, high cheekbones and an exception- 
 ally heavy jaw, which, when he smiled, he drew. 
 
 * Minnows.
 
 The Fair of Greenanore 141 
 
 in, until it rested on his Adam's apple. He had a 
 discreet forehead that hid most of itself under his 
 hair, leaving hardly the breadth of a forefinger ex- 
 posed. Owen did a little bit of cattle jobbing and 
 it was said that nobody had ever got the better of 
 him in a deal. Although not having much land 
 to speak of, it was common talk that he had money 
 and to spare. His farm, all hill, lay between Breed 
 Dermod's land and Kelly's land. Joined to either 
 of those farms it would make a place worth talking 
 about. . . . However, no young girl would be ex- 
 pected to marry a man like Owen Briney. . . . 
 So the Stranameera people said when their conver- 
 sation turned on march ditches. Owen had a nick- 
 name, for very few people in Glenmornan are with- 
 out nicknames. His was "Yellow Behind The 
 Lugs." 
 
 , "Well, I'll tell ye what I'll do," Owen Briney; 
 was saying to Crania Coolin when Doalty came up. 
 "I'll give ye five pounds, good money, every penny 
 iv it, for the baste. And the luck's-money a half- 
 crown." 
 
 "Seven pounds is what I want," said the old 
 woman, pressing the handkerchief back from her 
 wrinkled forehead with thin gnarled fingers. 
 1 "Seven pounds !" said Owen Briney, placing em- 
 phasis on the word "pounds." He drew his chin 
 in and rested his tobacco-stained teeth on his lower 
 lip. "Seven pounds'." he repeated, emphasising 
 "seven" this time and fixing a look of pity and com- 
 miseration on the woman. 
 
 "That's me price," said Grania Coolin.
 
 142 Glenmornan 
 
 "Well, I'll tell ye what I'll do," said Owen, press- 
 ing his elbow against his hip and unclosing his fist. 
 He spread out his fingers to their full extent and 
 gazed at the leaf of his hand, as if he hoped to find 
 something there. "I'll give ye five pound, half-a- 
 crown, and with the luck's-money that'll lave ye 
 five pound clear to yer own pocket. And it's much 
 more than the baste is worth." 
 
 "I'll not sell, a penny less than seven pounds," 
 said the woman. 
 
 "Ye'll not see the colour iv that money this good 
 day," said Owen in a gruff voice. 
 
 "The market's young as yet," said Crania 
 Coolin. 
 
 "Well, seven pounds is more than I'll give for 
 that ranny," said Owen, walking away. He would 
 come back presently and start the bargaining over; 
 again. 
 
 Doalty looked at the old woman, at her bowed 
 head and her hacked feet that were covered with 
 the dust and dung of the market place. One of her 
 heels was bleeding, showing that she had stepped 
 either on a thorn or a piece of glass. And she was 
 very poor. If she got six pounds for the old cow 
 she would be very happy. She did not really ex- 
 pect to make more than five-pounds-ten, and proba- 
 bly, before the fair came to an end, she would sell 
 the animal for the money that Owen Briney had 
 already offered her. 
 
 Doalty, seized with a desire to regain the good 
 graces of Crania, went across to her. He had, 
 in fact, forgotten all about Crania's antipathy to-
 
 The Fair of Greenanore 143 
 
 wards him, until one day, shortly after his return, 
 he was reminded of it by Maura The Rosses. 
 | "How much are you wanting for the cow, 
 Grania ?" he enquired as he stood by the woman. 
 
 Crania looked at him. 
 
 "It's Doalty Gallagher I'm seein', isn't it?" she 
 asked, and dropping the switch which she carried, 
 she caught his hand with her own two. "Ah! it's 
 glad I am to see ye, Doalty," she said, with 
 warmth in her voice. "I heard tell that ye were 
 at home and I was just goin' over to see ye every 
 day, but one thing had to be done one day and then 
 another another day, and I couldn't get away from 
 me own place at all. . . . And ye're wantin' to 
 buy the cow?" she asked. 
 
 j "I am, Grania Coolin," said Doalty. ''What's 
 the price of it?" 
 
 "Seven pounds," said the old woman. 
 
 "All right, I'll give you that," said Doalty. 
 
 The old woman looked at Doalty ; a startled and 
 suspicious expression showed in her eyes. To find 
 a man agreeing so readily to her price surprised 
 her. No doubt he was trying to make a fool of 
 her. 
 
 "Money down?" she enquired. 
 
 "I'll give it now." 
 
 "And the luck's-money ?" 
 
 "You needn't trouble about that," said Doalty. 
 
 "Ye don't want any luck's-money ?" she asked in 
 a dubious voice. 
 
 "No, you needn't trouble about that," Doalty
 
 144 Glenmornan 
 
 assured her, with an awkward laugh, as if trying 
 to placate the old woman. He paid her the money 
 and sent the cow up to Stranameera with a young 
 bare-legged boy, a servant in Eileen Kelly's house, 
 who was going back to his work on the farm. 
 
 Doalty sauntered round the market and came 
 across Dennys The Drover speaking to Oiney 
 Leahy. Dennys, whose stock was good, had got 
 rid of all the bullocks and his pockets were bulging 
 with money. Oiney, who had brought in an old 
 white-backed cow to sell, was not so successful. 
 ''It's not a market at all, this," he said to Doalty. 
 '"Racharies iv cattle and nobody to look at them. 
 And no wonder, for if ye hefted some iv the cows 
 that's here for a moon, ye'd be bate to give them a 
 showy elder.* I wish/' he added, with a helpless 
 gesture of his shoulders, "that I could get rid iv 
 this bit iv a baste iv mine. If it was off me hands 
 I could get down the street to see the girls." 
 
 "Are ye comin' down the street with me ?" asked 
 Dennys, turning to Doalty. "We'll see what's go- 
 in' on there. I'll see ye after a while when ye come 
 down yerself, Oiney," he said, turning to the old 
 man. "Ye'll find me in Heel-Ball's." 
 
 "I'll be lookin' for ye there, then, Dennys, me 
 boy," said Oiney. "But I don't want ye to be run- 
 nin' away with the girsas and lavin' me when I 
 see ye," he added. 
 
 "No fear iv me doin' that," said Dennys The 
 Drover. "I'm not goin' to have anything to do 
 with them this night. I'm goin' to be a good boy." 
 * Udder.
 
 The Fair of Greenanore 145 
 
 'Well, be careful anyway, and ye'll be all right/' 
 said Oiney Leahy. 
 
 in 
 
 Although the Glenmornan girls had not yet come 
 in, there was a big crowd of people in the village, 
 and great business was being done. The white 
 butts of butter stood in rows on the pavements, and 
 beside them were the big hanks of mountainy yarn 
 which Doalty had seen coming down the road that 
 morning. The old appleseller, with the woollen 
 wrapper, had his standing laid out and the golden 
 apples were gleaming amidst the brown straw of 
 the cart in which they were lying. Near the apple 
 cart was a second-hand clothier, canting clothes 
 from a van on which he stood, knee-deep in a 
 huddle of old coats, trousers, blouses and skirts. 
 He was shouting at the top of his voice and giving 
 vent to a sharp whistle now and again. His shirt 
 sleeves were thrust up to his shoulders, and his 
 face, puffed and florid, was beaded with sweat. 
 
 "A snug wee frock for Paddp Beag to go to 
 school in," he shouted, holding a boy's coat out in 
 front of him. "He'll be as snug as a bug in a rug 
 in this! Phew! A pair of breeches with it, too, 
 and the whole lot goin' for six shillin's five shill- 
 in's four shillin's three and six. Nobody wants 
 them! Did ye not sell the wee brannat cows the 
 day? What are ye goin' to do with Paddy Beag 
 to-morrow then? Phew! If ye want him to go to 
 school I suppose ye'll have to blacken his backside
 
 146 Glenmornan 
 
 and send him out bare-naked. Phew ! I never had 
 any schooling but I would, if a bargain like this 
 was goin' when I was young. I never was at 
 school, but I met the scholars. Buy up ! Buy up ! 
 and we'll not leave a rag for the Rosses! Ah! 
 what have we here now? Phew! A dress for 
 wee Biddy and in the latest fashion. Put her in 
 this and the Yankees won't be able to hold a candle 
 to her when they come home. . . . Seven and six 
 for the wee dress for wee Biddy six and six 
 five and six five. I'll make a present iv it to ye 
 for four shillin's! Who'll make an offer? No- 
 body? Phew! Poor, unhappy Ireland!" 
 , Further along was a cart on which stood a sal- 
 low man, nimble of finger and wrist, selling 
 watches. A watch cost a pound and with each 
 watch a leather purse was presented, gratis, to the 
 buyer. The man made the pretence of filling the 
 purse with silver before giving it to purchasers 
 of a watch. 
 
 "A pound for this watch and cheap at the 
 money," he said, piling the silver into a purse. 
 "A pound for a watch, and worth double the 
 money. And you get the purse with it. I don't 
 promise a fortune in the purse," he said, and his 
 voice was free from deceit. "But there'll be some- 
 thing in it. A little certainly, and a lot maybe. 
 It's a pastime of mine, this, and who says a 
 pound, a pound for the watch and I'll fling the 
 purse, and all that's in the purse, into the bargain." 
 
 Doalty and Dennys were watching the man when 
 Oiney Leahy came up.
 
 The Fair of Greenanore 147 
 
 "Did you sell the cow?" asked Doalty. 
 "I got red iv it," said Oiney. "At a good price 
 too considerin* the nature iv the market." 
 
 IV 
 
 Omey looked at the gentleman on the' cart, then 
 he turned to Doalty. 
 
 "I've seen the like iv him afore and here in this 
 very town too," said the old man, pointing his 
 thumb towards the cart. "He was just doin' the 
 same things, legerdemain, thimble-riggin', black 
 magic, Harry Stattle, or whatever ye like to call 
 it. Anyway, he got his tricks from the divil and 
 we didn't know that, at that time. 
 
 "He came here I mind the day well, for it 
 was a harvest fair in the year iv the big floods 
 and I brought in three young animals to the market. 
 Sold them all, and sold them well, too, for between 
 me and yourself, Doalty, and before Dennys The 
 Drover, who can bear me out, no man ever got the 
 better iv me in a bargain. It happened in the eve- 
 nin', after we had eaten a bit and had a drink, 01* 
 two, or three, for the old times were the times for 
 drinkin/ We used to have one to wet our whistle 
 when makin' a bargain, one when the bargain was 
 done, and one to wash that one down, and another 
 one when we got into the nearest aisy, then another 
 for the luck's-money, and would ye believe it, the 
 spendin' iv the luck's-money never went beyond 
 the counter where it was handed over. Well, as
 
 148 Glenmornan 
 
 I was sayin', one iv these legerdemain fellows came 
 into the town, and he gets up on a cart, almost like 
 a priest God forgive me for saying it at the 
 altar on a Sunday, and he had a little bag with him 
 and lots iv wares, and as he ups, upon that cart, 
 he says : 'I am not here to sell anything/ Then he 
 takes out a handful iv pocket-knives, lead pencils, 
 pens and watch-chains, and hundreds iv other 
 things, and he throws them right down into the 
 middle iv us, and ye should have seen the scram- 
 bling 
 
 "I got only a watch-chain and me not havin' a 
 watch. But I also got a black eye from some man 
 . from the Rosses he came who said he had more 
 right to the watch-chain than I had. 
 
 "Well, so far, so good. We were in a maze, 
 seein' a man like that, that was throwin' things 
 away! But one wonder followed another. He 
 takes out a purse and he puts a watch into it, and 
 then he puts money into it, throwin' it in as hard 
 as he could wallop five-shilling pieces, sovereigns, 
 silver and gold. So he said, Til sell everything in 
 this purse for one pound. There are only a few 
 purses, 'and I am goin' to have a watch in every 
 purse. I'll not say whether you'll have gold in it 
 or not, but ye see what I'm doin', I'll promise the 
 purse and the watch and some money. How much 
 the money will be, I'll not say/ 
 
 "Well, do ye know, Doalty, I saw the money go 
 into the purse, I saw it with me own two eyes, so 
 I speculated a sovereign, got a purse and put it 
 in my pocket, because he told me to do so, and he
 
 The Fair of Greenanore 149 
 
 told every one else who bought a purse to do the 
 same thing to put their purse in their pocket and 
 not show the contents to any one. And the reason 
 for it all, he says, was because he was doin' this 
 in penance for a sin that he had committed. The 
 penance was put on him by the Pope. Well, he 
 sold all his purses, and went away. After he 
 had gone, we looked in our purses and there was 
 nothing in mine but a watch and a chain and tup- 
 pence. So well ! we weren't promised anything else, 
 and we had our watches. After a bit one iv our 
 own countrymen, second son of Shemus Wor iv 
 Greenans, he was, that had been abroad, told us 
 that the watches were not worth more than two 
 shillings apiece. Now, listen to what happened, 
 and that will show you what the old times were, 
 Doalty! 
 
 "The fair of Ardagh came on a while after and 
 the word came to us iip the glen, that this man, this 
 thimble-riggin' rogue, was seen going to the fair 
 of Ardagh. We went, half a dozen iv us, from 
 Glenmornan, and we found him there up on the 
 cart, sellin' his watch and his purse. Ah ! nothing 
 could have stood against us then, and we ah! 
 what wouldn't we do ! I can't tell ye what we did, 
 but anyway, when that man was leavin' the fair 
 of Ardagh he didn't leave it in the bare pelt be- 
 cause Father Dooney, the parish priest that then 
 was, gave him a coat to hide his skin. But the old 
 times ah! the good old times! . . . Come across 
 with me to Heel-Ball's and I'll stand ye a drink."
 
 150 Glenmornan 
 
 During the afternoon Doalty !ost Dennys and 
 could not find him. It was about eight o'clock in 
 the evening now and most of the old people had 
 gone home from the fair. The young country girls 
 had come in, and Doalty had seen Sheila Dermod 
 and her friend, Eileen Kelly, walking up and down 
 the street for the past two hours. When Sheila 
 passed him she looked at him with a bashful smile, 
 but she did not speak to him. Men must open the 
 conversation when they want to talk with the girls 
 at the fair of Greenanore. Doalty would have 
 spoken, if Drover Dennys had been with him, but 
 Drover Dennys had disappeared. 
 
 It was when he was passing Quigley's public- 
 house that he saw him again. Looking in from 
 the street he saw a crowd of men, almost hidden 
 in the smoke of their pipes, drinking at the bar. 
 Drovers they were, most of them, and their talk 
 was about the bargains of the day. Drover Den- 
 nys was there, leaning his back against a sack of 
 meal, his face inflamed a little, his hat thrust well 
 back and his curls, wet with sweat, hanging down 
 over his eyes. His exclamations, innocent affecta- 
 tions, spoke of youth and the recklessness of youth. 
 He looked such a splendid fellow that Doalty 
 stopped for a moment to admire him. 
 
 Beside Dennys, Owen Briney was standing, his 
 swarthy face, prominent jaw and high cheekbones, 
 lit up with the light of a swinging paraffin lamp
 
 The Fair of Greenanore 151 
 
 that was suspended from the roof. Between his 
 lips he held his clay pipe, the bowl turned down 
 and the ash falling from it whenever he moved his 
 lips. In his eyes the furtive expression, which 
 Doalty had noticed that morning, looked more pro- 
 nounced, and Owen seemed to be taking stock of 
 every man round him and hanging on every word 
 that was spoken, as if for the purpose of using the 
 talk to his own advantage. He loved gossip, was 
 very secretive about his own affairs, but was eager 
 to listen to any conversation. He had drunk quite 
 a lot that day, but he was a man who could hold 
 his share and keep his senses about him. It was 
 hinted that he could drive his best bargains when 
 drunk. He seldom stood treat and generally drank 
 at the expense of others. 
 
 Behind Owen, sitting on the counter, with his 
 hands palms downward under his thighs, was 
 Micky Neddy, a red-haired, buck-toothed young- 
 ster, chewing thick black tobacco and spitting on 
 the floor. He had a great reputation in the glen, 
 for he was a poacher of repute, who, in addition 
 to poaching, was able to make potheen better than 
 any other man in the four corners of the barony. 
 As he sat there, his moustache fringed with porter 
 foam, he swung his legs carelessly from one side 
 to another and blinked at the lamp. He would 
 have to be carried home that night, for he was very 
 drunk, and was now trying to pick up a quarrel 
 with old Oiney Leahy, who was seated on a bag 
 of meal, near the door. Hot words were passing
 
 152 Glenmornan 
 
 between the two men for the last half-hour. When 
 sober they were the greatest friends possible. 
 
 It was at the moment when Doalty was peering 
 in through the window, that Micky Neddy lost 
 complete control of himself. 
 
 "Ye damned Cath-breac ye," he suddenly 
 shouted, bounding off his seat and sticking his fist 
 up under the old man's chin. "Ye were a fighter 
 once, they say, ye Schol Gaelig ye! Ye ugly old 
 Greedy Gut, ye Scrape-the-pot. Where's the glen 
 turf, that go be night, I want to know? Where 
 do they go and who does take them ? Tell me that, 
 I say." 
 
 Through the window Doalty could see the profile 
 of the old man. Oiney kept chewing his lips, while 
 his white beard moved up and down, as if in pro- 
 test, and he looked Micky Neddy between the eyes 
 without flinching. 
 
 Suddenly over the melee the voice of Dennys 
 The Drover was heard. 
 
 "What the hell is all this tongue-banging 
 about?" he yelled, stretching out a big hand and 
 gripping the shoulder of Micky Neddy. 
 
 "I don't mean nothing nothin' at all," stam- 
 mered Micky, edging away towards the counter, 
 but unable to free himself from the Drover's grip. 
 -'I'm not meanin' anything, Dennys The Drover." 
 
 "Then hold yer dirthy tongue between yer big 
 buck-teeth!" said Dennys, releasing the man, and 
 the scornful curl of his lips became very pro- 
 nounced. Even as he spoke he looked through the
 
 The Fair of Greenanore 153 
 
 window and saw Doalty. The Drover came out- 
 side. 
 
 "I was lookin' for ye, Doalty," he said. "Where 
 have ye been hidin' ?" 
 
 "I have been looking for you," said Doalty. 
 
 "Well, have ye seen any girls about?" asked 
 Dennys. 
 
 -"I have seen some of them about here a minute 
 ago," said Doalty. "The Stranameera girls." 
 
 "Then come with me now," said Dennys, "and 
 we'll stand them a trate. I was speakin' to a couple 
 iv them a wee while back, and I was tellin' them 
 that me and yerself was goin' to see them home." 
 
 "Who were you speaking to?" asked Doalty. 
 
 "Sheila Dermod and Eileen Kelly," said Drover 
 Dennys. "Amongst others," he added, as an after- 
 thought. 
 
 "Eileen Kelly?" said Doalty, in a voice of 
 'feigned indifference, and all the time he was think- 
 ing of Sheila Dermod. 
 
 "Ye don't want to go with Eileen then," said 
 Dennys. "She's a warm girl, I'm tellin' ye. Then 
 try Sheila and ye'll find her not so far behind. She 
 is just as good as the other if she wasn't so proud." 
 
 "Shall we go along and meet them now?" asked 
 Doalty. 
 
 "Now's the time," said Drover Dennys, with a 
 laugh.
 
 154 Glenmornan 
 
 VI 
 
 The two men went down the street and encoun- 
 tered the two girls. 
 
 "We've been on the look-out for ye all the 
 night," said Drover Dennys. "We thought that 
 ye had gone home afore we could give ye a 
 trate. . . ." 
 
 "It's drinking that ye were instead iv lookin' for 
 us," said Eileen Kelly, with a shake of her head. 
 
 "Get away !" said Dennys. "We'll go into Micky 
 Ryan's shop and get out of sight now. Come with 
 us and have some fun." 
 
 "So ye were lookin' for us, the two iv ye !" Eileen 
 Kelly persisted, sarcasm in her voice. "It looked 
 like it, be the way ye were lanin' against that bag 
 iv male in Heel-Ball's shop. Ye had no eyes for 
 anybody." 
 
 "Hadn't I then?" said Drover Dennys, mock re- 
 proach in his eyes. "Listen, Eileen Kelly, and I'll 
 tell ye. ..." 
 
 He bent down towards the girl and whispered 
 something in her ear, then the two of them walked 
 down the street, leaving Doalty Gallagher alone 
 with Sheila Dermod. 
 
 "Where are the two iv them goin' now?" asked 
 Sheila, following Dennys -and Eileen with a glance. 
 
 "Oh, they're going to have a talk about some- 
 thing," said Doalty, and he looked in Sheila's eyes. 
 "We'll have a talk too." 
 
 "What have we to talk about?" asked the girl.
 
 The Fair of Greenanore ,155 
 
 "Lots of things," said Doalty grimly, "Do you 
 mind the other day when I met you? I said that 
 you were very beautiful. And I meant that. I'm 
 in love with you, Sheila." 
 
 "Are you?" she asked, with a little start of sur- 
 prise, apparently due more to Doalty's avowal, 
 than to the feeling that caused the young man to 
 make it. 
 
 "Yes, 1 am," said Doalty. "I never have met 
 .a girl like you." 
 
 "Haven't ye now?" she asked, and a blush rose 
 to her eheeks. "But how am I to know that ye're 
 telling me the truth?" she enquired, knowing all 
 the time that Doalty was in earnest. 
 
 "Now come on the two of ye!" said Drover 
 Dennys, coming back again, with Eileen Kelly 
 hanging on his arm. "We're goin' in for a trate." 
 
 The four of them made their way to a public- 
 house opposite and went upstairs to a small nar- 
 row room, which had a fire alight in a grate, and 
 half-a-dozen spitoons on the floor. A table stood 
 in the centre of the apartment and the four sat 
 round it. A servant girl came in, and took Den- 
 nys' orders. When she left again, after bringing 
 the drinks, Dennys rose from his chair and closed 
 the door, turning the key in the lock. Then he sat 
 down again. 
 
 He was in a merry tnood. When all had drunk 
 he got to his feet and went to the door that opened 
 into another compartment. Standing with his 
 back to the door he beckoned to Doalty, and the 
 young man went across to him.
 
 156 Glenmornan 
 
 "I'm goin' to take Eileen in here," he said, whis- 
 pering in Doalty's ear. "Ye stop with Sheila. Me 
 and Eileen has arranged it. When we're ready to 
 come out again, I'll cough. Ye can turn the lamp 
 out and tell her everything in the dark." 
 
 Going back to the table, they found the two girls 
 holding a conversation in whispers. 
 
 "What plans are ye two makin' up between ye?" 
 exclaimed Dennys, pushing the girls' heads apart 
 with his hands. "Come with me, Eileen," he said. 
 "We'll go into this room, next door, where I'll have 
 something to tell ye." 
 
 Putting his arm round the girl's waist he took 
 her towards the adjoining apartment, a bedroom. 
 At the door Eileen turned round, looked at Sheila 
 and laughed. 
 
 "Come on with ye," said Dennys, shoving the 
 girl into the room in front of him. Following her, 
 he closed the door. 
 
 Doalty looked at Sheila, but he did not turn the 
 lamp down, as Drover Dennys had directed him. 
 He was quite at his ease, though for a moment he 
 did not know what to say. It was Sheila Dermod 
 who first broke silence. 
 
 "Ye haven't much to speak about, Doalty Gal- 
 lagher," she said, quavering a little. 
 
 "Well, I've said all that I had to say when we 
 were out on the street," Doalty protested, getting 
 to his feet and coming closer to the beautiful girl. 
 Sheila's nostrils quivered slightly and a sudden 
 look, which was almost a challenge to the young 
 man, showed in her steady, blue eyes. The direct
 
 The Fair of Greenanore 157 
 
 glance which she fixed on Doalty seemed to say, 
 'Though the two of us are alone you dare not touch 
 me.' 
 
 "What did ye say when ye were out on the street, 
 Doalty Gallagher?" she asked under her breath. 
 
 "Surely you haven't forgotten it already/' said 
 Doalty. 
 
 "But what's the good iv keepin' what ye said in 
 mind?" Sheila asked in a serious voice. "People 
 can say anything at a fair and forget it the next 
 day." ' 
 
 "Have people ever told you before that they were 
 in love with you ?" Doalty asked. 
 
 "Maybe they have," said Sheila in a trembling 
 voice. "But that's nothin'." 
 
 Doalty bent down and put his arms round the 
 girl's waist. She got to her feet, but made no effort 
 to resist his clumsy embrace. Instead she put her 
 lips close to his ear and whispered : "What will they 
 be doin' in there in that room now?" She pointed 
 her finger at the bedroom door as she spoke. 
 
 Doalty's eyes followed her outstretched arm, his 
 whole body filled with a vague seductive yearning] 
 as he pressed the soft, clinging form of the charm- 
 ing girl close to his body. 
 
 "Maybe they are doing just the same as we are 
 doing," he stammered. 
 
 "D'ye think they are?" Sheila asked, with a con- 
 fiding caress in her voice. 
 
 Doalty looked down at her, the pink face and red 
 lips. Her broad brimmed hat restrained her curls 
 from falling down over her eyes; a faint flush
 
 158 Glenmornan 
 
 mantled her cheeks. . . . She snuggled close to his 
 chest. . . . He put one hand behind her head, press- 
 ing it gently against the soft, silky hair and whis- 
 pered: "Sheila!" 
 
 She looked up at him and he lowered his lips to 
 hers and kissed her. . . . 
 
 Sheila, all at once, drew herself up to her full 
 height, and stepping back a pace, she looked Doalty 
 in the face. Her whole countenance had changed : 
 in a flash it had become stern and threatening. He 
 could see her eyes light with scorn, her bosom 
 heave under her tight blouse. . . . Never had he 
 seen her look so beautiful as she looked at that 
 moment. 
 
 "Doalty Gallagher, I didn't think that iv ye," she 
 said, in a voice outwardly calm. But it seemed 
 as if she were restraining herself from bursting 
 into tears. 
 
 "What's wrong with you, Sheila ?" Doalty asked 
 impatiently. Good heavens ! He had done nothing 
 wrong to her, he thought. 
 
 For answer Sheila shrugged her shoulders, 
 walked to the door of the bedroom and tapped on 
 it with her fingers. 
 
 "It's time for us to be goin' home," she called. 
 "Come away with me now, Eileen Kelly." 
 
 "But it's not time yet," said Eileen, poking her 
 mischievous little face out through the door and 
 puckering her three-cornered lips in protest. "Go- 
 in' home now and it a fair day. Ye are a funny 
 girl, Sheila Dermod." 
 
 "Goin' home now!" said Dennys The Drover,
 
 The Fair of Greenanore 159 
 
 coming out and standing in front of Sheila. "Well, 
 yees can go if yees like, but I'm not comin' home 
 with either one or the other iv yees. . . . Ye're not 
 much good when there's any fun goin', Sheila Der- 
 mod! And ye look as if ye were goin' to cry too. 
 Well, run away with yees!" 
 
 Dennys came across to Doalty Gallagher. The 
 two girls made their way down the stairs. Sheila 
 never looked back once, but Eileen Kelly turned 
 round as her head was just disappearing from sight 
 and fixed a knowing look on Doalty. Then she 
 winked at Drover Dennys. 
 
 "Don't forget what I was sayin' to ye, Drover," 
 she laughed back and disappeared. 
 
 "What have ye been doin' to the girsa, Doalty ?" 
 Drover Dennys asked, fixing his eyes on his friend. 
 "Having a wee game with her, I suppose." 
 
 "No, I wasn't doing anything," said the discom- 
 fited Doalty. 
 
 "Catch ye not doin' anything and ye all alone 
 with a girl," said Dennys with a laugh. "But it's 
 no good, when it's the girl Sheila. She's as proud 
 as the hills. I can't stand her." 
 
 "But I thought you were in love with her," said 
 Doalty. 
 
 "Sometimes I have a notion iv her," said Drover 
 Dennys. "But I can't always be foolin' about after 
 her and no fun at all in her. . . . It's hands off if 
 ye touch her at all." 
 
 "I'm goin' to see if all the men have gone home 
 to Glenmornan yet," said Drover Dennys, when he 
 and Doalty had made their way out to the street.
 
 160 Glenmornan 
 
 "I know that Micky Neddy has not gone back, for 
 he was as drunk as a lord when I left him in Heel- 
 Ball's a while ago. I'll go in there now and try 
 and take him home. Don't ye trouble to wait for 
 me, Doalty, but go home be yerself. It takes a lot 
 of handlin' to get Micky home." 
 
 So saying, Dennys went across the street to- 
 wards Quigley's and left Doalty to himself. The 
 young man wandered up and down the street for 
 quite half an hour, his mind busy with many 
 thoughts. Then he made his way up the glen road. 
 
 VII 
 
 The last to leave the fair were returning home 
 now. A hundred yards out and under a dim 
 street lamp, Doalty could see a crowd of men deep 
 in a heated discussion. Violenjt laughter came 
 from the men and fierce imprecations. One man, 
 whom Doalty recognised by his voice, was Micky 
 Neddy. 
 
 "If ever I want to do a thing I'll do it," Micky 
 was bellowing. "I'm always ready always ready, 
 for that's the kind iv me. Mother iv God look side- 
 ways on me! if I'm not always ready." 
 
 The speaker burst into a violent fit of laughter, 
 scraped the ground with his fingers, and lifting 
 a stone, he flung it at the lamp overhead and 
 smashed it. Then he fell to the ground. Drover 
 Dennys, who was in the crowd, bent over the pros- 
 trate figure.
 
 The Fair of Greenanore 161 
 
 "Come home with me, Micky !" said Denny s with 
 a laugh. "Ye've a good step in front iv ye yet, me 
 boy." 
 
 "A good step !" repeated the man on the ground. 
 "Aw right! I'm always ready. Amn't I, Drover 
 Dennys ? But I can get home when I like, can't I ? 
 I'm always ready; always ready!" 
 
 Dennys The Drover bent over the drunken man 
 and tried to lift him to his feet. 
 
 "Lave me be," said Micky. "Can I not be here 
 on me lone if I like? Where's Owen Briney?" 
 
 "He's at home hours since," Dennys informed 
 him. 
 
 "Oh! the damned Yalla Behind The Lugs; he 
 would be! ... And the Stranameera girsas. Are 
 they at home too ?" 
 
 "Iv course they are," said Drover Dennys. 
 
 "Well, that's enough anyway," said Micky, 
 snuggling in against the curbstone, as if going to 
 sleep. "I don't want to know any more. Lave me 
 be, and I'll come home be meself . 'Twould be an- 
 other matter if I had the chance iv goin' back with 
 Sheila Dermod or Eileen Kelly, or Norah Galla- 
 gher . . . but now . . . Lave me be and go home 
 be yerselves." 
 
 Doalty continued his journey up the glen road 
 with long strides and came to his own townland. 
 A white mist rose from the river and settled on 
 the meadows of the holm. It was here that Doalty 
 heard the sound of voices talking through the mist. 
 Oiney Leahy was speaking to a Meenawarawor,
 
 162 Glenmornan 
 
 man across the river and the talk was of the mar- 
 ket. 
 
 " 'Twas no market at all," Oiney was saying, 
 speaking very slowly, as was his habit when he had 
 drunk unwisely. "Poor rannies iv cattle and sheep 
 they were there this day, as far as I could see. Not 
 a fair at all for the makin' iv money, or the spend- 
 in* iv it. I had a springin' cow down there meself, 
 a good baste, and I sold it for eight pounds ten and 
 half-a-crown luck's-money. Indeed and I gave the 
 baste away." 
 
 "Who bought it?" asked the other man. 
 
 "Owen Briney," said Oiney. "He has grass for, 
 the baste, and it's more nor I have." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. 
 
 -"That's true, Oiney," said the Meenawarawor 
 man with the acquiescence which decency demand- 
 ed, for Oiney really had enough grass for two 
 cows, but he had to sell one because he wanted 
 money. But pride, Glenmornan pride, would not 
 permit the old man to avow his poverty. 
 
 "Did ye see Doalty Gallagher at the fair?" asked 
 the man of Meenawarawor. 
 
 "I did," said Oiney. "Was near him when he 
 bought that cow from Grania Coolin. He gave the 
 woman what she asked for the baste, money down, 
 and wouldn't have luck's-money. I don't under- 
 stand it at all. His father was a sensible man, God 
 rest him ! and could make a good bargain. And his 
 mother, dacent woman, is a thrifty soul. No one 
 can get the betther iv her. But people change when 
 they go abroad, and not always for the best."
 
 The Fair of Greenanore 163 
 
 "D'ye think that the boyo has much money, 
 Oiney?" 
 
 "He doesn't dhress up to it if he has," said the 
 old man. "But he's a good-hearted fellow, and 
 not one to begrudge ye a dhrop iv dhrink, when 
 ye go to his house." 
 
 VIII 
 
 Doalty thrust his hands down into the pockets 
 of his trousers, and leaving the road, he took the 
 path across the fields to his home. Now and again 
 he paused and looked at the white houses under the 
 hills and the little modest lights in their windows. 
 There was no moon, but the sky, coldly clear, was 
 lit with a thousand stars. It was a night to be 
 alive, but somehow Doalty did not feel very happy. 
 It was evident that the Meenawarawor man con- 
 sidered him a fool. But then, the man did not un- 
 derstand Doalty, and for the matter of that, Doalty 
 did not understand the man from Meenawarawor. 
 There is a wider gap between men of different tem- 
 peraments than there is between men of different 
 nationalities. 
 
 Doalty, passing Breed Dermod's door, saw old 
 Breed leaning over the half door, listening to the 
 people coming back from the fair. She was always 
 listening to the talk from the road, and she could 
 hear the very grass growing. She was a very in- 
 quisitive old woman and became, in some way or 
 another, acquainted with the most private affairs
 
 164 Glenmornan 
 
 of her neighbours; and secrets were never safe in 
 her keeping. She was a confessional with ears and 
 tongue. Nobody liked her, and at the present mo- 
 ment she was not on speaking terms with the Gal- 
 laghers. Doalty passed quietly by and went into 
 the boreen that led to his own home. 
 
 As he was nearing his house he heard the sound 
 of suppressed laughter in a meadow behind the 
 hedge. He looked quietly over, and saw two fig- 
 ures seated in the grass. Instinctively he knew 
 that he was looking at Sheila Dermod and Eileen 
 Kelly. They were speaking to one another in a 
 low voice and, as far as he could judge, they were 
 not aware of his proximity. 
 
 "Has he much money d'ye think?" Sheila was 
 asking. 
 
 t'l don't know," said Eileen. "But he's very 
 soft. . . . Ye can hear nothin' in Greenanore the 
 day, only about himself and old Grania Coolin. 
 v . . Just think of it! Givin* her seven-pound-five 
 for a cow, just what she asked, and if he was cute, 
 he could have the baste for a five pound note. 
 Grania didn't know whether she should take his 
 money or not. After he had left her, she showed 
 the money to the priest and he said that the money 
 was good enough." 
 
 "I suppose he'll be leavin' here soon," said 
 Sheila. 
 
 "Iv coorse he will," said Eileen. "Bein' so long 
 away he wouldn't stop here now. And he's tryin' 
 to be like one iv ourselves. . . . What did he do 
 Jo yerself the night? t Ye didn't tell me, ye know."
 
 The Fair of Greenanore i6 
 
 "Didn't I?" said Sheila, giggling. "So I didn't. 
 . . . Oh! but 'twas nothin'." 
 
 She laughed merrily. 
 
 "A person must do something when they're alone 
 with a one. Mustn't they now?" asked Eileen. 
 "But I can guess things." Doalty could see Eileen 
 nod knowingly. 
 
 "Was Dennys wantin' to come home wid ye?" 
 asked Sheila, not answering her friend's question. 
 "I let him come home with me the last fair and the 
 one before that, but 1 wouldn't let him come home 
 with me this time." 
 
 "And would that be yer only reason for not let- 
 tin' him come home with ye?" 
 
 "Partly that, and also because he's often seen 
 hangin' round Maura The Rosses house up there," 
 Sheila said. "If he manes to go about with one girl 
 why doesn't he stick to her? I wouldn't pick up 
 the leavin's iv Norah Gallagher." 
 
 "But who says that Dennys is always about the 
 Gallagher's?" asked Eileen. 
 
 "Who would it be, but Owen Briney," Sheila 
 replied. "Owen knows everything." 
 
 "I can't help noticin' but Owen's always about 
 yer house," said Eileen. "I suppose he'll be tryin' 
 to put some sturks to grazin' on yer land." 
 
 "I don't pay any heed to what he's after," said 
 Sheila. "I don't like him." 
 
 r Nobody likes him much," said Eileen. "But 
 ye like none iv the young fellows, Sheila. That's 
 because they're all breakin' their hearts after ye?" 
 
 "Maybe that's it," said Sheila, with a laugh, get-
 
 166 Glenmornan 
 
 ting to her feet. "What made us to come here and 
 sit on the wet grass I don't know. Come, let the 
 two iv us run down the lane and go into the house." 
 
 Laughing merrily, they caught one another's 
 hands and rushed away towards their homes. 
 
 Feeling, for some unknown reason, very de- 
 spondent, Doalty lit a cigarette and drawing only 
 one whiff of smoke, flung it away. Then he went 
 into his home.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 SHEILA DERMOD 
 
 Now, maidens, beware, 
 
 For your youth doesn't stay, 
 But goes with the seeding, 
 
 Like blooms on the brae 
 As markets are changing 
 
 Good prices don't keep, 
 And ware of the morning 
 
 At noon-tide goes cheap 
 And the glance of young eyes, 
 
 Like the bloom on the brae, 
 Is always forgotten 
 
 By Hallowmas Day. 
 
 The Pretty Girl Milking Her Cow. 
 
 NEXT morning, after his dip in the river, 
 Doalty went across to Oiney Leahy's to 
 borrow a spade. He was going to dig a 
 drain in the field under the house, a job that should 
 have been done earlier in the year. But there was 
 not much help to hand on the farm and there was 
 no time for the work. 
 
 The morning was one to be remembered. The 
 
 meadows were wet with dew, the braes decked with 
 
 blossom; the whins on the uplands in full bloom 
 
 were covered with spiders' webs, on which the dew- 
 
 167
 
 1 68 Glenmornan 
 
 drops glistened like diamonds. In the birches that 
 rimmed spinkh and awlth the birds warbled mer- 
 rily; a corncrake railed across the holms by the 
 river; butterflies flitted from flower to flower, and 
 the early bees were already out on their daily la- 
 bour. The sun, rising over the hills, flung little 
 broken rays of light through the sycamores grow- 
 ing outside the door of Maura The Rosses. 
 
 Oiney Leahy was putting on a fire when Doalty 
 got to his house, and young Dennys The Drover 
 was there, sitting by the table looking at a news- 
 paper. He had not slept the night before, for 
 when he got back from the fair, he went out with 
 Oiney and the two men made their way to the hills 
 on one of their mysterious errands. These errands 
 were of common occurrence, and the police force of 
 the village would give a lot to catch the two men 
 when engaged on them. 
 
 "I was goin' down to the river to have a swirn," 
 Dennys remarked to Doalty as the latter came in. 
 "But I was too heavy and sleepy to get up from the 
 chair. Thanks be to heaven that there's not a fair 
 every day." 
 
 " 'Twasn't much iv a fair yesterday anyway," 
 said Oiney, placing a row of turf against the back 
 of the fireplace. "I've never seen any as bad for a 
 long while. . . . And that cow iv yours, Doalty," 
 he said, looking at the visitor. "It's not a bad baste 
 at all, and it'll be comin'* soon. But ye gave a 
 wee penny too much for it, I'm thinkin'. . . . But 
 one never knows." 
 
 * Calving.
 
 Sheila Dermod 169 
 
 "It'll be worth the money when it calves/' said 
 Doalty carelessly. 
 
 "Oh! it may, then, and I hope it may," said 
 Oiney, apparently endeavouring to give Doalty 
 every possible credit for the bargain. "If the mar- 
 ket improves, and if it calves well, ye'll maybe make 
 somethin' by it." He spoke with the voice of a 
 man who did not believe in the hopes which he 
 held out. 
 
 "Here, look at this," said Drover Dennys, hand- 
 ing the paper to Oiney and yawning. "This pic- 
 ture. It's of a woman and she looks a funny card. 
 Hasn't a rag to her back hardly." 
 
 Oiney took the paper, looked at it, and the ex- 
 pression on his face became invulnerably solemn. 
 Doalty gazed over the old man's shoulder and saw. 
 the photo of an actress, attired in tights, who was 
 then appearing on a London music hall. The paper 
 had been used in wrapping up a second-hand coat 
 which Oiney had bought at the fair. 
 
 "She's a shameless hussy true enough," said 
 Oiney, with emphasis on the adjective, handing the 
 paper back to Dennys. "Do the people often dress 
 like that in London?" he asked, looking at Doalty. 
 
 "It's the custom sometimes," said Doalty, with 
 a smile. 
 
 "There are strange customs every place," said 
 Oiney, trying, as it seemed, to get this custom into 
 line with some of his own fundamental views of 
 life. "Now look up at the mountainy people and 
 the ways they have," he said. "If they see the 
 smoke iv a house, where there's a dead one under-
 
 170 Glenmornan 
 
 board, they'll not do a hand's turn until the berry- 
 in' is done and finished. But down this arm iv the 
 glen it's only the townland that leaves off work 
 when one in it is dead. In Stranameera here, they 
 carry a coffin on the shoulders to the graveyard, 
 and won't carry it any other way, out iv respect for 
 them that's gone. But over in Meenawarawor 
 they'll take the coffin in a cart and not mean any 
 harm be it. 
 
 "Then look at the Night of the Dead," he went 
 on. "Here in Glenmornan we go down on our 
 knees in our own home, and say the Pather-an- 
 Awe for the sufferin' souls in Purgatory, but down 
 in the Rosses, they go to the graveyard that night 
 at twelve, and say their prayers there. 
 
 "The Meenawarawor girsas go 'ut to the field 
 and spread the dung on the ridges with their fin- 
 gers, or go 'ut to the byre and clean it when it's 
 the thing to do," he continued. "But catch the 
 Stranameera girls doin' that, the proud heifers, 
 and they not a bit better to look at than the girls iv 
 Meenawarawor. So ye see it even here, Doalty," 
 the old man concluded, with the tone of a preacher 
 who has made his point manifest. "One barony 
 or one townland is not the same as another and 
 each of them has its own habits iv doin' things. 
 And foreign parts will have their own ways, for 
 that's the kind iv the world." 
 
 Drover Dennys, who was still looking at the 
 actress, raised his head. 
 
 "Is this rale?" he asked, in a voice of unusual 
 animation, "or is it only a picture?"
 
 Sheila Dermod 171 
 
 "Oh, it's real/' said Doalty Gallagher. "I've 
 seen that woman dressed like that at a music-hall." 
 
 "And ye paid to see it?" asked Oiney Leahy. 
 "How much did it cost ye?" 
 
 "Oh, half-a-crown," said Doalty. 
 
 Oiney took the paper out of Dennys' hands 
 again and looked at it with eyes of increased in- 
 terest. 
 
 "As far as I can see she's bare to the pelt," he 
 said. "Arms, legs, everything!" 
 
 "No, not the legs," said Doalty. "She has got 
 tights on, a tight pair of drawers, which are made 
 to look as if they were not on." 
 
 "And what would that be for now?" enquired 
 the old man. "It must be a funny thing for a girl 
 to come out before people as naked as a rush on a 
 bog." 
 
 "She gets paid to do it," said Doalty. "She 
 stands on the stage like that for fifteen minutes or 
 so every night, and the money she gets for a week 
 would buy your farm of land twice over." 
 
 "Well, it's money goin' to loss," said Oiney, 
 shaking his head. "If a woman sib to me done 
 that, the back iv me hand to her no matter what 
 she'd make be it. Never would I let her get under 
 me roof." 
 
 "But people abroad like it," said Doalty. "And 
 that girl has more clothes on her than some girls 
 here. See the Stranameera girls at the washing 
 by the brookside, when they are tramping the 
 clothes, with their skirts pulled up over their knees !
 
 172 Glenmornan 
 
 If they were seen doing that in London, they would 
 be put into prison." 
 
 "I suppose that bears out what I've said a minute 
 gone," said Oiney. "Every townland has its own 
 manners and that's all about it. Isn't it now ?" 
 
 "I suppose it is; and again look at this, which 
 happens here," said Doalty. "The young boys and 
 girls go into the fair of Greenanore and boys treat 
 the girls, taking them into a public-house and a 
 bedroom to have a drink. It's the custom here, but 
 abroad it would not be allowed." 
 
 "Foreign parts have their own ways iv goin'," 
 said Oiney. "And it would be a sorry day here if 
 a young fellow was not allowed to have fun with 
 the girsas." 
 
 "Ah, but it's hard to know what fun like that 
 might lead to," said Doalty. 
 
 ii 
 
 "What would it be leadin' to?" said the old man, 
 his voice a little severe, as if reproaching Doalty 
 for thinking evil of local habits. "It ud be a poor 
 day that a Glenmornan girl would come to harm 
 with a Glenmornan man. A girl here, has more 
 sense than that, and it doesn't take the law to take 
 care iv them when they're out for the bit iv fun. 
 . . . God forbid me seein' the day that a gasair 
 here would play dirty with a girsa. Lave that for 
 them abroad. . . . 
 
 "Once somethin' did take place here," the old
 
 Sheila Dermod 173 
 
 man went on, after a short silence. "One of the 
 men from the butt end iv the barony did come home 
 ifrom abroad and he begin goin' after wee Eiveleen 
 Murraghar, her that was, bad cess to her! blood 
 relation iv me own. Well, this toe-rag iv a man 
 went away from here, after he stayed for short on 
 three months, but the harm was done when he left. 
 Eiveleen became the mother iv a child that no man 
 would lay claim to, and all because she wasn't as 
 wise as a girsa should be. But them that's in the 
 barony now have got sense and are as knowin' as 
 any good girls can be." 
 
 The old man was quite correct in his estimate, 
 and this Doalty knew. Though the sex instinct is 
 as strong in Glenmornan as any part of the world, 
 the peasants' purity of manners are a strong safe- 
 guard against any irregularities. Having fun with 
 a girl at a fair means nothing more than a treat and 
 a little flirtation in a private room of a public- 
 house. A man and woman, not bound together by 
 legal union, who enter a bedroom in a great city, 
 are looked on with suspicious eyes, but in Greena- 
 nore, where almost every room in a house is a bed- 
 room, a happening of this kind is viewed from a 
 different standpoint. The young men and women 
 of the Barony of Burrach, strict guardians of their 
 virtue, seldom fall short in their observance oi 
 chaste morality. The discreet modesty of the 
 peasant girls is strong enough to resist any wrong 
 advances. 
 
 Drover Dennys had hold of the paper again. His 
 iface was wreathed in smiles.
 
 174 Glenmornan 
 
 "Here, listen to this that's in this paper," he said. 
 " 'Catching hold of Doris with his two strong 
 arms/ " he read, " 'Fred Reynolds pressed his lips 
 against hers.' God! they're always kissin' the girls 
 over in foreign parts," he remarked, putting his 
 head to one side and quizzing at Doalty with his 
 clear grey eyes. "It's a wonder that they don't 
 get tired iv it. ... There's not much kissin' done 
 hereabouts." 
 
 "And that's as it should be," said Oiney. '"A 
 kiss is an invitation to do something that is not in 
 keepin' with decency and good manners." 
 
 "But it's not wrong to kiss a girl," said Dennys 
 The Drover. 
 
 "It's a sin," said Oiney gravely. "And if a girl 
 would let a man kiss her it shows the poor pur- 
 chase she holds on her soul. Did ye ever kiss a 
 girl, Dennys?" he asked. 
 
 "I haven't yet, but I will one iv these fine days," 
 said the young man, with an air of reckless de- 
 cision. 
 
 "Ah ! indeed and ye won't, me dacent boy," said 
 Oiney, and there was reproof in his voice. "It 
 might lead ye astray. It's the first step into the 
 worst iv all sins, the sin iv the flesh." 
 
 The two young men laughed. 
 
 "Ye're a funny old shanahy, Oiney," said Drover 
 Dennys. "Ye think that every sin is a bad one 
 only the ones that ye are guilty iv yerself." 
 
 "If it's the drink that ye mane, I'll give way to 
 ye and say that it's a sin against God and man," 
 said Oiney. "But then, Dennys, me boy, men were
 
 Sheila Dermod 175 
 
 made to sin. Badness is in the body iv every man." 
 
 "So you think that the sin of the flesh is the 
 worst of all?" Doalty enquired. 
 
 "It is then," said Oiney. "The sin, and every- 
 thing that gives rise to it, is bad. And givin' a 
 kiss to a girl is not to be thought iv, if one wants to 
 live a dacent and holy life. . . . They may kiss 
 abroad, but it's not for Glenmornan people to fol- 
 low a bad example. It's a sin to kiss any one bar 
 the dead here; but a mother is allowed to kiss her 
 children until they come to the age iv seven. After 
 that it's a mortal sin for her to kiss them. For me- 
 self I never kissed any woman, bar me wife, and 
 that was before she was underboard. . . ." 
 
 He looked at the young men and stroked his 
 beard. 
 
 "None iv ye have the drouth?" he asked. A! 
 sly look crept into his eyes, as he went over to the 
 bed and brought out the black bottle. "Just some- 
 thin' to sweeten our discourse," he said, catching 
 the cork with his teeth and drawing it. 
 
 "Has the fairies been havin' ye in their mind 
 again?" asked Dennys, and he fixed a knowing 
 look on Oiney. Both laughed, not so much at the 
 joke, as the fact, that a secret between the two men 
 was not known to Doalty Gallagher. 
 
 in 
 
 Leaving Oiney Leahy's with a spade across his 
 shoulder, Doalty saw Sheila Dermod in front of
 
 176 Glenmornan 
 
 him on her way to a neighbouring shop for provi- 
 sions. She was walking through the wet grass, 
 carrying eggs in a spotted handkerchief. Sheila 
 had a shawl over her head and this fell down over 
 her magnificent shoulders, with one fringe reach- 
 ing her hips. She was barefooted and wearing a 
 short baunagh-brockagh petticoat that reached a 
 little lower than her knee. The hem of the petti- 
 coat kept rubbing backwards and forwards across 
 the girl's shapely calves. At every step she raised 
 a neat little foot high over the swaying heads of the 
 ripple grasses and looked back with a swift, dis- 
 creet glance at Doalty Gallagher. The young man 
 was trying to pluck up sufficient courage to call 
 to her. 
 
 "Sheila?" he said suddenly, in a Hoarse whisper. 
 
 The girl turned the tail of her eye round, but 
 did not answer. Probably she had not heard what 
 he said. Doalty called to her again, and again she 
 looked back, but said nothing. However, she 
 shortened her steps and walked more leisurely, 
 waiting for him to overtake her, and curious to 
 hear what he had got to say. 
 
 Doalty overtook her. 
 
 ''I'm sorry about what happened last night, 
 Sheila," he said, with an awkward laugh. "I didn't 
 think that you would get so angry with me." 
 
 The girl raised her eyes, looked upwards and 
 nodded her head without speaking. In her look, 
 Doalty fancied he saw reproach for his behaviour 
 of the previous night. 
 
 "I don't want you to be very angry with me,"
 
 Sheila Dermod 177 
 
 he said nervously, and a moment's silence followed. 
 He could hear the girl's feet brushing against the 
 long grass. She did not answer Doalty, but seemed 
 to be waiting to hear him say something further. 
 
 "You know I did not intend to do you any harm, 
 Sheila," he said. 
 
 "Well, I don't see what harm ye'd be wantin' to 
 do to me, Doalty Gallagher," said the girl. "Ye 
 don't think that I'd let ye, do ye now ?" 
 
 "I don't mean what you mean," said Doalty re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 "What d'ye mean then?" asked Sheila, with a 
 sidelong glance. "I don't know what ye're meanin' 
 at all. You're a funny boy, Doalty Gallagher." 
 
 "Am I?" he laughed, and felt that a more confi- 
 dential intimacy had suddenly sprung up between 
 himself and the girl. 
 
 They came to the march ditch without another 
 word. There they stopped, and Doalty asked, 
 "What time are you taking down the cows from 
 the hill to-night, Sheila?" 
 
 "The same time as every night," murmured the 
 girl with a look of wonder in her eyes. "Just when 
 it's gettin' dark." 
 
 You take them down through the awlth, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "I take them down that way," said Sheila. 
 
 -Tm going up there to cut an ash-plant when it's 
 growing dark to-night, so I'll look out for you, 
 Sheila," said the young man, in a husky voice. 
 "Don't forget that, Sheila, and don't go and hide 
 when you see me."
 
 178 Glenmornan 
 
 "Hide ! no fear," said the girl with a smile. "But 
 mind, if ye come, ye are not to be the same as ye 
 were last night. If ye are, I'll not ever speak one 
 word to you again, Doalty Gallagher." 
 
 Walking sedately, the girl went down towards 
 the road. On the way into his home Doalty en- 
 countered his mother, who was looking over the 
 hedge, one eye on the doings of her neighbours and 
 another on the stocking which she was knitting. 
 
 "Did ye get the spade from old Oiney?" she 
 asked, and Doalty judged by her tone and the 
 downward droop of the corner of her lips, that the 
 question was a prelude to talk of a more serious 
 nature. Doalty recollected that this tone and look 
 of hers was assumed of old, when she held a birch 
 in her hand, and when the children had been trou- 
 blesome. 
 
 "I have got the spade," said the young man, as 
 he put it on the ground. 
 
 > "Was Dennys The Drover over there?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes, Dennys is over in Oiney's now." 
 
 ? 'He was with Eileen Kelly in Ryan's last night 
 they're saying," said the woman, meaning by 
 "they" the people of the glen. 
 
 "Was he?" Doalty enquired. 
 
 "And ye know that he was, ye, yerself," said 
 tfie mother, "for weren't ye with him there?" 
 
 "Who has been telling you this?" asked Doalty 
 in an angry voice, but feeling more discomfited 
 than annoyed. 
 
 "Who, but every one," said the mother, plying
 
 Sheila Dermod 179 
 
 her needles rapidly, as if her very life depended 
 on the job. "It's the talk iv the whole townland 
 this day. It's bad enough to see ye spendin' yer 
 money on that cow, but then to take and go about 
 with Sheila Dermod and trate her when ye could 
 get girls that's yer own equal who would be only 
 too glad to have yer company." 
 
 Maura The Rosses compressed her lips and fixed 
 her eyes on the hills that rose from the other side of 
 the river. She still continued knitting and Doalty 
 could see that she was dropping every second stitch. 
 
 "There's nothing wrong with Sheila Dermod," 
 said Doalty gruffly. "I don't see any harm in 
 speaking to the girl. Have you got some grudge 
 against her?" he asked. 
 
 "Thinkin' that I'd stoop so low as to have a 
 grudge against a one like Sheila Dermod!" said 
 Maura The Rosses, disdain in her voice. "She's 
 so proud, and so is her mother! Wait till ye see 
 what will happen if ye keep runnin' about after 
 her. She'll make ye the laughin' stock iv the whole 
 glen." 
 
 With these words, Maura The Rosses left her 
 son and passed into the house. 
 
 Doalty went out to the field and began digging a 
 drain which was intended to divert the flood waters 
 from the meadows in the rainy season. As he 
 worked he thought of his mother's temper and 
 laughed to himself. "The way she hates Sheila!" 
 he muttered. "Why is there such bad feeling be- 
 tween some families? . . . Looking down on one 
 another because of an extra cow's grass or an extra
 
 180 Glenmornan 
 
 acre of spadeland. . . . But is it not the same all 
 the world over ? . . . Petty spite and jealousy. The 
 same everywhere." 
 
 Doalty laboured obstinately for half an hour, 
 without looking round. Then he straightened him- 
 self and gazed down the road to see Sheila coming 
 back from the shop, a large parcel under her shawl. 
 ... He bent to his work again, and suddenly his 
 fancy brought the girl to his side, her arms pressed 
 tightly round his neck and her eyes looking down 
 into his. He could see her soft, dark brown hair 
 falling over her shoulders, her full white throat 
 and her red seductive lips responding to his 
 kisses. . . . 
 
 That evening, when darkness was falling, Doalty 
 was in the awlth, waiting for her to bring in the 
 cattle. 
 
 IV 
 
 It was very pleasant to sit there in the awlth, 
 drinking in the night and gazing down on the glen 
 between the hills. Doalty in his heart felt a greater 
 love than ever for his native place, for the white 
 houses with their snug coverings of thatch and 
 their lights, already burning, gleaming modestly 
 through the windows, for the clear streams scoot- 
 ing down over the rocks and meandering lazily 
 through the calm meadows, for the Owenawadda 
 eeling its way seawards, and more than anything 
 else, for the kind-hearted people who dwelt there, 
 the honest people of Glenmornan.
 
 Sheila Dermod 181 
 
 Over Carnaween the new moon, a mere sickle, 
 was showing. Under it the mountain stood still 
 and attentive, as if listening to the sounds of the 
 world that lay beneath it. The awlth was full of 
 vague whisperings and rustlings and no wonder! 
 for it was here that the gentle people often held 
 their nightly revels. A belated bee drummed 
 through the undergrowth on the search for its 
 home; a birch that grew by Doalty's side, bent 
 down towards him, moving its arms in a mysterious 
 manner; a bat fluttered into air, circled round and 
 round for a moment, and disappeared. From 
 where he sat Doalty could not see a soul, but all 
 manner of sounds floated up to him from the glen, 
 the happy laughter of merry children, the sharp 
 cries of the women driving the cattle into their 
 byres, and the loud shouting of men, calling to their 
 neighbours across the march-ditches. 
 
 "Ah ! she'll soon be here," he said to himself, his 
 mind full of complex thoughts and emotions. Al- 
 though he had sat there for quite a long time, he 
 felt as breathless as if he had just rushed all the 
 way up from his home to the awlth on the brae- 
 face. 
 
 An old speckled cow came along on its way to 
 the byre. It stopped when it saw Doalty, fixed a 
 pair of big, serious eyes on the young man, then 
 flicked its hind legs with its tail and soberly pur- 
 sued its journey. Following the cow, a young 
 heifer rattled into view, stopped dead when it saw 
 the stranger, and gave a snort of surprise. For a 
 moment it gazed dubiously at the man, then with a
 
 1 82 Glenmornan 
 
 wild rush it careered by him, down the awlth, send- 
 ing the stones flying against the bushes. 
 
 Sheila came into sight and saw the young man. 
 Although expecting him her face flushed when he 
 rose to meet her. 
 
 "This yerself, Doalty Gallagher?" she asked. 
 
 For answer Doalty reached and caught both her 
 hands in his. She resisted a little and caught her 
 breath, in what seemed to be a sob. Doalty pressed 
 her fingers timidly, but Sheila did not raise her 
 -eyes to look at him. 
 
 "Let me be," she said in a whisper. "The cattle 
 are near down at the house now, and who'll tie 
 them?" 
 
 "Sheila, do you like me?" asked Doalty and tried 
 to put his arms round her. She pulled herself 
 away, but did not raise her eyes to his face. 
 
 "I like ye, Doalty Gallagher," she replied. 
 "There's no reason for not likin' ye. Only, last 
 night " she stammered and stopped. 
 
 "But I only kissed you, Sheila. There was no 
 harm in that, surely." 
 
 "But it's a sin," said the girl in a trembling 
 voice. "Now let me go, won't ye, till I tie up the 
 cattle." 
 
 "Well, let me kiss you, now," said Doalty coax- 
 ingly. "Just once, and then you can go away 
 down to the house. . . . It's not a sin. . . . Every- 
 body does it." 
 
 He hardly knew what he was talking about 
 
 "Just once and then you can go," he repeated. 
 
 "Don't, Doalty Gallagher," Sheila faltered, in a
 
 Sheila Dermod 183 
 
 frightened voice, as she saw Doalty's face close to 
 hers. 
 
 "But you're not afraid of me, are you?" 
 
 "I am. . . ." 
 
 "But it's silly; it " 
 
 "Let me be, Doalty. Do now. I want to go 
 home. . . ." 
 
 Her voice was beseeching. 
 
 "I'm in love with you, Sheila Dermod," said 
 Doalty, drawing the girl close into his side. "I've 
 never loved anybody before." 
 
 "Did ye not ?" she asked, still trying to free her 
 hands. 
 
 : "Never till I met you, Sheila," said Doalty. 
 --You believe that, don't you?" 
 
 "How am I to know?" 
 
 Even as she spoke, she freed herself from Doal- 
 ty's embrace with an agile movement and scram- 
 bled down the awlth, scattering the stones from 
 under her with her bare feet. Getting to a safe 
 distance, she looked back and laughed. 
 
 "Good night, Doalty Gallagher," she called in 
 a whisper and ran away. 
 
 The man felt annoyed, exasperated. What a 
 fool he was making of himself, he thought. 
 
 A few minutes later he could hear Sheila tying 
 up the cattle and scolding them. 
 
 "Come here, ye wee divil, ye !" he heard her say. 
 "Ye're standin' on me feet, ye rogue. . . . Now! 
 Now ! Don't be tryin' to stick me in the eye with 
 yer horns." 
 
 "I believe she looks on me as some sort of nat-
 
 184 Glenmornan 
 
 ural curiosity," Doalty said to himself, as he lay 
 in his bed that night. A vague resentment rose 
 in his heart against the girl. "She's making a fool 
 of me," he whispered. "I amuse her and . . . 
 Well, it doesn't matter." 
 
 He wondered what the affair would lead to ; how 
 it would end. Something would certainly hap- 
 pen. . . . Life surely had not the same monotony 
 of a repeating decimal. Things would change. If 
 Sheila got married to somebody not to himself, of 
 course he could see more clearly. Everything 
 would then be simplified. But now, nothing was 
 sure. Sheila obstructed his outlook. She was real, 
 and something he desired exceedingly. 
 
 "I'll try and sleep !" he said with petulant resig- 
 nation. 
 
 But he lay awake for a long time, his head full 
 of thoughts of the girl. He slept heavily and 
 awoke early, as tired as when he went to bed.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 BREED DERMOD 
 
 To the Hard Woman the back of your hand, 
 
 The Woman not liked in her own townland. 
 
 The road to her doorstep is snug and neat, 
 
 For it never is tramped by a beggar's feet. 
 
 The Man of the House is a quiet soul, 
 
 For a word from his lips she'll never thole ; 
 
 And the woman's children know their place, 
 
 And they know the birch on the chimney-brace. 
 
 Tidy and thrifty she toils and spins 
 
 At the shut of day and when day begins, 
 
 And the dust she sweeps from the hearth and floor 
 
 Comes back in gold to the woman's door; 
 
 But people like her and ones of her get 
 
 Are never much loved wherever they're set, 
 
 And her neighbours say, "The back iv the hand 
 
 To a woman not liked in her own townland." 
 
 The Hard Woman. 
 
 MAURA The Rosses was a very civil 
 woman with little to say. But she was 
 very curious about the doings of her 
 neighbours and the doings of Breed Dermod in 
 particular. Seeing that there was bad blood be- 
 tween herself and Breed, it was natural that she 
 should be interested in the woman's doings. 
 Maura kept surreptitious watch on the Dermods, 
 185
 
 1 86 Glenmornan 
 
 although she tried to act as if she were not aware 
 of their existence. If any untoward happening oc- 
 curred on the Dermods' farm, if a cow broke loose 
 from the fields, if a neighbour came to thatch their 
 house, or if Oiney Leahy entered into a loud-voiced 
 conversation with Breed across the ditch, Maura 
 The Rosses set about washing the floor of her own 
 house. 
 
 To do this, it was necessary to go out to the well 
 for water, and from the well it was an easy job to 
 keep an eye on the Dermods and see, or hear, 
 whatever was taking place there. Maura often 
 washed the stone floor and when doing so, she al- 
 ways went out for the water herself. So, who 
 could blame her if she heard and saw things when 
 engaged on her own honest work? Doalty often 
 noticed these happenings, but now, when he had 
 become interested in the why and wherefore of the 
 feud, he did not dare to ask his mother any ques- 
 tions about the matter. 
 
 Not being able to ask his mother he asked his 
 sister Norah. 
 
 "What's the quarrel between us and the Der- 
 mods?" he enquired. 
 
 "Why do ye want to know that?" Norah asked. 
 She was sitting by the table with Kitty and both 
 were looking at a boudoir cap which the latter had 
 just completed. The convent school, in the village, 
 was making great efforts to educate the young 
 peasant girls, teaching them cookery and sewing. 
 The young girls were ready and willing to be 
 taught. "If we had the things that's wanted," the
 
 Breed Dermod 187 
 
 little ones often remarked, with a touching pathos 
 in their voices, "we could make the nicest things 
 that the glen ever seen." As it was, they acquired 
 arts, but not the material to make those arts mani- 
 fest. 
 
 "Well, it's a strange thing having a quarrel with 
 the Dermods," said Doalty. "They don't seem to 
 be doing any harm to us. When I was at home, 
 long ago, they were great friends of ours." 
 
 "Is that all ye know?" said Norah, with a toss 
 of her head. "The old woman was big enough with 
 us as long as she was behoulden to us for ajnything. 
 But when a brother iv hers, that is beyont the 
 water, began to send her some money, she got as 
 proud as the hills and wouldn't say a word at all 
 to us after that. Before she got the money, it was 
 Sheila, her that's so proud now, comin' in in the 
 mornin' for a grater; in the middle iv the day for 
 the len iv a scoop iv male, and be night for some- 
 thin' else. Now if it's passin' the door that she is, 
 she looks to the other side iv the road. . . . She's 
 as distant as the town people and why it is, I don't 
 know. For she's one iv the lowest iv the low." 
 
 "Now, what do you mean by the lowest of the 
 low ?" Doalty asked, with a smile. 
 
 "Ye're always laughin' at me," said the girl. 
 "I don't know why, but I suppose it's because I'm 
 not smart like the ones that's over beyont the 
 water." 
 
 "I'm not laughing at you, Norah," said Doalty, 
 feeling a little awkward. "But you have a funny 
 way of looking at things, Norah."
 
 1 88 Glenmornan 
 
 "Well, I suppose ye yerself was like me one 
 time," said the girl. "But that ye went out into 
 the world and saw things, ye now look down on us 
 at home. I don't like people that bees like that." 
 
 "Bees like that," Kitty sniffed, for being a con- 
 vent girl she was far above such local idioms. 
 
 "And ye yerself will grow up like Doalty, I sup- 
 pose," said Norah to her superior sister. 
 
 "And ye'll be runnin' after Dennys The Dro' 
 ver," Kitty retorted. 
 
 Norah blushed. Doalty looked at her and 
 laughed. 
 
 "So every girl in the place is after Dennys," he 
 said. 
 
 Maura The Rosses came into the house at that 
 moment, carrying a bucket of water. She was 
 washing the floor although she had been engaged 
 on the job only the day before. Emptying the water 
 on the flags, she began scrubbing them with a 
 besom. Presently she stopped, and looking at no- 
 body in particular, she pointed her thumb over her 
 shoulder in the direction of Breed Dermod's. 
 
 "The woman up there is goin' down the brae 
 with her boots on," she said ; "and I wonder where 
 she'll be goin' to." 
 
 "She'll be goin' over to Ardagh," said Kitty, 
 knowing that Breed Dermod, who generally went 
 about barefooted, was going a good journey be- 
 cause she had put her boots on. 
 
 "I wonder what she'll be goin' there for now," 
 said Maura The Rosses, trying to speak as if she 
 had very little interest in the matter.
 
 Breed Dermod 189 
 
 "I know/' said Norah. "Owen Briney was 
 speakin' about it the other day. She's goin' over; 
 there to see about gettin' her house slated." 
 
 "Slated!" exclaimed Maura The Rosses, making 
 no effort to hide her surprise. "Goin' to get her 
 house slated. And where will she get the money, 
 I'd like to know? Owen Briney is often sayin' 
 things that there's not much truth in." 
 
 By her manner of speaking, it was evident to 
 Doalty that his mother hoped that there was no 
 truth in Owen Briney's statement. 
 
 "There's not a lie in it, I think," said Norah. 
 -Breed got a big lump in the last letter from 
 America. Her brother, out there, has money and 
 to spare." 
 
 "But to get her house slated!" said Maura THe 
 Rosses, contracting her brows, as if in an effort to 
 discover why this could not be done. "Well, I don't 
 know," she said after a moment's silence. "I don't 
 know at all what to make iv it !" 
 
 She went out by the front door with the bucket 
 in her hand, although previously she always made 
 the journey to the well by way of the back door. 
 But that would not give her a view of the glen 
 road. When she came back she spoke about Breed 
 Dermod again. 
 
 "She's away down the road now, as hard as she 
 can pelt," she said. "And she's holdin' her head 
 up too."
 
 190 Glenmornan 
 
 ii 
 
 Maura The Rosses placed the bucket on the floor 
 and looked at Doalty. 
 
 "This house iv ours would look very nice if it 
 had the slates," she said. "If I had enough money 
 I'd have slates on it long ago. But then, one can't 
 do everything." 
 
 "A thatched house looks much nicer," said 
 Doalty, who did not want to see a world of slates 
 come into his picture of Glenmornan. It would not 
 be in keeping with the memories of his youth. But 
 people with slated houses were considered well to 
 do, as it took money for the job, and when a peas- 
 ant was able to afford the money he got his house 
 slated. 
 
 "But every one that can is gettin' the slates on 
 now," said Maura The Rosses. "Over in Meena- 
 warawor there are three houses with the slates on, 
 and two more are just goin' to get them done. It's 
 them that have their young abroad that are able 
 to do it. Now, to get this house done it wouldn't 
 take so much, 1 " she added; "but it is too much for 
 me. If I had the money. . . ." 
 
 Maura The Rosses continued scrubbing the floor, 
 sweeping a flag that was already perfectly clean. 
 'After a moment she raised her head and looked at 
 Norah. 
 
 "Run out," she said to her, "and see that the 
 cows are not in the corn."
 
 Breed Dermod 191 
 
 "But the cows were up on the top of the hill a 
 minute ago," said Norah. 
 
 "Run out and do what ye're told," said the 
 mother, "and take the basket with ye and dig some 
 pratees for the supper. Ye go with her and gather 
 them, Kitty." 
 
 The two went out, and at that moment Hughie 
 Beag put his head through the door and fixed two 
 big eyes on the nail over the fire. On this nail 
 the birch for chastising unruly children was gen- 
 erally hung. Hughie had been out on the road 
 rolling in the dust and his face, legs, arms and 
 dress were covered with dirt. There was a long 
 rent down the leg of the knickers which his mother 
 had bought for him at the fair a few days previ- 
 ously. When his mother saw this! In a Glen- 
 mornan family of ten the birch is often used, and 
 Doalty, as he looked at Hughie peeping round the 
 door, remembered his own childhood and laughed. 
 
 Maura The Rosses looked at Hughie Beag. 
 
 "Run out and play yerself till tay-time!" she 
 shouted. "And don't come in till then !" 
 
 Hughie scuttled back to the road again and the 
 house was left to Maura The Rosses and her son. 
 This was what the woman wanted. 
 I "Have ye any money to spare, Doalty?" she 
 asked him, and continued to scrub the same clean 
 flag. 
 
 "I have a few pounds left," he said. 
 
 "Ye wouldn't miss as much as would slate the 
 house, I suppose?" she enquired timidly. 
 
 "Wouldn't I?" said Doalty. "It's far nicer to
 
 192 Glenmornan 
 
 have it thatched than slated," he went on. "It's 
 warm enough here, without getting slates on the 
 roof. Don't you think so yourself ?" 
 
 Maura The Rosses did not think so. She 
 wanted the house slated, not so much because it 
 would be more comfortable, but because every- 
 body in Glenmornan who thought anything of 
 themselves, were getting done with the thatching 
 and getting the slates on. And she did not want 
 to be the last at the job, not now especially, as 
 the "woman up there" was getting her house done. 
 
 "But I haven't practically a penny, mother," 
 Doalty repeated. But the woman did not believe 
 him, as he could see by the smile of unbelief that 
 flickered across her face. He had money, and she 
 knew that he had. Nothing would convince her 
 to the contrary. 
 
 In Glenmornan children are looked upon as good 
 investments. When they grow up, they are sup- 
 posed to give all the money they earn to their par- 
 ents and the parents take it as their due. Maura 
 The Rosses did not request a loan from her son, 
 she simply wanted money that was hers by right. 
 It is only when the young marry that the parents' 
 claim to the wages ceases. 
 
 Seeing that Doalty would not fall in with her 
 wishes, Maura The Rosses began temporising. 
 She had a little laid by, only a few pounds, but, 
 if Doalty would give her some, and if she could 
 get two young heifers (they would be ready for the 
 next harvest fair) and Crania Coolin's cow (she 
 hoped it would calve well) off her hands, she might
 
 Breed Dermod 193 
 
 be able to buy the slates. There were also two 
 butts of butter, almost ready, . . . seven geese, 
 hanging with fat, . . . and maybe some heather 
 off the hill could be sold for bedding, . . . and 
 there was straw that would be good for the thatch 
 that other people needed, . . . and the pratee crop 
 looked promising, and down the glen, where the 
 fields suffered from the floods, the people would 
 need to buy pratees at the heel of the year, . . . 
 and the corn was heavy of ear, . . . and there 
 were twenty-five lambs ready come the next mar- 
 ket. Then maybe the childer away in America 
 would send a little money at Christmas. In this 
 manner Maura The Rosses strove to win Doalty 
 over to her way of thinking, and all the time Doal- 
 ty's thoughts were on Sheila Dermod, who was 
 now all alone in her house on the brae. That 
 night her mother would be late in returning home, 
 for the journey to Ardagh was a long step. . . . 
 Doalty decided that he would go up and see Sheila 
 when darkness fell. . . . 
 
 "And now, won't ye do that ?" he suddenly heard 
 his mother say. 
 
 "All right," he replied. "I'll see that the house 
 gets slated." 
 
 "And ye'll pay for the slatin', will ye?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "I'll pay for it," said Doalty.
 
 194 Glenmornan 
 
 in 
 
 Oiney Leahy came into the house of Maura The 
 Rosses ten minutes later. In one hand he carried 
 a strong ash-plant, in the other a bundle of ban- 
 nocks wrapped in a dotted handkerchief. 
 
 "Good morra t'ye, Oiney," said Maura The 
 Rosses. "Is it goin' on a journey that ye are?" 
 
 "It is," said Oiney Leahy, placing his bundle 
 on the floor and sitting down on a chair, near the 
 fire. 
 
 "Then it's a good day that ye're havin' for the 
 same," said Maura The Rosses, making a brave 
 effort to restrain her curiosity. She wanted to 
 know where Oiney was bound for, but Glenmornan 
 is very loth to ask anybody about their business. 
 
 Oiney lit his little clay pipe; white and clean it 
 was, which showed that it had just been dug up 
 from the field behind the old man's house. From 
 Oiney's expression it was evident that he was in a 
 very serious mood, and though relishing his smoke, 
 he was doing his best to hide his enjoyment of a 
 pleasant pipe. He puffed soberly for a moment, 
 as if above such a performance, and then, taking 
 the pipe from his mouth, he held it between finger 
 and thumb and rubbed the stem across his white 
 beard. Presently he spoke in a voice of chastened 
 humour. 
 
 "It is indeed a good day for a journey," he said, 
 "and a willin' foot will carry a man far on a day
 
 Breed Dermod 195 
 
 like this, please God. Even old Breed, above there, 
 has gone out the day." 
 
 "Where's she goin' the day?" asked Maura The 
 Rosses. 
 
 "It's the slates that she's gettin'," said Oiney. 
 "Once the harvest is by and in, she'll be gettin' 
 them over her head. It'll be a snug home that 
 she'll be lavin' behint her, for her girsha, when 
 she goes." 
 
 Maura The Rosses, who was pouring a fistful 
 of tea on the teapot which she had just placed on 
 the fire, did not say anything. To evince curi- 
 osity in the doings of Breed Dermod was beneath 
 her. 
 
 "It'll be a snug home for the girl and the man 
 that has the luck to get her," said Oiney. "And 
 there's some that would go far and not find as 
 soncy a girl." 
 
 Maura The Rosses glanced covertly at Doalty, 
 then back at the teapot again. 
 
 "So Breed is away to see about the slates," said 
 Oiney, as if in agreement with some imaginary 
 individual, who had just informed him of this fact. 
 "And it's a grand day to be shakin' one's legs on 
 the roads. For meself I have a much longer jour- 
 ney and now is the time for it, seein' that I have 
 all the turf stacked, and all the pratees makin' a 
 good show, and the grass gettin' ready for the 
 scythe and not much to do at all on me wee bit iv 
 land, bar the milkin' iv the cow and the puttin' out 
 iv it to grass in the mornin', and the takin' in iv 
 it at night, and the feedin' iv the dog and the cat.
 
 196 Glenmornan 
 
 I'll be distant for a few days, so I'm gettin' Sheila 
 Dermod to milk the cow one mornin' and one night, 
 and Eileen Kelly will do the same another day and 
 yer Norah, if ye'll allow it, Maura The Rosses, will 
 do the same on the third day. Then, the morra, 
 Dennys The Drover is goin' to see me cow and 
 young calf to the hill, and he's goin' to take it in 
 at night a job that he'll not fail to do, seein' that 
 it's Sheila Dermod that will milk the cow, when he 
 takes it in/' 
 
 A grateful look showed in the eyes that Maura 
 The Rosses fixed on Oiney. 
 
 "And on the day that Eileen Kelly is doin' the 
 milking I would like if Doalty would be as good 
 as to come over and see the cow in and out," said 
 Oiney. "Widye do that now, Doalty?" 
 
 "I'll be delighted to do it," said Doalty. 
 
 "And on the third day yer Norah and Owen 
 'Briney will do the work for me, Maura The 
 Rosses." 
 
 "Iv course Norah will be glad to help ye as much 
 as she can," said Maura The Rosses, as she lifted 
 the teapot from the coals. "Now ye'll have a wee 
 drop iv the tay before ye go out on yer journey," 
 she said. 
 
 "Not this tide, thank ye," said Oiney Leahy. 
 "It's to Lough Derg that I'm goin' and I'm takin' 
 me fast with me." 
 
 "Indeed, Oiney," said Maura The Rosses. 
 
 "It's true," said Oiney. "A person must once 
 in a time think iv God. When all's said and done 
 and one looks back on one's sins it's to be seen
 
 Breed Dermod 197 
 
 that the flesh is weak, Maura The Rosses, and 
 there's sin in the marrow iv one's bones. ... I 
 must repint because the faith says it." 
 
 "I wish that ye could take Doalty widye to Lough 
 Derg," said Maura The Rosses. "After his long 
 years in foreign parts he should go to Lough Derg 
 and get free from all his sins." 
 
 She spoke of Doalty as if the young man were 
 not in the room. 
 
 "I'd be only too glad if Doalty would make the 
 journey with me," said Oiney. "But he's a good 
 boy and not as much in sin as I am." 
 
 "So you don't think that I need forgiveness, 
 Oiney?" said Doalty. "My mother and that old 
 fool Devaney think different." 
 
 "It's the priest he means," said Maura The 
 Rosses to Oiney. "I don't know what's comin' 
 over the boy at all. He wasn't like this when he 
 was wee." 
 
 "Ah! but he'll come round to see things in the 
 right way one day," said Oiney hopefully. "Not 
 now, maybe, for he's young yet. But he has his 
 years before him." 
 
 "It's to Lough Derg that he should go, for he 
 needs it more than yerself, Oiney," said Maura 
 The Rosses. "I keep me eyes on him and I see 
 things. Since he came home here he hasn't been 
 in at the Paidreen * one night, at all. It's always 
 outside that he is, and lookin' at the lights comin' 
 out in the houses along the glen. He likes to look 
 at them, he says. And he's always lookin' at the 
 
 * Rosary.
 
 198 Glenmornan 
 
 stars over Carnaween and listenin' to the winds 
 blowin' down from the hills and he says that he's 
 very near to God when he's foolin' about like that, 
 the poor plaisham. . . . As if that will take him 
 to heaven! Father Devaney was telling me that 
 he was coming up to see Doalty one day, and I 
 told Doalty. What did he say when he heard this 
 but, 'If that old dog comes up here I'll pitch him 
 into the duhal.' " 
 
 "But he goes to Mass every Sunday," said 
 Oiney. 
 
 "He does, but d'ye know what he said the other 
 day, Oiney ?" asked Maura The Rosses, still speak- 
 ing as if Doalty were not present. "He said that 
 the priest was a funny old fellow. Think iv that. 
 Callin' the holy priest a fellow! I'm afraid that 
 Doalty is a Prodesan." 
 
 "No fear," said Oiney. f 'If a man's born to the 
 ould, ancient faith he'll never lose it. It's with us, 
 no matter what we do. We may go away at times, 
 committin' the worst iv sins, The Deadly Sins, 
 there are seven iv them, The Sins That Cry to 
 God For Vengeance, there are four iv them, The 
 Sins Against The Holy Ghost, there are six iv 
 them, and we may commit all these, and more, but 
 in the end we come back again. So will yerself if 
 ye have gone away, Doalty, though I don't think 
 that ye have. Ye'll come back on yer dyin' day 
 if not before. For once that ye're born in the 
 faith, it is always yours. It may be like a silver 
 coin with the rust all over it, but all ye have to do 
 is to scrape the rust off and there ye find the coin
 
 Breed Dermod 199 
 
 as bright and white and shiny as ever. . . . Now 
 when I go over to Lough Derg, holdin' to me fast, 
 doin' the stations barefut and goin' to me duties, 
 I'll be as clean in my soul as the christened baby. 
 ... I may fall again, but then, God is always 
 waitin'. . . ." 
 
 The old man got to his feet, put his pipe in his 
 mouth, raised his bundle and went out, sideways 
 through the door. 
 
 "Good luck t'yer journey, Oiney Leahy," Maura 
 [The Rosses called after him. 
 
 -Thank ye for the blessin'," said the old man 
 and full of faith in God, much the more vigor- 
 ous because never disputed or analysed, he went, 
 his fast with him, on the journey to Lough Derg. 
 
 "Does he often go there?" Doalty enquired when 
 the footsteps of the pilgrim died away. 
 
 -'About once a year, good man," said Maura The 
 Rosses, fixing a look of stern disapproval on 
 Doalty and speaking of Oiney in a very respect- 
 ful voice. From her tone, it was evident that she 
 considered Oiney had, by this simple act of piety, 
 risen far above the mundane world of Glenmor- 
 nan. "He needs to go, too," she added. "He has 
 been about all the turf -stacks in Stranameera since 
 last Hall' Eve, for he hadn't a clod saved at the 
 end iv last harvest. He'll be all right the year 
 that's comin', for he has all his bog gathered now. 
 ... But will ye go to Lough Derg, Doalty, as soon 
 as the harvest is in ?" Maura The Rosses enquired. 
 
 "Well, I'll see," said Doalty.
 
 200 Glenmornan 
 
 IV 
 
 That nigkt when the darkness had fallen, Doalty 
 Gallagher went up to Breed Dermod's house. In 
 front of the house lay a field, with the grass grow- 
 ing up to the very door. Sheila did not hear the 
 young man coming, and when he went in he found 
 her sitting on a chair, her red petticoat tucked up 
 between her knees, washing her feet in a tin dish, 
 filled with spring water. She sprang up when he 
 entered, letting her dress fall down. 
 
 "Oh ! ye've give me a fright !" she exclaimed, with 
 a gasp, shy and indignant, fixing her eyes on 
 Doalty. "I didn't hear ye comin' at all. Oh ! I'm 
 broke!" 
 
 "Fve come up because I want to see you," said 
 Doalty, looking at the girl. The lamp was not lit, 
 but a dull fire showed on the hearth. 
 
 "Ye want to see me again!" said the girl, her 
 lips twitching. "Why are ye always wantin' to 
 see me?" 
 
 "You know quite well why I want to see you, 
 Sheila," said the young man. "I love you, Sheila. 
 You don't think. . . ." 
 
 "But ye're always tellin' me that," said the girl. 
 
 "But you believe me, don't you?" asked Doalty, 
 and he reached out and clasped the girl's hand. He 
 pulled the young girlish body towards him and 
 pressed it with a mad passion. Sheila shrank back, 
 frightened. 
 
 "Lave go iv me, Doalty Gallagher," she said.
 
 Breed Dermod 201 
 
 '"Anybody may come in now and ye doin' this." 
 
 "Let them come in if they like," said Doalty 
 recklessly, and bending down, he tried to kiss the 
 fresh warm lips of Sheila. But he was unsuccess- 
 ful. The girl bowed her head and he rested his 
 lips on her hair. 
 
 "Look up at me," he whispered in a hoarse voice. 
 "Look up at me, Sheila." 
 
 "Whisht!" said the girl in a whisper, pressing 
 her face against Doalty's chest and raising her 
 hand in an attitude of listening. "There's some 
 one comin'. And I haven't got my boots on." 
 
 She pulled herself away with a violent move- 
 ment, and rushing to a bed which stood in the cor- 
 ner of the kitchen, she groped under it and brought 
 out a pair of boots and stockings. At that mo- 
 ment Eileen Kelly entered the house, and seeing 
 Doalty Gallagher, she came to a dead stop and 
 looked at him. 
 
 "Is it ye that's here, Doalty Gallagher?" she en- 
 quired, stretching out her hand to the young man. 
 "Ye're one iv the first in." 
 
 She pressed his hand firmly, relaxed her grip 
 for a moment, then squeezed his hand again, as if 
 complimenting him on some success which, in her 
 eyes, he had achieved. Doalty, agitated and con- 
 fused, stared blankly at Eileen, but did not speak. 
 How he disliked her! Why had she not stopped 
 at home? 
 
 "Where are ye, Sheila?" Eileen called, peering 
 round the room, looking for her friend. "Ah!" 
 she exclaimed, noticing Sheila sitting by the bed,
 
 202 Glenmornan 
 
 pulling her stockings on; "I see ye. Ye're late 
 gettin' ready. What has been keepin' ye? . . . 
 But it would be better to ask Doalty Gallagher 
 that, I suppose. What tricks have ye been at, 
 Doalty ?" she enquired, fixing her eyes on the young 
 man. 
 
 "Nothing," Doalty stammered. "I have only 
 come in just now." 
 
 "Light the lamp for me, Eileen," Sheila called 
 from the corner. 
 
 Eileen lit the oil-lamp that hung by a nail from 
 the brace. Doalty sat down on a chair near the 
 table. Sheila, her boots on, stirred up the fire and 
 put a kettle of water on the crook. Eileen Kelly 
 brought out a stocking from under her shawl, sat 
 on a hassog by the fire and commenced knitting. 
 
 "It's a wonder that none iv the others are in 
 yet," she said, looking at Sheila. "I saw Micky 
 Neddy and Dennys The Drover down be the road 
 talkin* to one another, just when I left the house." 
 
 "They're coming up of course?" Doalty en- 
 quired, dreading the answer to his question and at 
 the same time trying to appear indifferent. 
 
 "Iv course they're comin'," said Eileen Kelly. 
 "It's not often that Sheila has the house to her- 
 self." 
 
 "Then I suppose I'd better go," said Doalty care- 
 lessly, addressing the remark intended for Sheila 
 Dermod's ears, to Eileen Kelly. 
 
 "What widye be wantin' to go 'way for, now?" 
 asked Eileen. 'The first time that ye've come here 
 and wantin' to go 'way just as if ye didn't be-
 
 Breed Dermod 203 
 
 long to the same glen as ourselves. Isn't he a silly 
 card, Sheila?" 
 
 "He is ... very silly," said Sheila emphat- 
 ically. But she was not referring to Doalty's re- 
 mark apparently, but to an event which had taken 
 place some minutes before. For a while after 
 speaking, she kept looking at the fire and the red 
 tongues of flame shooting up against the soot. 
 
 At that moment Dennys The Drover, accom- 
 panied by Mickjy Neddy, the red-haired youngster 
 with the fern-tickled face and buck teeth, entered. 
 
 "So ye're all here," said Dennys, fixing his gaze 
 on the two girls. Then he looked at Doalty and 
 a gleam of irony seemed to show for a moment in 
 his eyes. 
 
 "So ye, yerself's here, Doalty," he said, with a 
 laugh, as he sat down. "That's the way. When 
 the hawk's in its nest the chickens can play tig." 
 , "They can," said Doalty, who was lighting a 
 cigarette. He handed the packet round. 
 1 Eileen Kelly took a cigarette, but when Sheila 
 reached out her hand to the packet, Drover Den- 
 nys gripped hold of her wrist. 
 ; "Ye're not goin' to have one at all, till ye put 
 the taypot on the fire for the tay," he said. "Peo- 
 ple comin' here to see ye and not gettin' a drop iv 
 tay to drink!"
 
 204 Glenmornan 
 
 Still holding Sheila by the arm, Dennys got to 
 his feet and led her towards the dresser. 
 
 "There's what ye want," he said, pointing at 
 the delft teapot, "and the sugar is in the press and 
 the tay is in a box somewhere. Ye get a move on 
 ye, Sheila, and give us something to drink." 
 
 Then I'm goin' to get a cigarette to smoke, 
 amn't I ?" asked the girl, with a laugh, as she tried 
 to box Dennys' ears. 
 
 "Ye'll get one to smoke then," said Drover Den- 
 nys, coming back to his chair. 
 
 'There's no standin' ye, Drover Dennys," said 
 Eileen Kelly. "Ye come in to a house, and ye 
 gad about the same as if ye were under yer own 
 roof." 
 
 "Now, will ye be quiet, Eileen," said Drover Den- 
 nys. "If ye're not I'll pull yer needles out." 
 
 "It'll need something better than yerself to spoil 
 me knittin'," said Eileen Kelly, with a laugh, hold- 
 ing out her stocking and threatening him with it. 
 
 She held it close enough for him to grip a needle, 
 which he pulled out. 
 
 "Give me back me needle," she said, giggling. 
 For answer Dennys pulled another needle from 
 her work. 
 
 "Well, that's too much," said the girl, making 
 a face at the youth. "I don't like ye at all, Den- 
 nys The Drover. Ye should have more sense, and 
 respect yerself, just like Doalty Gallagher or 
 Micky Neddy." 
 
 Dennys got to his feet, lifted Eileen Kelly from 
 her hassock and sat down on it with the girl on his
 
 Breed Dermod 205 
 
 knees. She struggled a little, as if to free herself, 
 from his grip, but to Doalty it was evident that she 
 did not want to get away. 
 
 "Don't be holdin' me so tight now," said Eileen. 
 "I can't move with yer big arms about me. Let 
 me be, ye thick mountainy crathur !" 
 
 Dennys, however, pressed her tighter the more 
 she struggled and now and again for a change he 
 rubbed his chin against hers, "Just to give ye a 
 bit iv beardy," he remarked. 
 
 All this time Sheila Dermod was preparing the 
 tea by the fire, her face flushed a little as she bent 
 over the red turf. Doalty Gallagher was steal- 
 ing fugitive glances at her. Now and again, when 
 she raised her eyes and met his, she bit her lips as 
 if annoyed at the young man's persistent scrutiny. 
 
 "Don't be doin' this to me," Eileen Kelly sud- 
 denly exclaimed, pretending to free herself from 
 Dennys' embrace, while trying to sink deeper into 
 it. "Do this to Sheila Dermod and not to me. 
 Ye're afeerd iv her, I'm thinkin'." 
 
 In this way the girl was trying to find what 
 depth of feeling existed between The Drover and 
 her friend. This Doalty Gallagher would also 
 like to find out. He looked at Sheila. 
 
 "Afraid iv her, the wee cutty!" said Dennys. 
 "Am I afeerd iv ye, Sheila?" 
 
 "Ah! ye're always blatherin', Dennys The Dro- 
 ver," said the girl, blowing the ashes from the tea- 
 pot, and placing it on the table. 
 
 "Ye'll know somethin' different the morra, 
 then," said Dennys The Drover. "Wait till I get
 
 206 Glenmornan 
 
 hold iv ye milkin' Oiney Leahy's cow. Then I'll 
 be tellin' ye somethin' that ye'll never speak about 
 at confession." 
 
 "If ye be carry in' on with tricks like that, Den- 
 nys The Drover, I'll run away and lave ye be yer- 
 self," said Sheila. "If ye say things ye'd be afraid 
 to tell at confession it doesn't mane that I'll give 
 ear to them." 
 
 "I don't know why the hell we've to tell every- 
 thing at confession," said Micky Neddy, spitting 
 on the floor. He had been chewing and spitting 
 ever since he came in. "I don't believe in it. 
 There's old Father Devaney and he has built that 
 big house iv his at hundreds iv pounds. He said 
 when he started it that it would be made for him- 
 self and the curates, but now, that it's built, there's 
 nobody livin' there bar himself and his old sister. 
 He won't let a curate get in there, for he's such a 
 crusty old divil. And he'll go to the dances down 
 the town and sit there till mornin' with the Quig- 
 leys and the others iv that kind, but if it comes to 
 a dance up this way, he says that it's a sin. I 
 wouldn't make me confession to such an old ras- 
 cal." Micky spat on the floor. "I don't often go, 
 but when I do it's never to him. It's one God for 
 the people iv the town and another God for the 
 people iv the glen, be the way that he looks at it. 
 It's all humbug, I'm thinkin'. What d'ye think, 
 Doalty Gallagher?" 
 
 I "I think that you're quite right," said Doalty, 
 who had his eyes fixed on Sheila Dermod. 
 
 "And so do I," said Eileen Kelly. "I suppose
 
 Breed Dermod 207 
 
 he thinks that all the people up the glen are fools." 
 
 "Eileen Kelly!" said Sheila Dermod reprov- 
 ingly. 
 
 "So he does," said Eileen. "Micky Neddy is 
 right about it." 
 
 "I didn't think that ye'd say that, Eileen Kelly," 
 said Sheila, placing a large cake of homemade bread 
 on the table. "It's not like ye to talk in that way 
 about God and the holy priests." 
 
 At that moment Doalty saw something move 
 outside the window. A cap rose up from the dark- 
 ness and pressed against the lower pane, then a 
 pair of eyes followed. These stared in for a sec- 
 ond and disappeared. Eileen Kelly saw it also. 
 She got to her feet and pulled the blind down on 
 the window. 
 
 "Somebody was lookin' in," she said. "It was 
 Owen Briney, I'm thinkin'." 
 
 "He's always nosin' about here," said Sheila. 
 
 "What will he be lookin' after?" asked Micky 
 Neddy. 
 
 "He's wantin' to see what people's doin', I 
 think," said Sheila Dermod. "But come, yees 
 now, and sit down and ate somethin'." 
 
 The party sat down to the meal. They had a 
 lot to talk about, the harvest that was coming, the 
 slating of the glen houses and the fun of the hills, 
 when Micky Neddy, Dennys The Drover and Oiney 
 Leahy went out to make potheen. These three had 
 several fights with the police, and by their talk 
 Doalty inferred that the three men were equal to 
 a dozen policemen when it came to a hand-to-hand
 
 2o8 Glenmornan 
 
 combat. Oiney Leahy always went out in the 
 bare feet over the rocks and was never as happy as 
 when he had a ruction with the police. 
 
 When the meal came to an end Sheila hurried 
 the boys away. 
 
 "I don't want me mother to see ye here/' she 
 said. "She may be in at any minit now, and if the 
 house is full iv yees what am I to say?" 
 
 "All right, we'll get out," said Dennys The Dro- 
 ver. "But mind the morra and don't be late 
 comin' over to Oiney Leahy's." 
 
 "I'll be there as soon as yerself, I'm sure," said 
 Sheila Dermod. 
 
 VI 
 
 The three men went out and made for their 
 homes. It was only a step down the brae to Maura 
 The Rosses and when Doalty got there, he stood 
 outside the window for a moment and peeped in. 
 He could see his mother on her knees by the fire, 
 giving out the Rosary, the children making the re- 
 sponses. Hughie Beag, already in bed, with his 
 two bright eyes peeping out from beneath the blan- 
 kets, was waiting for his mother to tell him the 
 story of the bat and the cat and the wee red hen. 
 Instead of going inside Doalty turned back and 
 went up the hill again, towards Breed Dermod's 
 house. 
 
 The road ran through the clump of hazel bushes, 
 in which he first met Sheila after his return from 
 abroad. It was here he met her now. She was
 
 Breed Dermod 209 
 
 siailSing there, with Eileen Kelly, and the two girls 
 were apparently listening to hear if Breed Der- 
 mod was coming back from the village of Ardagh. 
 
 "Oh! it's ye that's in it!" said Eileen Kelly, when 
 Doalty stumbled across the two girls. By her tone 
 of voice it was evident that she was expecting 
 somebody else; not Doalty, and presumably not 
 Breed Dermod. "Are ye not goin' to bed at all the 
 night, Doalty Gallagher?" Eileen enquired. 
 
 "It's far too early to go to bed yet," said Doalty. 
 '"If I go to bed now, I can't sleep." 
 
 "That's a sign that there's something on yer 
 mind, if ye can't sleep," said Eileen. 
 
 "Maybe there is," Doalty replied. 
 
 "D'ye hear that?" said Eileen Kelly, turning 
 round to speak to her friend. But Sheila had 
 stolen away and was already back in her house. 
 
 "Well, that's a funny thing, isn't it ?" Eileen ap- 
 pealed to Doalty. "Goin' away without a word 
 and leavin' me here me lone." 
 
 "But you are not quite alone," said Doalty with 
 a laugh. "Do you consider yourself alone when 
 you are here with me?" 
 
 "Well, Sheila's not with me," said Eileen. 
 
 "But still you're not alone," Doalty persisted, 
 looking closely into Eileen's face. He had never 
 been so close to Eileen before, and had never real- 
 ised what a charming girl she looked. "You're as 
 safe here," he said, "just as safe as if you were 
 along with Sheila Dermod." 
 
 "But yer self would much rather that it was
 
 210 Glenmornan 
 
 Sheila that was here instead iv me," said Eileen, 
 coming closer to Doalty. 
 
 "What causes you to think that?" he asked. 
 
 ^Me own two eyes are not blind," said the girl. 
 -Who were ye lookin' at all this night?" 
 
 "Nobody in particular," Doalty replied, care- 
 less whether she believed him or not. 
 
 "But how was it that ye were up here before 
 any one, when ye found that Breed went away to 
 Ardagh?" 
 
 f 'I did not know Breed had gone to Ardagh," 
 said Doalty. "If I had known that Breed went, I 
 wouldn't have come up here," he lied. "I would 
 have gone down and seen yourself instead." 
 
 "I suppose ye 've been wild after the girls away 
 there?" enquired Eileen, with frank curiosity. 
 
 This question produced a singular effect on 
 Doalty. A cloud seemed to rise round him, hid- 
 ing the present and choking its desires, blotting 
 out the future and its hopes. Sheila, for the mo- 
 ment, was forgotten, even the girl, standing by his 
 side, was not in his world. Shadowgraph pictures 
 of the past swept across the tablet of his mind with 
 astounding speed. Lady Ronan, George Ronan, 
 the deferential butler, the editor, all swept across 
 his mental vision like figures born in the vapour 
 of his mind. Suddenly the racing pictures stopped 
 dead, as if a brake had been applied, and one stood 
 out clearly, the picture of Myra Ronan in an Eng- 
 lish bedroom. The girl had been terrified by a 
 footstep in the passage outside. . . . She clutched 
 Doalty's sleeve. . . . He bent down, put his arms
 
 Breed Dermod 211 
 
 round her; and looked into the eyes of Eileen 
 Kelly. . . . 
 
 "Ye are all the same, every one iv ye," Eileen 
 said, pressing Doalty away from her. "I suppose 
 ye would say the same things to me that ye would 
 say to Sheila, if ye had the chance. ... I know 
 it. There's no difference in any iv yees boys." 
 
 She stepped slowly back, then turned round and 
 ran into the house. Once there, she closed the 
 :door behind her. 
 
 "What a fool I'm making of myself!" said 
 Doalty, turning hurriedly away and making his 
 way down the brae again. "And the two girls 
 are such strange creatures. . . . Am I in love with 
 one of them, both of them, or neither of them. . . . 
 I don't know. . . . But if Eileen had not run away 
 
 I'd have Does Sheila care for me? ... 
 
 Eileen, I know, does not, but she is in love with 
 Dennys The Drover and Dennys is not in love with 
 her. But is Dennys in love with Sheila? ... Is 
 Sheila in love with him? There is very little love 
 in Glenmornan. Marriages are affairs of conven- 
 ience. . . . Love has no romance here. . . . Peo- 
 ple get mated. . . . Six cows' grass marries six 
 cows' grass. ... If I married Sheila Dermod my 
 mother would be annoyed. . . . The lowest of the 
 low. . . . But I am in love with Sheila, madly in 
 love with her." 
 
 Doalty met Breed Dermod coming up the hill. 
 She was barefooted, having taken off her boots, 
 no doubt, because they hurt her feet. Or maybe 
 she thought that the roads wore them out too
 
 212 Glenmornan 
 
 quickly. Breed did not speak to him, but when fie 
 went past she stood for a long time, following him 
 with her eyes. When she got into her home she 
 looked at the bowl of sugar, the cake of bread and 
 the box of tea. 
 
 "I'll be in no hurry leavin' the house under yer 
 care again," she said to Sheila. "When ye get me 
 out, ye have nothin' better to do than to feed the 
 whole townland. Ye've a ready hand at givin' the 
 bread away. One would think that all ye had to 
 do was to go out and pull it from the ground like 
 bockins* . . . but wait till the morrow!" said 
 Breed Dermod harshly. "I'll go down to Maura 
 The Rosses and tell her what I think iv her son, the 
 dirty Prodesan turncoat!" 
 
 * Bockin a mushroom.
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 THE MOWING 
 
 A young man has ways with him of always letting on ; 
 His feet they're supple at a dance but slow to shake at 
 
 dawn. 
 .You'd think he owned the whole townland, he is so full 
 
 of airs, 
 
 And showing off he always is at dances and at fairs; 
 My man to be must be like that, a strapping boy and 
 
 tall, 
 
 Or 'tisn't me to sleep with him at either stock or wall. 
 
 A Kattyee Song. 
 
 ALTHOUGH he promised his mother that 
 he would pay for the slating of the house, 
 Doalty Gallagher had practically no money. 
 When he left London he had some thirty pounds in 
 his pocket, but he found, on arriving home, that 
 Glenmornan sucked up money as a sponge soaks 
 up water. One day Hughie Beag wanted a new 
 coat, the next day Norah needed a new pair of 
 boots, and again, Kitty being all in rags, could not 
 go into the convent school, where all the quality 
 ones were, until she got a new dress. When they 
 informed Maura The Rosses of their needs the old 
 woman's answer was invariably the same. ''Tell 
 213
 
 214 Glenmornan 
 
 Doalty about it," she would say. "He has money 
 and to spare, and he'll not miss the wee penny that 
 ye're wantin'." 
 
 Doalty gave the money while he possessed it, 
 but now he had almost come to his last penny. 
 Something had to be done, and being a journalist, 
 Doalty's thoughts turned to his newspaper. George 
 Ronan had advised him to send some "stories," 
 and Doalty found that he had any amount of ma- 
 terial to hand. x Half a dozen good stories dealing 
 with Glenmornan would be certain to sell, then 
 these could be followed by others. . . . He took a 
 table and a chair, a pen, ink, and a dozen sheets of 
 paper out to the field in front of the house and sat 
 down and wrote. 
 
 It was an easy enough job, jotting down impres- 
 sion after impression, incident after incident, por- 
 traying habits, customs and humours of the Glen- 
 mornan people. Oiney Leahy under another name, 
 was described in detail; the fair of Greenanore 
 formed a topic, but the girl, Sheila Dermod, was 
 not spoken about. But even when writing Doal- 
 ty's mind was seldom far removed from Sheila 
 and his eyes followed her as she went over to 
 Oiney Leahy's to keep house for the man who was 
 away on the pilgrimage to Lough Derg. 
 
 Doalty stopped his work to watch the girl cross- 
 ing the braes. Then when she entered Oiney's 
 house, he lay back on his chair, lit a cigarette and 
 thought of many things. A sort of inward calm
 
 The Mowing 215 
 
 had come to him and he did not want to work too 
 hard; neither did he wish to talk to anybody. All 
 that he wanted to do was to muse peacefully, sur- 
 rounded by the unbroken peace of Glenmornan, 
 and with which his own mood was in perfect ac- 
 cord. 
 
 He could see the river leaping over the ford be- 
 neath him, its spray rising as if to catch the glit- 
 ter and sheen of the hot sun. Memories of his 
 youth came over him, and with these memories 
 came a certain sadness. But why he was sad he 
 did not pause to analyse. All that he wanted to 
 do was to laze and let his thoughts run whither 
 they wist. 
 
 "Hang it all!" he suddenly exclaimed, getting 
 to his feet. "I'm not going to write another line. 
 To-morrow will do. I'm feeling tired, happily 
 tired, just the same as if I had done a long day's 
 work. But I have done nothing. I wonder why 
 these people can sustain their energy in such an 
 enervating climate." 
 
 As he spoke he looked across at Meenawara- 
 jvor, where the natives of that townland were out 
 on the hills, stacking peat for the winter's fire. 
 Seen from where he stood the workers looked mere 
 pigmies moving very slowly over the broken moor. 
 J5ut they were in reality working hard, sweating as 
 they toiled. Little fires burned on the spread- 
 field. The white smoke curled up into the heav- 
 ens. There was peace there, but the peace was 
 such a lazy one. Nothing seemed to be getting 
 done. To-morrow and to-morrow the same labour
 
 216 Glenmornan 
 
 would be performed, the same energy would be 
 expended, and for all the strain and stress of their 
 toil, the people would be as poor at the end of the 
 year as at the beginning. But they were happy 
 enough. Petty cares and worries filled their day, 
 and their years, and their lives. . . . But are not 
 all cares petty? Is not Life itself, for Glenmornan 
 and for the world at large, a poor and petty busi- 
 ness? 
 
 "Good day t'ye, Doalty Gallagher." 
 
 The young man turned round with a start to 
 find Breed Dermod behind him. 
 
 "Good day, Breed," said Doalty, and he won- 
 dered whether he should hold out his hand to the 
 woman or not. But the threatening look in her 
 sunken eyes, and the hard line of her tightly closed 
 and sunken lips forbade such familiarity. Breed 
 Dermod looked as if she were angry with Doalty. 
 For a moment she stood without speaking another 
 word, one hand hidden in her shawl and the other 
 how big and red it looked hanging down by 
 her side, against her bauna brockagh petticoat. 
 
 "So yeVe nothin' to say for yerself, Doalty Gal- 
 lagher," said the woman, glowering at the young 
 man. 
 
 "Nothing at all," Doalty stammered. 
 
 "Nothin' at all!" repeated the woman, catching 
 up the words as they fell from the young man's 
 lips. "Nothin* at all is it that ye have to say, and 
 ye runnin' round about our house up there all night, 
 last night The boys about the roads, here now, 
 are bad enough, but when it comes to them that
 
 The Mowing 217 
 
 comes home from abroad, they should know bet- 
 ter than run about the way that yerself was doin' 
 last night. I went out and left Sheila to mind 
 the house and then I comes back and find ye corn- 
 in' down the braes, and when I goes into the house 
 what do I find? The place has been scringed from 
 top to bottom and everything ate. To think that 
 Maura The Rosses hasn't enough money laid by 
 to fill yer hungry gut when ye come back! . . ." 
 She raised her voice so that Maura The Rosses 
 .would hear her. 
 
 "Greed Dermod," said Doalty, in as calm a voice 
 as he could muster, though he felt confused and 
 foolish. "I don't know what you are speaking 
 about." 
 
 "Don't know what I'm speakin' about !" shrieked 
 the woman, glaring at him. "Don't know what 
 I'm speakin' about, Oily Tongue! Talkin' there 
 the same as if butter wouldn't melt in yer mouth I 
 Ye're a greedy gut, and if yer mother was the 
 woman she sets herself to be, she wouldn't own up 
 to a son like yerself, Doalty Gallagher." 
 
 "I wish ye wouldn't come down here with yer 
 tongue-bangin'," said Maura The Rosses, coming 1 
 into the field and standing in front of Breed Der- 
 mod. "If Doalty went up to yer house it wasn't 
 my wish. If I had me way with him he'd keep 
 put iv arm's reach iv you and yours." 
 
 Breed Dermod folded her arms across her 
 breast, let her shawl drop back from her shoulders, 
 and scanned Maura The Rosses deliberately. 
 
 "Ye must be proud iv yer family, Maura The
 
 218 Glenmornan 
 
 Rosses," she said, in a calm voice, which the pallor 
 of her cheeks and the agitation of her shoulders 
 utterly belied. "Ye've been often talkin' about 
 them and the way they get on so well when they 
 go abroad. Iv course nobody knows what they 
 do when they are away, but we can see the kind iv 
 beauties they are when they come back again. 
 They're a scandal to the townland and the glen, 
 and it's down to the priest that I'll go the morrow 
 and see what he can do to get this gulpin from 
 comin' round about our house up there. I'll see 
 about it ... I'll see, Maura The Rosses." 
 
 Now that the two women were face to face, 
 Breed Dermod seemed to take a greater delight in 
 giving expression to her wrath. All the people of 
 the glen, within ear-shot, were out listening. 
 
 "I'll see the priest about this," said Breed Der- 
 mod. "I'll get that fine boy iv yours, Maura The 
 Rosses, read from the altar. Runnin' about me 
 house when I'm out iv it. ... Scringin' all over 
 the place and makin* a huddle iv everything. . . . 
 The boys about the road are wild enough at times, 
 but they're not like him. He thinks that he can 
 do what he likes when he comes back from across 
 the water. . . . Thinks that we're all fools here. 
 And the priest knows what he's like, for I've heard 
 him meself, say that Doalty is a disgrace to the 
 parish and to the country." 
 
 "All the glen's out listenin 5 t' ye, Breed Der- 
 mod," said Maura The Rosses, who was in reality 
 a very quiet woman and preferred nursing a hate
 
 The Mowing 219 
 
 in secret, to airing it within hearing of her neigh- 
 bours. 
 
 "Listenin' to me! And as if I cared the turn 
 iv a straw whether they are or not," said Breed 
 Dermod, shouting at the topmost pitch of her 
 voice. "There's nothin' that I am afraid iv. 
 There's nothin' in me or mine that needs to be 
 hid. . . . But it's not in yerself to say the same, 
 Maura The Rosses, ye that's the mother iv a 
 Prodesan turncoat!" 
 
 "All right, say what ye like," Doalty's mother 
 replied. "I'm goin' into me home and ye can keep 
 speakin' on here as long as ye like." 
 
 So saying, Maura The Rosses went into her 
 home and Doalty followed her. Breed Dermod 
 kept up her harangue for the best part of an hour. 
 Three generations of the Gallaghers, dead and liv- 
 ing, came in for the censure of the angry woman. 
 Even Doalty's great-grandfather, accused of steal- 
 ing sheep, double-branding them, and cutting their 
 ribigs, was held up to scorn. Doalty, and all sib 
 to him, were lashed with Breed Dermod's tongue. 
 It was only when her voice failed her that Breed 
 went back to her home. 
 
 "It's hard to get the better iv that woman in an 
 argument," said Maura The Rosses, when the voice 
 outside became silent. "She just came down here 
 to let her spite out on me and ye have been the cause 
 iv it, Doalty. She was just wantin' an excuse, and 
 I'm sorry that ye gave her that excuse, Doalty. 
 But I wouldn't give her the nose to say a word back 
 to her. I wouldn't sink meself. But I wish that
 
 22O Glenmornan 
 
 ye wouldn't go gaddin' about after Sheila, and her 
 so much below ye. ... After comin' back from 
 beyont the water, too, where people should learn 
 to know their own worth." 
 
 Maura The Rosses did not say anything fur- 
 ther. The incident had upset her. The thought 
 that a woman like Breed Dermod had cause to com- 
 plain of one of her children was as much as Maura 
 The Rosses could bear. 
 
 That night Doalty stopped in for the Rosary and 
 did not go out to see Sheila Dermod. 
 
 ii 
 
 Bringing pencil and paper with him, Doalty Gal- 
 lagher went across to Oiney Leahy's the next morn- 
 ing. When he had put out the cow and calf to the 
 hill he sat down in Oiney's kitchen and completed 
 two stories of the set of six which he had started 
 the day before. In the evening, when darkness 
 was falling, he went up to the hill and brought the 
 cow and calf back to the byre. Eileen Kelly was 
 there, waiting for him. 
 
 "You're here early enough," said Doalty, as he 
 tied the cow to its stake in the warm byre. 
 
 "I had nothin' to do at all," Eileen replied; "so 
 I thought I'd just come over and be in time. I 
 may as well be here as anywhere else." 
 
 "That's true," said Doalty, looking at the girl. 
 She was a gracefully built creature who moved her 
 shoulders nervously when speaking. The lines of
 
 The Mowing 221 
 
 her face, clear cut and a little severe, softened when 
 she smiled, and there was something winning and 
 coaxing in the sidelong glance she fixed on Doaltyj 
 when she spoke to him. 
 
 'What roguery is hiding behind those black eyes 
 of hers?" Doalty asked himself, as she sat down 
 on the stool to milk the cow. "All the time she 
 seems to be trying to resist some mad impulse. 
 ... I wonder why I am taking such notice of her. 
 I almost feel in the same mood as I felt the other 
 night when I was in her company. . . . It's youth, 
 I suppose," he mumbled, in a reckless whisper, fix- 
 ing an earnest gaze on her red three-cornered lips, 
 where a faint smile hovered. "A mood like this 
 remains for a day or two, and then goes, never to 
 return." 
 
 "Ye're talking to yerself, aren't ye, Doalty Gal- 
 lagher?" Eileen asked, her clear voice rising above 
 the sound of the milk falling into the pail held be- 
 tween her knees. "Do ye often be talking to yer- 
 self?" 
 
 "Not often, Eileen," said Doalty. 
 
 "It's what the old men bees often doin', talkin' 
 to themselves," said the girl. "Oiney Leahy is al- 
 ways talking to himself when he's out in the 
 grubby, diggin' up the pipes." 
 
 "He's a good old man, Oiney, isn't he?" asked 
 Doalty. 
 
 "Oh, he's not such a bad old shanahy," said 
 Eileen. . . . "But God help him! poor man, for he 
 has his own troubles and nobody with him at all, 
 to help him in this wee house. It's a poor thing
 
 222 Glenmornan 
 
 when one is left alone when they get very old. . . ., 
 Aisy now, wee cow, and don't be wipin' me face 
 with yer tail!" 
 
 "Why did you run away and leave me the other 
 night?" Doalty enquired, looking at Eileen. "You 
 turned away all at once and left me alone." 
 
 "But ye didn't want me to stay with ye, did ye 
 now ?" asked the girl. 
 
 "Of course I wanted you to stay," said Doalty. 
 
 "Then why didn't ye say sol" ' 
 
 "You did not give me time." 
 
 "But ye'd plenty of time, Doalty Gallagher/' 
 said Eileen. "If ye had it in yer mind for me to 
 stay, ye would say so before ye let me go away. 
 . . . But I knew what it was. Ye were only 
 wantin' me, seein' that ye had no one else to speak 
 to. Ye're like all the other boys." 
 
 "Which boys?" 
 
 "The boys about the road," said the girl. ^'Now 
 ye wee divil ye! ye're waggin' yer tail about me 
 face again." 
 
 The milking finished, Eileen got to her feet. 
 
 "Take the stool into the house widye, Doalty 
 Gallagher," she said, as she went out. "I'll make 
 a drop iv tay ready for ye if I can find the sugar 
 at all." 
 
 It was dark inside when Doalty got there and 
 the turf fire, burning red on the hearth, did little 
 to light up the house. Eileen Kelly was standing 
 by the dresser, straining the milk into a big crock, 
 the dog was nosing about her feet, looking for 
 something to eat.
 
 The Mowing 223 
 
 "Light the lamp, if ye can," she said. 'Tut some 
 oil into it first and trim the wick. Ye'll find the 
 bottle iv oil under the bed. Ye'd better pit yer nose 
 to the bottle when ye find it and see what it is," 
 she added with a laugh. "Oiney has miny's a 
 strange bottle under his bed." 
 
 Doalty found a bottle, smelt it. 
 
 "This is oil," he said, and going to a corner of 
 die wall, near the window, he brought down the 
 lamp, filled it with oil, trimmed the wick and lit it. 
 
 "That's better be far now," said the girl, smil- 
 ing at Doalty, who was rubbing his soiled fingers 
 against the leg of his trousers. 
 
 He sat down and watched her at her work. 
 Eileen was dressed in a striped blouse and a neat 
 serge skirt pulled in a little at the ankles. Strana- 
 meera girls were imitating the Greenanore fash- 
 ions and Greenanore was now making a brave dis- 
 play of hobble skirts. Eileen also had her boots 
 on, though earlier in the day when Doalty saw her 
 going to the neighbours' houses she was barefooted. 
 But her reasons for wearing boots now could be 
 easily understood. She wanted to show Doalty 
 that she could dress just as well as the people 
 abroad. The Glenmornan girls are as vain as 
 women generally are supposed to be. 
 
 Eileen put the kettle on the crook, stirred up 
 the fire and sat down. 
 
 "Ye've been in here all the day, haven't ye?" 
 she enquired shyly. Although bashful, she was 
 very eager to talk. 
 
 "I have been writing all day."
 
 224 Glenmornan 
 
 "And what would ye be writing about now?" 
 she enquired. "I suppose it will be to some girl 
 that ye've been spakin' to over there." 
 
 "It's not to any girl." 
 
 "Ye haven't one?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And ye think that the people about here are 
 goin' to believe that?" she asked, with an incredu- 
 lous quiver of her lips. She spoke rapidly, as if 
 she was going to say quite a number of things in 
 a short time. "Ye'll be back here for a wee while 
 I know, and then ye'll leave us again," she said. 
 
 "I'm never going away from here again," Doalty 
 told her. 
 
 "Catch ye stayin' here, Doalty Gallagher, where 
 there's not a decent girl at all to be seen," said 
 Eileen. "Ye'll be soon tired iv us all, even iv 
 Sheila Dermod that ye're mad after." 
 
 "She's a strange girl," said Doalty without con- 
 tradicting Eileen's assertion. "A numbe.r of the 
 glen fellows are in love with her, are they not?" 
 
 "Some are, maybe," said Eileen petulantly, "but 
 one can never tell what's in the mind iv a boy, can 
 they?" 
 
 "Did you hear Breed Dermod down at our house 
 yesterday?" asked Doalty. 
 
 "That's the way that she has with her, poor 
 woman," said Eileen. "She's very thran and 
 throughother, but no one takes much heed iv her 
 at all, once they get to know her. . . . She doesn't 
 like the young people to have their wee bit iv fun 
 and that's what's wrong with her. . . . But are
 
 The Mowing 225 
 
 ye in earnest, Doalty Gallagher, when ye say that 
 ye're never goin' away from here ?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, I'm in earnest." 
 
 "Cross on yer neck, then." 
 
 Doalty made a cross on his neck with his thumb 
 as a proof of the truth of his words. 
 
 "Then ye'll marry and settle down here, won't 
 ye?" 
 
 "I may," said Doalty, with a laugh. 
 
 "Well, nobody here thinks that," Eileen con- 
 fessed. "They think that ye'll go away with the 
 tourists when the wet and cold weather comes." 
 
 The girl, as she spoke these words, got to her 
 feet and made the tea. Then the two of them 
 sat at the table and had their meal together. 
 
 When it was finished Eileen reached out and 
 caught Doalty's bowl and looked at the tea-leaves 
 at the bottom of it. 
 
 "I can read the bowl," she said, bending her head 
 down over it and scrutinising the tea-leaves. 
 
 Then as if reading from a book she said : 
 
 "There's a parcel comin' for ye, and ye're goin' 
 to have a quarrel with a dark woman, and ye're 
 goin' to cross deep water, and ye'll have a lot iv 
 trouble, and then ye'll be happy." 
 
 "But how do you know all this?" asked Doalty. 
 
 "The bowl says so," was Eileen's simple answer. 
 "Can yerself read a bowl?" 
 
 "I'm afraid not." 
 
 "Can ye read the hands?" 
 
 "Not even the hands," said Doalty. 
 
 "Show me yer hand then and I'll read it for
 
 226 Glenmornan 
 
 ye," said Eileen, and with a complete absence of 
 shyness or self-consciousness she caught Doalty's 
 hand and read his fortune from the palm. The 
 second reading differed from the first and when 
 Doalty remarked on this, the girl looked at him, 
 and it seemed to the man that she pressed his hand 
 with a warmer grip as she spoke. 
 
 "It may not be the same this time," she agreed. 
 "But one of them must be right and whither it's 
 the palm of the hand or the bottom of the bowl I 
 cannot say." 
 
 That night Doalty was late in returning home, 
 and when he got there he found that his mother, 
 was out. 
 
 "She's away up to Breed Dermod's," said Norah. 
 "Breed, poor woman, has got the sickness and she's 
 lying very low. So our mother has gone up to 
 see her, and Owen Briney has gone as hard as he 
 can for the priest." 
 
 in 
 
 Oiney Leahy came back from Lough Derg next 
 day and the evening had fallen when he arrived 
 in Glenmornan. On his way home across the 
 braes, he called at Maura The Rosses' house. 
 Maura was out, having gone to see Breed Dermod, 
 who was still poorly. Now that sickness had come 
 the neighbour's feud was forgotten. Doalty was 
 at home; Norah and Kitty were also there, and 
 Hughie Beag was sitting by the fire, his heels in 
 the ashes, and a book in his hand. Hughie, who
 
 The Mowing 227 
 
 had never been at school, was imitating his elder 
 brothers and sisters, reading an imaginary lesson 
 in a sing-song voice, halting now and again for a 
 moment, as if puzzling over a word, and at times 
 putting a local incident into the lesson. 
 This was how the lesson proceeded: 
 
 "Jack has a cart. He can draw sand and 
 clay. Micky Neddy has no cart. ... He has a 
 buck tooth. . . . Paddy Heela has a crook-ed 
 leg. Breed Dermod has the sickness. . . . 
 Doalty is a Pod-ism," etc. 
 
 Oiney Leahy came in, his hat well to the back 
 of his head, his pipe in his mouth, the bowl turned 
 down and resting on his white beard. As he came 
 in, he staggered a little and put out his hand against 
 the air as if to steady himself. 
 
 "Bejara ! it's the corns," he said in a slow voice. 
 "Bejara ! I can hardly walk with them at all. . . . 
 Slow and stiddy goes far in a day and an old dog 
 an old dog for the for the hard road, but a pup 
 for the level. . . . It's the corns, Maura The 
 Rosses, the corns." 
 
 Oiney Leahy leant against the wall by the door 
 and looked round the room. 
 
 "It's the corns," he said. "Can't shake a leg 
 with them!" 
 
 "Now sit down, Oiney," said Doalty, catching 
 the old man by the arm and conducting him to a 
 chair. "Sit down here and rest yourself." 
 
 Oiney sat down and puffed at his pipe. 
 
 "Gi'mme a light," he said. "It's gone out." 
 
 Norah Gallagher lit a fir spale and handed it to
 
 228 Glenmornan 
 
 Oiney. Hughie Gallagher turned to his lessons 
 again. 
 
 "Jack has a cart," he read. "He can draw sand 
 and clay. Oiney is drunk. He was at 
 Lough Derg. He is back now. He has the 
 corns he is drunk." 
 
 The little boy put down the book, looked slyly 
 at Oiney and laughed. Then as if overcome with 
 shame at his own boldness, he rushed up to the 
 little room and hid himself. He was in no hurry 
 to come back, but now and again, he could be seen 
 peeping round the corner of the door, his bright 
 eyes twinkling roguishly. 
 
 "I'm not the worse iv the drink," said the old 
 man. "It's the corns. They are not good for a 
 journey." 
 
 He looked at Doalty. 
 
 'Where's Maura The Rosses?" he enquired. 
 
 "She's out," said Norah Gallagher. 
 
 "Out at this hour," said Oiney. "Where will 
 she be now?" 
 
 "She's away over to the shop to get some male," 
 said Norah, for the girl did not want Oiney, who 
 was hardly in a fit condition for a sick visit, to go 
 up to Breed Dermod's that night. 
 
 "Well, I don't know what the glen girls are 
 comin' to," said the old man. "Lettin' their moth- 
 ers run out to the shop at at this hour of the 
 night! Did ye go over an' milk me bit bit iv a 
 cow, Norah Gallagher, when I was away?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Iv course I went over. But I didn't think that
 
 The Mowing 229 
 
 ye'd come back this way," said Norah, in tones of 
 mock severity. She had never seen Oiney Leahy 
 come back sober from Lough Derg. 
 
 "It's the corns, first and foremost," said the old 
 man. "I'll grant ye that I had a drop when I got 
 my duties done and past, but but there's nothin* 
 wrong in that. I'm not a man to take the pledge 
 as long as I can carry a wee drop aisy. What's 
 the good iv a pledge to me anyway ? What I can't 
 be, be nature, I'm not goin' to be, be obligation. 
 That's me in a word, a man of eighty if a day, too. 
 If it wasn't for the corns I could shake a ready 
 foot on the floor under me this very minit." 
 
 "I've no doubt of that, Oiney," said Doalty. 
 
 "And in the old times I was a great singer," 
 said Oiney. "Come now, I've a bit iv a voice." 
 
 "Won't ye sing a bit iv a song for us now?" 
 asked Norah. 
 
 "I won't be troublin' Doalty d'ye think?" said 
 Oiney, looking at Norah, and taking no notice of 
 Doalty. 
 
 "Iv course Doalty will be glad to hear ye at the 
 singin', Oiney," said the girl. "So let's hear ye 
 at the song." 
 
 Oiney sat back in his chair, pressed out his chest, 
 pulled his chin and stomach in, thrust his hat to 
 the back of his white head, buttoned the lower but- 
 ton of his coat, put his little clay pipe in his pocket 
 and began his song: 
 
 "Old Ann Eamon Dubh went to market one day, 
 Went up to the standin's and this she did say:
 
 230 Glenmornan 
 
 'I've money to bargain and money to spare, 
 And I'll give ye a crown for yer crockery ware/ " 
 
 Oiney put his head to one side, shut his eyes, 
 waved his hand over his hat and went on with in- 
 creasing energy: 
 
 "She came home in the dark, with the crocks in her 
 
 shawl 
 
 And her daughter did not expect her at all 
 And the girsha was sittin' with a man in a chair 
 When her mother came in with the crockery ware." 
 
 Oiney, his beard quivering, and his feet mark- 
 ing time on the floor, turned to Norah and winked 
 at her. 
 
 "That's the way that love was made in the ould 
 times," he said. "It was then that the people knew 
 how to do things. When the hawk was in its nest 
 the chickens played tig in the streets." 
 
 Oiney winked again, but this time at Doalty Gal- 
 lagher. Then he caught the young man's hand 
 and went on with the song: 
 
 "The man he was Shemus, The Rachary Wor, 
 When the woman came in he ran out be the door 
 And Ann in her fright, then she tripped on a chair 
 And she broke every bit iv the crockery ware." 
 
 The song was quite a long one, but Oiney knew 
 every verse of it. It told how Ann Eamon Dubh 
 was very angry, how she claimed seven-pounds- 
 ten, for the damage to the crockery, and how 
 Shemus, The Rachary Wor, being a good, decent 
 man and beholden to none, paid every pennv of the
 
 The Mowing 231 
 
 money, rather than go to the law about it. Then 
 Shemus married the daughter of Ann Eamon 
 Dubh, and a finer wedding was never seen before 
 or after in the seven corners of the country. 
 
 "A good man Shemus must have been," said 
 Oiney, when the song came to an end. "It was 
 wise iv him not to go to the law too, for the law- 
 yers are able to catch the best fish in troubled 
 waters. So Shemus must have been a cute one, 
 not to get into their hands." 
 
 At that moment Owen Briney came in. He had 
 never been in the house of Maura The Rosses since 
 Doalty came home. Norah shook hands with the 
 man and whispered something in his ear. No 
 doubt she was advising him not to let Oiney know 
 that Breed Dermod was not keeping well. With- 
 out a word to anybody else, Owen went out again 
 and Norah followed him. 
 
 "Well that's a funny caper," said Oiney, when 
 the man and woman had left the house. "I never 
 thought that Norah Gallagher would be so big with 
 Owen Briney as to go out in the dark with him. 
 What is there between the two iv them?" 
 
 "Nothing that I know of," said Doalty. 
 
 "Well, there shouldn't be," said the old man. 
 "What could there be between a fellow iv that get 
 and a decent, respectable girl like Norah? Ah! 
 I don't know what this glen is comin' to at all. . . . 
 I'm goin' home across the braes now, Doalty." 
 
 "I'll go over with you as far as your home," said 
 Doalty.
 
 232 Glenmornan 
 
 The old man stood up and looked sternly at 
 Doalty. 
 
 "I'll go home be meself," he said gruffly. "I 
 don't want to be taken home like a man that's 
 drunk, with nothin' wrong with me, only me corns 
 that are bad. Good night t'ye all." 
 
 He went out sideways through the door, his pipe 
 in his mouth, the bowl, turned down, resting on his 
 beard. Presently he poked his head in again. 
 
 "Isn't it time that ye were startin' on the hay, 
 Doalty?" he said. 
 
 "I'll start mowing to-morrow, I think," Doalty 
 replied. 
 
 "That's the way," said Oiney. "It's best to get 
 it in han'cocks before the corn is drop-ripe, and 
 the weather is good for the job. I'll come over 
 the morra and give ye hand, for I'm owin' it to 
 ye since ye've helped me with the turf. Every one 
 in the glen will be at the hay the morra." 
 
 "When will you be here in the morning?" 
 Doalty enquired. 
 
 "At the first light, me boyo, the first light," said 
 the old man. "Good night t'ye again and to all in 
 the house." 
 
 As Oiney staggered off, Norah Gallagher came 
 in again. 
 
 "Breed Dermod is very low," she said. "Our 
 ma is goin' to stay and look over her all the night." 
 
 "So the quarrel is settled," said Doalty. 
 
 "Well, who would be havin' a quarrel with a 
 sick person?" asked Norah Gallagher. "What 
 kind iv people d'ye think are in the glen nowa-
 
 The Mowing 233 
 
 days? . . . Hughie Beag, come down and let us 
 see ye be the fire," she called, shaking her fist at 
 the tousled head which stuck through the door of 
 the little room. "YeVe got to get into bed at 
 once." 
 
 Doalty went out and took down ihe scythe from 
 the rafters of the byre, and put it into the spring 
 well. The cold water would tighten sned and han- 
 dles and the implement would be fit for its labour 
 by dawn. 
 
 IV 
 
 It was not yet light next morning, when Doalty 
 got up from his bed and took down the sharping- 
 stone from a shelf of the dresser. Going out, he 
 lifted the scythe from the well in which he had 
 placed it the previous night. He found it a bit 
 rusty, for it had not seen service since last harvest. 
 The sned, home-made, was rather a clumsy one, 
 and its handles fashioned from seasoned ash had 
 lost some of the polished finish which the strong 
 hand of Connel Gallagher had given them the sea- 
 son before. 
 
 "It will take some work to get this into order," 
 Doalty mused, as he slung it over his shoulder. 
 Hanging unused in the dry byre for the preced- 
 ing Winter, the scythe had been falling to pieces. 
 "It wants a good clean edge," Doalty reasoned. 
 "But how fine! how grand! . . . Mowing again." 
 
 He went into the field under the house, the dog 
 following at his heels. The sun was not yet up,
 
 234 Glenmornan 
 
 but the birds were. They chattered in the trees 
 and hedgerows. A breeze swept across the braes, 
 whitening the leaves of the birch trees as it passed 
 through them. Up from the bottom lands a thin, 
 white mist was rising, and the river under the 
 shadow. of the hazel bushes was still dark. A fog 
 circled lazily round the hills, and many colours 
 showed in the sky behind Carnaween. As Doalty 
 went down the brae towards the holm the grasses 
 brushed against his knees, wetting his trousers. 
 The dog, in a sportive mood, careered madly 
 through the field, rolling over and over through 
 the wet ripple-grass in mad abandon. A corn- 
 crake railed near the river. . . . Up by Oiney 
 Leahy's a cock was crowing. 
 
 The holm was ready for the scythe, though up 
 on the braes the grass was as yet sparse and thin. 
 In the bottom land, between road and river, the 
 luxurious and sappy hay had fallen level with the 
 ground and the meadow was one big carpet of 
 green that had dropped flat under its own richness. 
 This lazy grass, over- fat, hard to cut and dry, had 
 to be saved as quickly as possible, for the river in 
 flood had a tendency to rise over banks flush with 
 the holms. It happened many a time that the re- 
 sults of a hard week's mowing were washed away 
 by floods that only took a couple of hours to rise. 
 
 Doalty began to sharpen his scythe. He placed 
 the end of the sned on the ground, the thick butt 
 of the blade under his oxter, allowing the left arm 
 to rest on its back, the hand over the tip. With 
 a firm movement he rubbed the stone backwards
 
 The Mowing 235 
 
 and forwards along the top, raising his left thumb 
 at intervals, to allow the stone to pass. 
 
 The sharpening of the main blade-edge was more 
 difficult. To do this, Doalty bent on his left knee, 
 the sned placed diagonally across his leg, the top of 
 the handle and the tip of the blade on the ground. 
 He brought the stone down one side of the blade, 
 then down the other, in long sweeping movements, 
 swinging it free on each occasion, when it almost 
 touched the ground. This movement was repeated 
 many times, for the temper of an old blade, grown 
 rusty with disuse, is hard to pacify. When Doalty 
 finished he felt the blade with his thumb and hit it 
 sharply with his nail. The blade tinkled musically. 
 
 "It rings true," he said with a boyish smile. 
 "Now I'll begin. . . . And there . . . the sun. 
 And old Oiney's afoot with smoke in his house. 
 All the glen people are getting up, but none are as 
 early as me though. . . . But why should I 
 chuckle?" he asked himself. "I have got up like 
 this just once in a while and it's their daily life." 
 
 He unloosened his braces, tied them round his 
 waist, thrust up his shirt sleeves and bent to the 
 work. Round the corners of the field, where the 
 grass was short and dry, it could be cut in long 
 swathes. It was here that Doalty commenced his 
 work. Swinging his scythe with energy he tested 
 its temper. The blade, a good one, cut like a razor. 
 
 "My hand has not forgotten its cunning," he said 
 with a laugh. "This is heavenly! ... I'm swing- 
 it too wide though. If I'm not careful it will tire 
 nie out before breakfast. . . ."
 
 236 Glenmornan 
 
 He cut a swathe some fifteen paces in length, 
 then bending down he lifted a wisp of hay, rubbed 
 his scythe, put it on his shoulder and retraced his 
 steps. As he walked the scythe got dry. At the 
 original starting point he sharpened it again and 
 commenced a second sward. Before he came to 
 the end he felt tired. His breath came in short 
 gasps and beads of sweat stood out on his fore- 
 head. The sward was too wide and took too much 
 out of the mower. But he would not stop. All 
 the glen were watching him, he knew. A rich man 
 home from foreign parts and mowing hay, just 
 like one of themselves, would evoke no end of in- 
 terest and comment. "They'll say that I'll not be 
 able to keep it up for very long," Doalty muttered, 
 and the thought braced him up. Determined not 
 to be beaten, he finished the sward, sharpened his 
 scythe, spat on his hands and commenced another. 
 
 The sun got up over Carnaween, and every house 
 in the glen was smoking. The cows, already 
 milked, were now out grazing. Norah, her hair 
 plaited down her back, brought out the Gallagher's 
 cows, putting them into the park behind the house. 
 The girl was barefooted, her face half hidden by 
 a big blue-spotted handkerchief. From where 
 Doalty was at work it seemed as if the handkerchief 
 was wholly white. 
 
 Unconscious of the passage of time, the mower 
 swung round his scythe in great semi-circles, rib- 
 bing the field with long, heavy swathes. As the 
 blade cut through it, the grass toppled slowly down, 
 carrying with it nodding plumes and delicate and
 
 The Mowing 237 
 
 graceful flowers. The holm was a world of col- 
 our and bloom, and to Doalty, the work was full 
 of delight and pleasure and healthy weariness. 
 Towards the end of each sward he felt as if he 
 were going to drop from exhaustion, but he was 
 none the less eager to start on the next round of 
 work. The sweat stood out from every pore. It 
 trickled down his brow into his eyes, paining him 
 not a little; into his mouth and he could taste its 
 salty savour. 
 
 He did not see Oiney coming, and was only 
 aware of the old man's presence when he crossed 
 the ditch and laid down his scythe on the ground. 
 
 "God bless the work," said Oiney. "It's up and 
 at it early that ye are." 
 
 "The morning was such a good one that I could 
 not lie in bed," said Doalty. 
 
 "Of course ye couldn't, man," Oiney made an- 
 swer. "Ye're just like me when I was yer years 
 long ago. Then I was afoot, late and early. . . . 
 But you're not a bad hand with the scythe, Doalty, 
 and ye're able to make a good fist iv the job. Just 
 as good as one iv ourselves ye'd be, if 'twasn't that 
 ye bear too much on yer hand, and stoop a bit too 
 low on the sned. But ye'll get over that when ye 
 get yer hand in." 
 
 As he spoke, he pulled his old battered hat well 
 down over his head, felt in a pocket for his pipe, 
 and put it in his mouth. 
 
 "But I was bad with the corns last night," he 
 said, shaking his head. 
 
 "Yes, you were, Oiney," Doalty assented.
 
 238 Glenmornan 
 
 "I never had them so bad." 
 
 "But that was on account of the long journey, 
 and m^ybe your boots were too tight/' said Doalty, 
 who saw that the old man was sorry for the drink 
 which he had taken the day before. 
 
 "That was it," said Oiney, a smile of relief show- 
 ing on his face. "The boots were bad for the jour- 
 ney. Far too tight across the uppers they were. 
 . . . But this is a good bit iv land that ye have 
 here," he continued. "Grass second to none in 
 the townland. And see how low it lies, and doesn't 
 want to show itself off. The best grass keeps low- 
 est to the ground, and the thin famine grass that 
 rises on the braes, sticks its head up as if it owned 
 the whole field. It's the same with people just." 
 
 Norah Gallagher came out in front of the house, 
 put her handkerchief on a holly bush that grew 
 there. 
 
 "That's the sign for breakfast, Oiney," said 
 Doalty, pointing at the holly bush. "We'll go in 
 and have a bite." 
 
 Maura The Rosses was in the house when they 
 got there. She had been up all night, attending 
 to the sick woman. Breed Dermod was in* a sore 
 way, and in the early morning she had been play- 
 ing with the blankets. This was a sure sign of 
 death, Maura The Rosses said. "And Breed was 
 such a good woman too," she added, already speak- 
 ing of Breed as if she no longer remained on this 
 world.
 
 The Mowing 239 
 
 THe two men went out to the field again when 
 they had taken their meal. Oiney led the sward 
 and Doalty followed. The old man worked eas- 
 ily, cutting the grass without any apparent energy. 
 Now and again when Doalty pressed close on his 
 heels he would turn round, rub his hand over his 
 wrinkled brow and say, "Slow and stiddy goes a 
 fair pace, me boyo, and the day's young yet." 
 
 At noon Oiney was mowing with the same un- 
 troubled serenity and he had no longer to turn 
 round and advise Doalty to go easy. By this time 
 the younger man was unable to force the pace; to 
 keep up with Oiney required all the energy that he 
 possessed. Once or twice he tried to draw Oiney 
 into a conversation, and the old man spoke as eas- 
 ily when mowing as when standing still. 
 
 "What will happen to Sheila Dermod if her 
 mother dies ?" Doalty once asked when in the mid- 
 dle of a sward. 
 
 "What will happen to the girsha?" said Oiney, 
 without losing the swing of his scythe. "Ah! 
 that's easy enough seen. She'll get a young ga- 
 sair to take her in charge and he'll be a lucky boy 
 too, for when Sheila gets all thoughts iv fun out 
 iv her head and settles down to work, she'll be as 
 steady a woman as is in the whole barony. . . . 
 Ah, ye rogue, ye almost got cut in two !" 
 
 As Oiney said this, he bent and lifted a frog 
 which had narrowly escaped the scythe, placed it
 
 240 Glenmornan 
 
 out of harm's way on a swathe of lying grass and 
 gazed sternly at it. 
 
 "Now hop off widye, ye limb!" he admonished 
 it, "and don't be runnin' in the way iv me edge 
 or ye'll maybe get a cut across the belly." 
 
 He shook a warning finger at the little animal, 
 already hopping away, and resumed his mowing. 
 Coming to the end of the sward he looked back 
 on the stretch which Doalty had cut. 
 
 "There's one thing that ye should always bear 
 in mind, Doalty," he said, "and that is this. Never 
 sharpen yer scythe in patches as ye've been doin'. 
 Try and have a keen edge all the way along and 
 ye 11 not leave the shifiins standin'. The blunt bits 
 iv the scythe are slippin' over the hay and that 
 will never do, ye know. Ye can always tell the 
 worth of a mowster be the field behind him." 
 
 "The scythe was in a bad state when I got it," 
 said Doalty deferentially. 
 
 "It shouldn't be, seein' that yer father, God rest 
 him! had the last handling iv it," said Oiney. 
 "None bar meself, maybe, could get a better edge 
 than him." 
 
 The two were half way down the next sward 
 when Oiney stopped to look up the brae. Doalty 
 followed Oiney's gaze and saw Maura The Rosses 
 coming down from Breed Dermod's, making the 
 sign of the cross over her brow, chin and breast 
 as she hurried down to her own home. 
 
 "Breed Dermod's gone," said Oiney, blessing 
 himself and making a silent prayer. When he
 
 The Mowing 241 
 
 finished he lifted his scythe over his shoulder and 
 made his way to the road. Doalty followed. The 
 work of the farm was at an end for the day. Not 
 a hand's turn would be done by the people of 
 Stranameera now, until Breed Dermod was buried.
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 THE WAKE 
 
 Now in our own townland they say, 
 "To every man alive, his day 
 To dig and delve and set and sow 
 And labour as the seasons go, 
 To let a rope or make a creel, 
 To sing a song and foot a reel, 
 To keep a trust and never budge 
 From what is right, and bear no grudge 
 Against his neighbours, near and far, 
 No matter who or what they are, . . . 
 The man who lives like this will find 
 He gets respect from kith and kind, 
 And good strong backs will bear the load 
 When he gets carried down the road, 
 Shoulder-high, at close of day, 
 A tenant to a house of clay." 
 
 Across the March Ditch. 
 
 ALL Stranameera was early in attendance at 
 the wake that night. Being near, and 
 having no work to do, the neighbours might 
 as well be there as anywhere else. When Doalty 
 Gallagher, who had been busy writing all through 
 the afternoon, went up, the house was crowded and 
 more were coming in. The Meenawarawor peo- 
 242
 
 The Wake 243 
 
 pie, not having to forsake their work, because they 
 belonged to another townland, were late in arriv- 
 ing. The weather being good for the hay, the 
 reapers kept to the fields till darkness fell. 
 
 The kitchen was crowded. A big turf fire 
 blazed on the hearth, and hanging from a crook 
 above it was a large three-legged pot filled with 
 water. Three lamps were lit. One, hanging 
 from the rigging by a long string, waved back- 
 wards and forwards over the table, placed in the 
 centre of the room, another nailed to the wall, near 
 the door, flared fitfully as if lacking oil, and the 
 third, the globe of which was blackened with soot, 
 was attached to the brace over the fireplace. 
 Crania Coolin, barefooted, with her gosling-grey 
 handkerchief over her head, was sitting on a stool 
 by the fire, beside Maura The Rosses. Both 
 women were speaking in whispers and nodding 
 their heads from time to time. The hot room was 
 filled with the odour of tobacco smoke and per- 
 spiring bodies. 
 
 In a corner of the room, furthest away from the 
 door, the dead woman lay in a bed by the wail, her 
 white face showing above the blankets. Seen from 
 the doorway by Doalty, as he entered, those who 
 sat or knelt there were mingled together in a 
 strange blur. The young man made his way to 
 the bed, went down on his knees to pray. As he 
 knelt there he could hear Oiney Leahy speaking, 
 and his talk was of death. 
 
 "I'm not afeard of death," said the old man. 
 "It's a thing that'll only happen once and I'll go
 
 244 Glenmornan 
 
 easy when it comes to me own time. It's not in 
 me to be sorry when God sees fit to take me. The 
 goin* away iv any one iv us will not intherfere with 
 the gatherin' iv the turf, or the cuttin' iv the corn. 
 . . . We'll all go one day and it's all one to the 
 grave-digger who dies first. ... If a man goes 
 after the kibbin', some one will be left to dig the 
 pratees. And for all iv us, the time that we live is 
 well worth the money that we pay for it." 
 
 Doalty got to his feet and took a seat beside 
 Oiney. 
 
 "Good night t'ye, Doalty," said Oiney, shak- 
 ing the young man by the hand. "Feelin' tired 
 after the mornin's work?" 
 
 "Not in the least, Oiney," said Doalty. 
 
 "Doesn't Breed, God be merciful to her, make 
 a good corpse," said the old man, looking on the 
 dead with the eye of a connoisseur. He had helped 
 to dress many a dead man in his time. "It's hard 
 to think that she was with us this morning. . . . 
 And now she's gone. But she was a good woman 
 and never had an evil word for any one. . . . 
 And to think that she would have gone away the 
 day," Oiney continued. "This day is the day iv 
 all days, the master day. It passes judgment on 
 all the years iv one's life and acquits us iv all 
 bonds." 
 
 "That's true," said Doalty. 
 
 "But ye're not havin' a smoke at all," said Oiney, 
 getting to his feet and taking out a bundle of white 
 clay pipes and a lump of thick black tobacco from 
 a recess in the wall, near the fireplace.
 
 The Wake 245 
 
 '"I don't smoke a pipe," said Doalty. 
 
 'There's nothin' like a pipe," said the old man 
 with an air that brooked no contradiction. He 
 went round the room, giving pipes to the company, 
 and Doalty looked for Sheila, to find her coming 
 towards him. 
 
 "Good night to ye, Doalty Gallagher," said the 
 girl, and they shook hands. 
 
 "Good night, Sheila," Doalty replied. "I'm 
 sorry that your poor mother has died. May she 
 rest in peace." 
 
 A tear showed in Sheila's eyes and Doalty felt 
 at a loss what to say. A strange constraint had 
 seized hold of him. He still held her hand, press- 
 ing it warmly, while thoughts, tumultuous and in- 
 coherent, surged through his mind. He felt no 
 sorrow for the dead, and strange to say, very little 
 sympathy for the girl. Every emotion seemed scat- 
 tered. A sense of suffocation filled his being, and 
 he had the illusion that both of them were alone. 
 He spoke, saying the first thing that came into his 
 mind, words without significance or meaning. But 
 when he released the girl's hand, sat down and 
 looked round, he saw that nobody was taking any 
 notice of him. He was glad and tried to recall 
 what he had said to the girl. But he could not 
 remember. 
 
 Owen Briney was sitting near the fire, his coat 
 and shirt open at the neck, his head bare. His 
 hair, turning white at the temples, hung so low 
 on the narrow forehead, that only the eyebrows 
 were visible. Owen had, from the moment of
 
 246 Glenmornan 
 
 Breed Dermod's death, placed himself at Sheila's 
 disposal and ran twice to the village on errands. 
 He bought the tobacco and tea and carried a bag 
 of loaves up to Stranameera on his back, running 
 most of the way on his journey home. Never had 
 such whole-hearted zeal been shown by any man. 
 Now he was sitting by the fire silent as a fish; his 
 face beaded with sweat, his eyes continually fol- 
 lowing Sheila, as the girl moved through the room. 
 If she wanted anything done, he was ready to help 
 her. 
 
 Doalty's eyes also followed the girl, watching 
 her every motion and movement. She kept very 
 busy, sorting the chairs, welcoming the newcom- 
 ers, giving directions to those who were helping 
 her in the house. At times she would sit down by 
 the bed, rub her temple with her finger as if trying 
 to steady her mind to thought. But the next mo- 
 ment she was on her feet again, performing some 
 duty which she had forgotten. Her whole bearing 
 was calculated to attract attention. Her every fea- 
 ture showed a touch of self-reliance that in no way 
 detracted from the delicacy and grace of her move- 
 ments. Her blue eyes, a little red with weeping, 
 looked soft and appealing when she fixed them on 
 Doalty. Now and again she smiled and her sad 
 face was then enlivened as with a ray of sunshine. 
 
 Oiney, continually going the round of the house 
 with pipes, tobacco and snuff, stopped opposite 
 Doalty on one occasion and whispered in his ear. 
 
 "See the way that Owen Briney, the toe-rag, is 
 havin' his eyes on Sheila."
 
 The Wake 247 
 
 "He has been helping her all day, I believe/' said 
 Doalty. 
 
 "Catch him doin' anything for nothing," snorted 
 the old man. "He has his own pot on the fire." 
 
 "In what way?" asked Doalty. 
 
 "He thinks that he'll get her to marry him, may- 
 be," said Oiney. "He's a sly, cute fox, Owen 
 Briney." 
 
 Doalty tried to appear amused and laughed awk- 
 wardly. But the thought of a man like Owen mar- 
 rying Sheila turned him sick with disgust. 
 
 "He won't have much of a chance with Sheila," 
 he said. 
 
 "Iv course not," said Oiney. -"She'll never let 
 the march ditch be made level for Owen Briney to 
 cross it. ... Ye're not goin' to try a pipe this 
 time, are ye?" 
 
 When Oiney had gone the round of the wake, he 
 came back and sat by the side of Doalty. 
 
 "Dennys The Drover hasn't come back from the 
 'fair iv Reemora yet," said the old man. "He took 
 half a dozen young sturks there the day. But the 
 moment he comes home he'll be up here to the wake. 
 pThen Owen Briney will sit low. Sheila has a no- 
 tion iv Dennys, ye know." 
 
 "Is that so?" Doalty enquired lightly, as lightly 
 as he could. 
 
 -That's so," said the old man. ? 'And Si brave 
 couple they'll make, the two iv them, when both 
 settle down and get into the way iv workin'. Den- 
 nys doesn't care much for the work iv the fields as 
 yet. But he'll soon put that past him. I was the
 
 248 Glenmornan 
 
 same meself, when I was a youngster. . . , AH, 
 young fellows !" he added. "It's them that has the 
 time ! They're always on the rampage and roamin' 
 and cannot stand still. The only way that Dennys 
 can rest is by rollin' about, just like a child in a 
 cradle. A boy with no control over himself, he has 
 folly in his feet. He's ready to go in for anything, 
 but he's not willing to stick it. ... But yerself, 
 Doalty, is a very quiet boy for yer years." 
 
 "Do you think so?" asked the young man in an 
 absent voice. 
 
 Oiney pinched Doalty's thigh with a strong fin- 
 ger and thumb. 
 
 "Well ye look quiet anyway, but that is nothin' 
 to go by," he said. "There is Owen Briney and 
 he's quiet enough. And he's after Sheila Dermod ! 
 Oh! the old plaisham. And what d'ye think iv 
 Sheila, yerself, Doalty?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I haven't given her a thought," said 
 Doalty. 
 
 "Get away widye, Doalty," said the old man, 
 pressing Doalty's thigh again. He had not wholly 
 relaxed the grip at any time. "D'ye think an old 
 fellow like me never sees anything at all? What 
 about the night at the fair when ye went into Heel- 
 Ball's with her? Eh, now!" 
 
 "Who has been telling you this?" enquired Doal- 
 ty gruffly. 
 
 "Who, but Dennys The Drover," said the old 
 man. "He had a great laugh over it. He saw that 
 ye had a notion iv Sheila, so he let ye get on the
 
 The Wake 249 
 
 talk with her; and himself, he went into the next 
 room with Eileen Kelly." 
 
 "Dennys has a notion of Eileen," said Doalty, 
 in a voice of apparent indifference. He was really 
 trying to get as much information from Oiney as 
 possible. 
 
 "A notion iv Eileen!" laughed Oiney. "Ne'er a 
 fear. He just went with her for a bit iv fun and in 
 a fair one may as well go with one girsha as with 
 another. They're all out for the fun." 
 
 "Was Sheila out for fun too?" 
 
 "She was that day," said the old man ; "but after 
 the berryin' she'll be out for somethin' else, and 
 she'll not be long lookin' for what she wants. No- 
 body would have taken the girl from her mother, 
 God rest her, when she was alive. Breed was a 
 hard woman to get on with, but now, as the girl 
 has her bit iv land, and no man to work it, she'll 
 be glad to take some one to dig the fields for her." 
 
 "And do you think that Dennys The Drover 
 will ask her to marry him?" asked Doalty. 
 
 "He could do worse," said Oiney. "Worse and 
 far worse." 
 
 So saying, he got to his feet again, and made the 
 rounds of the house with the pipes. 
 
 ii 
 
 By this time the young people were playing a 
 game called "The Silly Old Man." A number of 
 boys and girls were standing in a circle on the mid-
 
 250 Glenmornan 
 
 die of the floor; boy and girl about, catching one 
 another's hands. Young Micky Neddy, who stood 
 in the centre of the circle, was the Silly Old Man 
 for the time being. He had to choose a woman 
 from the circle for his wife. As he looked at the 
 young faces the boys and girls sang at the top of 
 their voices: 
 
 "He's a silly old man that lies alone, 
 That lies alone, 
 In bed alone 
 
 A silly old man that lies alone, 
 Wantin' a wife but can't get one." 
 
 Micky Neddy chose a wife from the ring, and 
 his wife was Eileen Kelly. He put his arm round 
 her and drew her into his side. Oiney Leahy, his 
 hat well back on his head, paused for a moment, 
 in the midst of his pipe distribution, to look at the 
 fun. The boys and girls, with their eyes on Mickx 
 Neddy and Eileen Kelly, burst into song again: 
 
 "Now young couple ye're married together, 
 Married together, 
 And bedded together. 
 
 From this day on ye must love one another 
 Obey yer father as well as yer mother, 
 And live in peace like sister and brother." 
 
 "That's the way to do it," Oiney laughed, strok- 
 ing his white beard in towards his throat. "It's 
 just like the old times." 
 
 This game went on for quite half an hour, and 
 at the end of that time Micky Neddy had chosen 
 three different wives and got married to each of
 
 The Wake 251 
 
 them. Even old Oiney, not to be outdone when fun 
 was going on, got married twice, once to Norah 
 Gallagher and again to a girl from Meenawarawor 
 by the name of Nancy Parra Wor a Crick (Nancy 
 the daughter of Big Patrick of the Hill). 
 
 One game followed another. The next was 
 : "The Priest of the Parish," with Oiney Leahy as 
 the priest. He sat on the floor and placed the 
 young men in a row on either side of him. When 
 all had settled down, Oiney pointed his finger at 
 Micky Neddy and said: "Ye're my man, Jack." 
 Then looking at the other players he said: 
 "Choose yer caps." 
 
 "I'm Black Cap," said one. 
 
 "And yer cap?" asked Oiney, looking at an- 
 other. 
 
 "White Cap," was the answer. 
 
 "And yer cap?" 
 
 "Green Cap." 
 
 Oiney coughed, when all the men had chosen 
 their caps. Then he spoke : 
 
 "The Priest of the Parish has lost his consid- 
 erin' cap; some say this, and some say that, but I 
 say my man, Jack." 
 
 Micky Neddy, quick after Oiney's words, 
 shouted : 
 
 "Is it me, sir?" 
 
 ''Yes, you, sir." 
 
 "Ye lie, sir." 
 
 "Who then, sir?" 
 
 "Black Cap." 
 
 "Is it me, sir?" Black Cap, who happened to be
 
 252 Glenmornan 
 
 Owen Briney, enquired, and the same series of 
 answers and questions went their round between 
 the two men. The game required a supple tongue, 
 for the man who was unable to answer to a cap 
 before the priest named him was made to stand 
 up and take punishment. He stood with his hand, 
 palm inwards, on his hip, and the priest hit him 
 across the knuckles with a stick. After such a 
 castigation the dilatory man became the Priest of 
 the Parish. Before the game was at an end all the 
 knuckles in the party were bleeding. Meenawara- 
 wor was very severe on the knuckles of Strana- 
 meera, but when it came to Stranameera's turn 
 Meenawarawor got its due meed of punishment. 
 The fun of the wake was in full swing now. 
 Oiney Leahy, his priesthood at an end, was sitting 
 in a corner with pipe aflare, telling a story of the 
 old times, of the years far back, when there was no 
 burial ground in Greenanore, and when the dead 
 had to be put under earth ten miles from where 
 Oiney was now sitting and twenty miles from 
 Meenaroody, a townland at the butt-end of the 
 parish. One snowy mid-winter, a Meenaroody man 
 died, and he had to be carried over hill and holm, 
 twenty miles, to the graveyard. The coffin left 
 Meenaroody at night; Oiney Leahy was one of the 
 bearers. It was a raw journey in the snow, and 
 when the coffin came to Meenawarawor the men 
 left it on the roadside and went to Hudagh Ree- 
 dagh's house for a drink of potheen. Hudagh 
 (dead, twenty years, come Candlemas next) had 
 a still going on the hills day and night. The men
 
 The Wake 253 
 
 went there and got well tight. Meantime the cof- 
 fin lay on the roadside, with the snow falling all 
 over it, for the night was a wild one entirely. It 
 was when the men were drunk, and when every, 
 one was full of his own worth, that somebody re- 
 marked that no one had the courage to go alone 
 and have a look at the coffin. Oiney said that he 
 would go, for he was not afraid of anything. The 
 other men of the party laughed at him, but Oiney 
 got hold of an ash-plant from behind the rafter of 
 Hudagh Reedagh's home, and went to visit the 
 coffin, all on his lone. "If the divil from hell's 
 there I don't care," Oiney said, making his way out 
 into the darkness. 
 
 When he came to the coffin, there was something 
 there waiting for him, something white as a ghost, 
 that tried to hit Oiney with its horns. As the 
 strange thing rushed at him, Oiney stepped back 
 a pace, to get the swing of his arm behind the blow 
 and hit the ghost right between the eyes with the 
 ash-plant. Then he turned and ran back to his 
 friends. "And in the mornin'," Oiney concluded, 
 "there was a dead ram lyin' across the coffin." 
 
 Near the door a Meenawarawor man, rugous 
 and big-boned, was playing hard knuckles with 
 Micky Neddy, whose fern-tickled face was beaded 
 with sweat, and whose hair stood out in wisps un- 
 der his cap. The two were hitting one another's 
 knuckles turn about, their fists all covered with 
 blood. The last man to hit would be the man to 
 win, and one townland was loth to give in to the 
 other townland. The onlookers were betting on
 
 254 Glenmornan 
 
 the result of the contest, while the two men, look- 
 ing very sorry for themselves, continued the brutal 
 game. 
 
 Sheila Dermod, weary after many nights* watch- 
 ing over her sick mother, was now asleep, sitting 
 on the stool by the bed, her head back against the 
 blankets, her full throat and lovely face showing. 
 Doalty, looking at her, suddenly detected in her 
 face a striking resemblance to her dead mother. 
 In what the likeness consisted, Doalty could not 
 determine. How could there be any similarity be- 
 tween the two faces ? They were so different. He 
 recollected Breed Dermod's expression when she 
 came down to see him a few days earlier ; the sunk- 
 en eyes and mouth, the wrinkles raying out from 
 the corners of her eyes like a fan, the skin drawn 
 tightly in across the cheek-bones. . . . But how 
 could there be any similarity between faces so es- 
 sentially different, between the blue-eyed, soft-com- 
 plexioned Sheila and the hard-featured, scowling 
 mother? But despite all that Doalty could urge to 
 the contrary, there was an inexplicable likeness, 
 Jan unmistakable family look. 
 
 -"It cannot be," Doalty thought, speaking to him- 
 self in disjointed words. "It does not matter how 
 many years. . . . There's not a scowl in the big 
 blue eyes . . . steady and clear, but not menac- 
 ing." 
 
 Another man looked on Sheila at intervals, and 
 rom Sheila, his eyes would turn to Doalty Galla- 
 gher. And Doalty noticed the expression on this 
 man's face. There was a look of greed all over it.
 
 The Wake 255 
 
 A similar expression showed on the face of the 
 man when he was trying to make a bargain with 
 Crania Coolin at the fair of Greenanore. The man 
 was Owen Briney. 
 
 Oiney Leahy looked at the sleeping girl, then 
 round at the assembled company. "Many a man 
 would marry that girl for her face alone," he said. 
 
 in 
 
 It was now time to say the Rosary. Oiney 
 Leahy knelt on the floor, first taking care to put 
 his old battered hat under his knees. 
 
 "Now, boys, on yer knees for the Paidreen," he 
 said. The household knelt down in a body. Micky 
 Neddy and the Meenawarawor man stopped their 
 game of hard knuckles, glad of the respite. Sheila 
 Dermod woke up. Maura The Rosses and Grania 
 Coolin, kneeling by the fire, kept their eyes fixed 
 on the pot of tea. Supper would be served when 
 the Rosary came to an end. 
 
 Oiney gave out the prayers in Irish. Responses 
 were made in that language by the old and in Eng- 
 lish by the young people of twenty or thereabouts. 
 pThe children from the school answered in Irish, 
 now a compulsory language in its own country. 
 
 Fifteen decades of the Rosary were given out 
 and then prayers were said for all who were dead. 
 Oiney gave a short introduction to this prayer, 
 speaking in a low voice that was deep and tender, 
 while all the household listened in silence.
 
 256 Glenmornan 
 
 "One Pater and Ave for the suffering souls in 
 Purgatory," said the old man. "Especially for 
 fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, neighbours, 
 near and far, friends and enemies and all who have 
 gone away from the world, that they may be re- 
 leased from their torments and taken to God, their 
 Father in Heaven. Amen." 
 
 After prayers and before supper was served to 
 the crowd, Doalty rose and went out, with the in- 
 tention of going home. Sheila Dermod followed 
 him and overtook him in the park that stretched 
 down the brae from the door. 
 
 "Ye're not goin' home now, Doalty, are ye?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Oh! I think I'll go, Sheila," he replied, looking 
 at the girl. "There are plenty inside to keep watch 
 all night." 
 
 "But ye should stay, Doalty," she said in a voice 
 that was almost supplicating. She looked up at 
 Doalty and in the darkness the young man fancied 
 that he could see a tender beseeching look in her 
 blue eyes. With an involuntary movement he 
 stretched out his hand and caught hers. 
 
 "I'm very sorry for you, Sheila," he said. "Be- 
 ing left all by yourself, up here on the brae. Death 
 is very sad." 
 
 "Ah ! well, it had to be," said the girl in a voice 
 of resignation. "Every one has to die when it 
 comes to their time." 
 
 She pressed his hand warmly as she spoke, and 
 looked at the ground, but did not release her hold. 
 
 Presently she spoke again.
 
 The Wake 257 
 
 "Ye're comin' in to have somethin' to ate any- 
 way, aren't ye?" she asked. "Ye're not goin' away, 
 without havin' a bite and ye've not ate anything 
 now since six o'clock this evenin', maybe." 
 
 "But, Sheila, you have trouble enough in the 
 house not to bother about me," said Doalty. "I 
 did not think that you would care for my company 
 after what has passed between us. You remember 
 . . . and you were so angry with me. . . ." 
 
 "Who said that I was angry?" Sheila enquired, 
 separating Doalty 's fingers, one from another, with 
 her hand. 
 
 "Nobody; but I thought you were," Doalty re- 
 plied. "And you weren't angry?" he enquired, 
 drawing the young girl towards him. 
 
 "I wasn't angry," said the girl. "But ye were 
 so strange and not like other boys that ye made me 
 afeeard." 
 
 She spoke in a whisper and the hand that held 
 Doalty's quivered like a leaf. 
 
 "But now, you're not afraid, Sheila !" said Doal- 
 ty in a passionate voice. "If I asked you now . . . 
 you would . . . wouldn't you, Sheila?" 
 
 "Doalty Gallagher!" 
 
 "All right, Sheila. ... I'm sorry. ... Is the 
 supper ready yet?" 
 
 The two went into the house together, passing 
 Owen Briney, who had come out to the door to see 
 if the weather showed any signs of breaking. 
 There were heavy clouds on Sliav a Tuagh that 
 afternoon, a bad sign. So Owen informed Sheila,
 
 258 Glenmornan 
 
 but all through the evening, up till now, he had 
 not shown the least interest in the weather. 
 
 Doalty Gallagher did not leave the house of the 
 wake till the next morning. All Stranameera 
 stopped till dawn, knowing that it could sleep all 
 day. But Meenawarawor went home after sup- 
 per, for with good weather and no wakes, they 
 could make a speedy finish to their harvest. 
 
 IV 
 
 The weather continued dry and warm and the 
 workers on the far side of the glen made great 
 progress with their hay. Stranameera, held up by 
 Breed Dermod's death, was pleased when the bury- 
 ing day came round. Six deep, under her coffin, 
 the men carried her down the glen road on their 
 shoulders, sweating as they walked. Breed, big of 
 bone and build, was not an easy burden on the hot- 
 test day that Glenmornan ever knew. Oiney Leahy, 
 front bearer on the right of the coffin, with his 
 coat and hat off and his pipe in his pocket, grunted 
 wearily as he walked. Other men took turns at the 
 bearing, but Oiney would not allow any man into 
 his place. Seeing it was the last journey of Breed 
 Dermod, God rest her ! down the glen road, he was 
 going to carry her all the way. This generous 
 thought did not prevent him, however, from say- 
 ing when the churchyard was sighted : "Thanks be 
 to God that we're near there, now !" 
 
 They buried Breed in the grave where her hus-
 
 The Wake 259 
 
 band, who also died on a harvest-day, was laid to 
 rest. Father Devaney, a well-preserved priest, de- 
 spite his years, with shiny, bald head and oily face, 
 read the offices over the dead woman and counted 
 the offerings after the burial. The glen people had 
 paid well and a sum of nine pounds, eighteen and 
 sixpence was collected. The priest counted the 
 offerings, put the money in a large cloth bag and 
 handed it to Micky Neddy. 
 
 "Run away with this, Micky," he said, "and put 
 it in the car be the gate for me." A jaunting car 
 stood by the entrance of the churchyard, waiting 
 to take the priest back to his residence. 
 
 On his way out, Father Devaney overtook Doal- 
 ty Gallagher, who had been one of the bearers at 
 the funeral. 
 
 "Good day, Doalty Gallagher," said the priest, 
 with an air of jollity, stretching out his hand to- 
 wards the young man. "I haven't been speakin' to 
 ye since ye've come home at all. And ye've grown 
 big since ye went away!" 
 
 "Well, I've had plenty of time to grow," said 
 Doalty, taking no notice of the outstretched hand. 
 
 "Ye have grown in more ways than one," said 
 Father Devaney, dropping his hand to his side as 
 he noticed the acrid and savage disdain of the 
 young man's voice. "Ye've grown to learn things 
 abroad, Doalty things that are not good for ye. 
 A lot of the young fellows who go away, come 
 back just like yerself, but they'll learn better as they 
 grow older." 
 
 "If people grow older in the way that I'm grow-
 
 260 Glenmornan 
 
 ing old they'd damned soon get rid of gross, self- 
 satisfied creatures like you, Devaney," said Doalty 
 in a voice hoarse with anger. He spoke, almost, 
 as if he had been rehearsing for the scene, as in- 
 deed he had, for often, when abroad, he thought of 
 Father Devaney and had a certain grim satisfac- 
 tion in an imaginary condemnation of the man. 
 "As people get more educated it will be found that 
 men like you will be the means of driving Catho- 
 licity from the country." 
 
 "Quiet now, Doalty Gallagher," said Father 
 Devaney, with an authoritative wave of his hand, 
 speaking with the air of a man, sure of his power, 
 who was unwilling to enter into argument in de- 
 fence of his own behaviour. "Quiet now, me boy, 
 and don't be speakin' things that ye'll be sorry for 
 afterwards." 
 
 Doalty knew that words were futile against the 
 smug, self-possessed priest. He was an over-fed, 
 blatant tyrant whom the people obeyed like sheep ! 
 Poor people, poor, silly, stupid people! 
 
 At that moment Doalty saw Maura The Rosses 
 coming, and without another word he gave the 
 priest one look of killing scorn, turned on his heel 
 and left him. All that he had said seemed to 
 Doalty to have been flat and hateful. This feeling 
 increased as the distance between himself and the 
 priest lengthened. He was annoyed with himself, 
 bit his lips and cursed at the awkwardness with 
 which he had dealt with Devaney. He should 
 have knocked the man down, he reasoned. Even
 
 The Wake 261 
 
 his years should not have saved him from chastise- 
 ment. 
 
 "He's afraid of his mother, anyway, and that's 
 a good sign," thought the priest as Doalty walked 
 away. 
 
 Maura The Rosses came up and bowed almost to 
 the ground in front of the clergyman. The priest 
 did not return the salute. Instead he fixed a stern 
 eye on the woman. 
 
 "Maura The Rosses, I've been talkin' to that 
 boy iv yours," he said in a severe voice. "I'm 
 afraid that he has forgot the teachin' that was 
 given to him, when he was a youngster in the 
 glen. . . . He spoke to me just the same as if I 
 wasn't his parish priest." 
 
 "But he's been so long abroad, father, that he 
 has maybe lost mind iv a lot of things," said the 
 woman in an endeavour to placate the man. "If 
 he stays here for a while he'll just be like any iv the 
 others in the glen. Don't fault him, father, for he's 
 only a young gasair yet." 
 
 "I'm sorry to say it, Maura The Rosses, but from 
 the look iv things I think ... no, I don't think it, 
 but I'm sure iv it, that your boy has wandered 
 away from the old faith. And ye know what that 
 manes !" he said in a stern voice. 
 
 "Don't say that, father," Maura The Rosses en- 
 treated. "He may be like that at times, but he'll 
 soon grow past it. Maybe if ye spoke to him yer- 
 self, father, he would take heed iv what ye'd tell 
 him. ... I can't do much for him, bar say a
 
 262 Glenmornan 
 
 prayer for him be night and put some holy water 
 under his pillow before he goes to bed." 
 
 "Oh, that's no good for the like iv him, Maura 
 The Rosses," said the priest. "It would be the best 
 thing for the parish if he was sent back to where 
 he came from. Then he couldn't give scandal to 
 yerself and to the young iv the glen." 
 
 "But maybe if he goes to yerself, father," fal- 
 tered Maura The Rosses, whose dread of the priest 
 was much stronger than her desire for Doalty's 
 salvation. 
 
 "No, no," said the priest. "I'll have nothin' 
 to do with him. Let him go his own way. He's 
 young and headstrong, but one day . . ." the 
 priest shook his head "and it may be too late 
 then," he added. 
 
 With these words he got up on the car and 
 looked in the well of the vehicle to see if the bag 
 of money was safe. This was done, more through 
 force of habit than from fear that any one would 
 be so rash as to lay hands on the offerings over the 
 dead. Money was not in the priest's mind at that 
 moment, all the old man's thoughts were on Doalty 
 Gallagher, and he was forming schemes of revenge 
 against the youth. 
 
 Devaney was a covetous and crafty man, hold- 
 ing unlimited control of his flock. Though the 
 peasantry did not love him, they feared him and 
 he played on that fear. The poor were his legiti- 
 mate prey, and not a soul in the parish dared gain- 
 say his wishes or disobey his commands. He kept 
 the parish under his thumb.
 
 The Wake 263 
 
 For all that, he was afraid of Doalty Gallagher 
 and of any man who might speak to him as Doalty 
 had spoken. And he had reason, for it happened 
 once that a young man, named Reelan, who had 
 been abroad, returned to Greenanore and opened 
 a grocer's shop in the village. Reelan's mother 
 was a very poor woman, and when the priest was 
 building his new house this woman was unable to 
 pay all the dues. Devaney remarked on this event 
 several times from the altar, holding the woman 
 up to ridicule and contempt. When young Reelan 
 came home and heard of this, he was very angry 
 and went and saw Devaney about the matter. Dur- 
 ing the interview he lost his temper and knocked 
 the priest down. For this Devaney had his re- 
 venge. He spoke about the affair from the altar, 
 pointing out the evil of which the young man, who 
 had struck his own priest, was guilty. Needless 
 to say, the peasantry were indignant ; the villagers 
 would not speak to the young man afterwards and 
 the women of the parish would not buy at his shop. 
 In the end Reelan had to close up his business and 
 leave the parish. "I'll treat Doalty Gallagher the 
 same as I have treated Reelan," muttered the 
 priest, as he made his way homewards. "I'll show 
 him what it is to speak back to his priest. But it's 
 better not to anger him as yet, maybe," he added as 
 he recalled the incident in which Reelan had figured 
 some years previously. 
 
 When Devaney came off the car and entered his 
 home he forgot to take his money bag with him. 
 The jarvey who had driven the priest to all the
 
 264 Glenmornan 
 
 funerals in the parish for years had never known 
 Devaney to forget the offerings before. 
 
 "I suppose it's because he is growin' old that he's 
 forgettin' things," said the jarvey, as he followed 
 the priest into the house with the bag in his hand.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE FLOOD 
 
 It's poor washing for a woman when there isn't a shirt in 
 the tub. A Glentnornan Proverb. 
 
 DAY after day passed by and the weather 
 kept up. Never had Glenmornan known 
 such heat, and never had the hay dried 
 so quickly. On all the spread of bottomland, bound- 
 ing the Owenawadda, the trampcocks were rising" 
 brown over the after-grass. The peasantry worked 
 hard, busy at their toil day and night, the odour 
 of drying hay in their nostrils, the rustle of waving 
 corn in their ears. In the clear moonlight, when 
 dews fell thickly and mists rose from the pores of 
 the land, the swish of the reaper's scythes could be 
 heard between dusk and dawn. In the morning 
 the fields were ribbed with straight new swards. 
 In the hot sun the grass dried quickly ; the hay had 
 merely to be cut and it was saved. 
 
 Doalty and his brother Teague worked at the 
 mowing, making great headway. The neighbours 
 marvelled at the young man who could keep at his 
 265
 
 266 Glenmornan 
 
 work so steadily and now they were of opinion that 
 Doalty was really going to remain at home, and 
 work on the farm for the rest of his life. On real- 
 ising this, they shook their heads in a knowing way. 
 "There's something in it," they told one another. 
 "A boy comin' home here and workin' just like one 
 of ourselves, when he has the learnin', and can 
 make money and to spare abroad, is ... well, 
 there's more in it than meets the eye." The shop- 
 boy, who put on airs they disliked, Doalty, who was 
 humility itself, they distrusted. 
 
 "And ye're never goin' away at all any more?" 
 Eileen Kelly asked him one day as she met him on 
 the road. 
 
 "Well, it doesn't look like it, does it?" was Doal- 
 ty's reply. 
 
 Eileen shrugged her shoulders and curled her 
 three-cornered lips in a pert grimace. 
 
 "Stayin' here, when ye could be away out in the 
 world," she said deprecatingly. "Ye've never set 
 eyes on a place as backwardlike as this, I'll go 
 bail." 
 
 "It's a most lovely place, Eileen," Doalty re- 
 plied. "The hills, and the meadows, and the 
 streams, and the people. You like the hills, 
 Eileen, don't you?" he asked her. 
 
 "I hate them," the girl replied. "Always the 
 same and never any change! They are so ugly! 
 I suppose yerself thinks that they are very nice be- 
 cause ye've been away and seen other places. But 
 I've always been at home here, and I've never seen 
 anywhere else. . . . Maybe if I was away I would
 
 The Flood 267 
 
 like this place to come back to, if it was only for a 
 holiday." 
 
 Doalty continued writing the articles on Glen- 
 mornan in his spare time. The editor of the Lon- 
 don paper was quite pleased with them and used a 
 I series. Then other papers published further con- 
 |tributions and Doalty got rid of his stuff easily. 
 ,He gave the money sent from London to his 
 'mother, but she showed no signs of slating her 
 house now. Doalty spoke to her about the matter. 
 
 "Well, the thatch will do for a couple iv years 
 more," she said, "so I'll put the few ha'pence by." 
 
 This really meant that since her next door neigh- 
 bours were not slating their houses, she had no 
 need to slate hers. Maura was now a great friend 
 of Sheila Dermod, and called on the young girl 
 daily, helping her at her work. All the neighbours 
 took a kind interest in the girl's welfare; the boys 
 of the townland helped her at the hay-making and 
 turf-saving, and Owen Briney was not last in lend- 
 ing her a hand. At this time an aunt of hers, Anna 
 Ruagh of Meenaroodagh, whose husband was 
 ! away abroad at the harvesting, came to live with 
 Sheila and help her to keep house. The girl also 
 engaged a servant boy, named Murtagh Roonagh, 
 blood relation, but far out, of Oiney Leahy, and 
 Oiney saw that this boy did fair and honest labour 
 for his wages. 
 
 One thing however was certain and that was 
 this. Sheila would have to get married presently. 
 A man was needed to run the bit of land, and as 
 the girl was left all alone, it would not be a sin on
 
 268 Glenmornan 
 
 her part to get married as soon as possible, after, 
 her mother's death. There were plenty of young 
 fellows going about, who would be glad to bespeak 
 the girl's hand. They were all mad after her, and 
 now that Breed was dead, the lucky young man 
 would have Sheila's farm to go into on the day of 
 his marriage to the beautiful girl. 
 
 Doalty spoke to Sheila several times. When 
 coming in from the mowing in the evening, he 
 would call to her across the ditch. 
 
 "Good evening, Sheila," he would say. "Still 
 working away." 
 
 "Always working" she would answer in a quiet 
 voice, as if she had resigned herself to a future 
 which showed clear in front of her. Now and 
 again, when Doalty spoke to her, an expression 
 of embarrassment would flit across her features. 
 She would smile awkwardly, apparently not at any- 
 thing which the young man had said, but at some 
 thought which his remark brought up in her mind. 
 Her big blue eyes never looked straight at Doalty 
 now when she spoke to him. Instead her eyelids 
 would sink down, as if the girl were abashed and 
 shamed of something which was only known to 
 herself. Doalty, for some reason, felt very sorry 
 for the girl and with the sorrow came a sense of 
 isolation. As day and day passed, he felt further 
 and further removed from the girl. Some great 
 barrier seemed to be rising up between the two of 
 them, but what the barrier was the young man 
 could not determine.
 
 The Flood 269 
 
 ii 
 
 One afternoon Doalty had a conversation with 
 her. She was sitting by the River Owenawadda 
 at a point where the Dermod Farm jutted out, into 
 the stream. The day was very warm, but a cold 
 breath rose from the river and fanned the young 
 man's face as he sat on the bank beside the girl. 
 The water beneath them was still and clear. Un- 
 der the shadow of the bank a big trout, facing the 
 run of the stream, was waving its fins lazily. Doal- 
 ty looked at Sheila's reflection in the water and he 
 could see her form as distinctly as if she were look- 
 ing into a glass. The girl was leaning forward, 
 her hair falling over her shoulders, her feet touch- 
 ing the water. As the ripples, raised by the water- 
 spiders, swept across the girl's reflection, her hair 
 waved outwards, as if caught by a gentle breeze. 
 For a long while Doalty gazed at the likeness in 
 the water without speaking. 
 
 "What are ye thinkin' about, Doalty Galla- 
 gher?" asked Sheila suddenly, fixing her eyes on 
 the young man. 
 
 "Thinking about!" said Doalty, as if consider- 
 ing the question. He knew what the true answer 
 would be, if he had the courage to speak it. "Think- 
 ing about, Sheila? . . . It's about you, always 
 about you." 
 
 "About me, Doalty Gallagher?" asked the girl, 
 with an earnest look as if she had never heard him 
 make such a confession before.
 
 270 Glenmornan 
 
 "Yes, about you, Sheila. I think of you the first 
 thing in the morning when I get up and the last 
 thing at night. You remember the time I kissed 
 you, do you not, Sheila?" 
 
 "Ye're always thinkin' about that," said the girl. 
 "Do you ever think about the other girls that ye've 
 kissed when I didn't see ye?" 
 
 She laughed as she spoke, and plucking a flower 
 from the grass by her side, she threw it into the 
 water. 
 
 "A throut will maybe rise to that," she said. 
 "Do ye think that one will, Doalty?" 
 
 "Be sensible, Sheila," he said impatiently. 
 "When I want to speak of one thing, you always 
 turn to something else." 
 
 "But have ye ever been kissin' the girls abroad ?" 
 Sheila enquired mischievously. 
 
 "No, no," Doalty hastened to assure her. "But 
 why do you enquire?" 
 
 "I'm just only askin'," said the girl. "But ye are 
 tellin' me the truth, aren't ye now?" 
 
 "It's quite true, Sheila." 
 
 "Cross on yer neck then," said the girl in a voice 
 of mock-command. 
 
 Doalty made the sign of the cross with his fore- 
 finger. 
 
 "Now," he said, nodding his head and looking 
 at her under his brows. His word seemed to chal- 
 lenge her to further remarks. 
 
 "Well, it's time to be getthv on with the hay 
 now, I think," said Sheila rising to her feet and
 
 The Flood 271 
 
 walking backwards. She kept her eyes fixed on 
 Doalty, as she edged away from him. 
 
 "But not yet, Sheila," he entreated, also get- 
 ting up. "Don't run away like that. Just a min- 
 ute. ... I have something to say to you." 
 
 "Ye've always somethin' to say," said the girl 
 in a hesitating voice. "But ye never say any- 
 thing. ... I must get to the hay anyway, for it's 
 ready for the han'cocks." 
 
 With these words, she turned round, and ran off 
 towards the road. 
 
 Doalty went back to the holm where the hay was* 
 scattered broadcast over the ground. In case of 
 floods coming, it would be well to heap it up now 
 that it was almost dry. But his thoughts were not 
 on the hay as he walked. He was thinking of 
 Sheila. 
 
 "How empty and dull everything seems," he 
 muttered to himself. "I have been in Glenmornan 
 now for quite a long time and what have I done? 
 I have fallen in love, and I say meaningless things 
 to that girl. She doesn't understand them, and no 
 doubt she thinks that I am a fool. What silly 
 things I've been saying to her and then she tells 
 me that I never say anything. One hour after 
 another passes and nothing is done. But what can 
 be done? . . . Suppose I went and asked her to 
 marry me what would she say? I would marry 
 her to-morrow if she took me. . . . But maybe 
 she'd refuse. . . ." 
 
 He looked at the girl working in the hay-field, 
 her whole attention concentrated on her labour.
 
 272 Glenmornan 
 
 She wore a red-speckled handkerchief on her head, 
 and her long tresses hung down over her shoul- 
 ders, almost reaching her waist. She lifted the 
 hay in her arms piling it on the han'cocks, and 
 never once looked towards Doalty. 
 
 "She doesn't care," he said sadly. "She doesn't 
 know what love is. Her heart is not for me and 
 not, as far as I can see, for any other person. 
 She's a strange girl." 
 
 in 
 
 The weather broke two days later, at noon. All 
 morning the mists lay thickly on Carnaween, but 
 it remained close and dry down in Glenmornan 
 and no rain had fallen by the turn of the day. 
 
 "It will be rainin' here in a wee minute," said 
 Maura The Rosses to Doalty, at noon. Both were 
 standing behind the hedge, Doalty wedging a rake- 
 head on to its haft, Maura The Rosses knitting a 
 stocking. The mid-day meal had just come to an 
 end. "It's too meltin' warm to stay like this for 
 long," the woman continued, "but I hope when it 
 comes it's not too hard on the hay. . . . And 
 there's old Oiney down be the river pullin' the 
 han'cocks back from the brough. . . . And he has 
 a new flannel shirt on, too. Now, when did he get 
 it at all? ... There's Sheila Dermod goin' out 
 with her cow and calk to the grazin'. An ould 
 ranny iv an animal, it, and no good for the milk- 
 in'. . . . It's a wonder that Dennys The Drover
 
 The Flood 273 
 
 is not gettin' married to Sheila. She's a good, hard 
 worker, when all's said and done, and it's not a bad 
 match, for the two farms are just about the same 
 size and rent. There's the rain now and it will be 
 heavens hard as far as I can see." 
 
 Even as she spoke, a violent storm broke and 
 the rain came in torrents. The streams from the 
 uplands becoming swollen, rushed down with vio- 
 lence and burst their bounds. Reeling over the 
 rocks, with a noise like thunder, they set all the 
 echoes going on the hills, and dragging out the 
 bushes from the ravines, they flung them broad- 
 cast over the brae- faces. The river could be seen 
 rising, rising. 
 
 "Doalty, come into the house widye!" shouted 
 Maura The Rosses, who was already inside. 
 
 Doalty went in, to find his mother with her boots 
 off, her red petticoat tucked up to her knees, and 
 the sleeves of her blouse thrust up to her shoulders. 
 In one hand she held a bottle of holy water. As 
 Doalty crossed the doorstep she flung the holy 
 water over him, then over herself. 
 
 "May God save us from this flood!" she said, 
 "and protect the hay . . . and ye, Hughie Beag, 
 get into bed there and don't show yer nose past the 
 door till the draggin's done !" 
 
 "Must go down the river," said Hughie, clutch- 
 ing hold of his mother's petticoat. 
 
 "Get to bed and do what ye're told !" said Maura 
 The Rosses, giving the boy a skelp with the flat 
 of her hand. 
 
 Catching hold of a rope that hung from the rig-
 
 274 Glenmornan 
 
 ging-beam, Doalty Gallagher, followed by his 
 mother and Teague, rushed out and made his way 
 to the holm. The Owenawadda was now flush with 
 its highest bank, and where the banks lay low the 
 river was sweeping over them, on to the meadows. 
 The glen people were all rushing down the braes 
 to the holms ; a few were already dragging the hay 
 back from the flood. Three trampcocks, on Oiney 
 Leahy's Gubbin, were surrounded by water. Up 
 behind the Dermod's house the stream was break- 
 ing free from the awlth and tramping down the 
 fields of ripening corn. Sheila Dermod already 
 down by the river, was pulling the hay back from 
 the rising waters. Where Maura The Rosses' 
 holm touched the river, the water was now ankle 
 deep. 
 
 "The ones in most danger first the ones be the 
 brough !" said Maura in a stern voice of authority, 
 pointing at the hand-cocks surrounded by water. 
 She was carrying a wooden pole, a hand-spaik it 
 was called, in her hand and Teague carried an- 
 other. Bending down beside a hay lump she raised 
 one side of it and Teague shoved his pole under it. 
 A second hand-spaik was placed under the cock, 
 parallel with the first, and with the aid of these, the 
 mother and son lifted the hay and carried it out of 
 harm's way. In the meantime, Doalty put his rope 
 round a hand-cock, slung the end of the rope over 
 his shoulder, leant forward on it and dragged the 
 hay up to higher reaches of the holm. 
 
 Norah Gallagher, who had been to the village on 
 an errand, came into the field now.
 
 The Flood 275 
 
 "What kept ye slouchin' along the road, when ye 
 saw the flood," said Maura The Rosses to Norah. 
 "Ye should have been back an hour ago. Don't 
 stand gapin' there and the flood almost over the 
 glen." 
 
 "Well, what'll I do?" asked Norah helplessly. 
 "I have nobody to help me and I can't work like 
 Doalty." 
 
 "G'over and help Sheila, if ye can't see anything 
 to do here," said Maura The Rosses, who never 
 stopped work for a moment while shouting. 
 
 Doalty kept hard at it, doing the work of two 
 men. One hand-cock followed another, and all 
 were piled in an ungainly huddle up near the road. 
 Here the hay would be comparatively safe for if 
 the flood rose to the knoll on which it was heaped, 
 a thing which it seldom did, the water would not 
 have the strength to drag it into the river. 
 
 But the water continued rising. The glen was 
 a lake and in many places the houses near the road 
 were surrounded by the flood. On the braes the 
 streams were washing the potato patches from the 
 rocks, and the hills were slipping down to the bot- 
 tom-lands. 
 
 A round, dirty, white object, washed up by the 
 river, rested against a hand-cock which Maura The 
 Rosses was just raising on the hand-spaiks. 
 
 She looked at it for a second. 
 
 "One iv Dennys The Drover's sheep," she said. 
 "I know the brand on the horns. I hope he doesn't 
 lose many iv the crathurs." 
 
 She was waist-deep in the water, and when she
 
 276 Glenmornari 
 
 stooped the red petticoat spread out over the water 
 like a flat mushroom. But all the time nothing es- 
 caped her attention, she had an eye for everything, 
 even the doings of her neighbours. 
 
 "Now, Doalty, there's a han'-cock behint ye and 
 it'll soon be goin'," she said. "Put the rope round 
 it and pull it out! . . . Teague, get hold iv that 
 spaik and don't be gapin' like a scaldy* . . . 
 There's Owen Briney comin' down from the brae 
 to help Sheila Dermod with her hay. It's about 
 time too! There's Hughie Beag out and at the 
 road! He'll get drowned! I'll give him such a 
 skelpin' when I get in to him the night ! And look, 
 Doalty! There is one iv poor Oiney's trampcocks 
 on the way to the river. God help him !" 
 
 It was quite true. Oiney had three trampcocks 
 built together on his holm, small, stumpy ones they 
 were, containing about half a ton of hay each. One 
 of these, caught by the volume of the flood, was 
 going riverwards. Oiney, impotent, in the face of 
 this calamity, was watching it, as it drifted away. 
 Only the hat, face and shoulders of the old man 
 was visible; the water was almost reaching his 
 chin. 
 
 Maura The Rosses, as she went through the wa- 
 ter with a burden, kept her eye fixed on the tramp- 
 cock floating towards the river. Suddenly she dis- 
 appeared in the flood. Doalty, who was following, 
 threw down his rope and rushed to where the bub- 
 bles were rising near the hand-cock, which the 
 woman had just been carrying. 
 * Nestling.
 
 The Flood 277 
 
 "She's done for! Drownded!" shouted Teague. 
 
 But Maura The Rosses re-appeared again, splut- 
 tering and choking, the water running down over 
 her hair, which unloosened, straggled out across 
 the water. Doalty never knew that his mother had 
 such long hair. It would have reached her waist, 
 and even yet, it was not turning white. 
 
 He reached down, caught her by the arms and 
 pulled her up on the holm. She had fallen into a 
 drain. 
 
 Maura The Rosses shook her head, caught her 
 hair between her hands and wrung it. Then, not 
 having a hairpin, she allowed it to fall down her 
 back. Coughing and spluttering, she bent down 
 and proceeded with her work. 
 
 "You can go back home now, mother," said 
 Doalty. "There is only another half hour's work 
 and then all will be finished. Teague and myself 
 can do the rest now." 
 
 "I'll help for just a wee while longer," said the 
 mother. "Then I'll leave it to yerself and Teague 
 to finish. . . . There ! Oiney's trampcock is in the 
 river now." 
 
 The trampcock was indeed in the river and noth- 
 ing was visible, but the solitary horn of the goat 
 spinning round like a top. Other trampcocks fol- 
 lowed as if trying a race. . . . Another sheep was 
 washed in on the holm at Doalty's feet. 
 
 "What's the brand on the horn?" Maura The 
 Rosses called. 
 
 "Drover Dennys again," shouted Doalty in an- 
 swer.
 
 278 Glenmornan 
 
 At the end of another half hour when all the 
 hay was placed in safety the rain ceased, a breeze 
 blew from the hills and the sky cleared. Maura 
 The Rosses went back home and Doalty made his 
 way across the fields to see Oiney Leahy. On the 
 way he encountered Owen Briney. 
 
 "Did ye see Oiney's trampcock?" Owen en- 
 quired, smiling, with the corners of his lips down. 
 
 "I saw it go into the river," said Doalty. 
 
 "And it was the best cock iv the three," said 
 Owen. Previous to now Owen had often re- 
 marked that one cock was the spit of another and 
 neither of them were worth looking at. 
 
 Doalty spoke to Oiney across the ditch, both men 
 deep in the water, with only their heads and shoul- 
 ders showing. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Oiney, that your trampcock has 
 gone away," said Doalty to the old man. 
 
 "Ah! well it was to be, I suppose," said Oiney, 
 stroking his chin-whiskers. "It was the lightest 
 one that went, and that in itself is some comfort. 
 . . . The floods will come and when they do, there's 
 nothing more to be said. If the big rock that caps 
 the water, down at the town was blown up, the 
 river would have a freer run and the floods 
 wouldn't rise so high." 
 
 Doalty recalled that once, when he was a little 
 fellow, the blowing up of this rock was proposed. 
 The rock, which stood in the river bed, down by 
 the village, checked the flow of water in floodtime. 
 
 "But why don't they get it out of the way now?" 
 said Doalty. "If that was done and the trees
 
 The Flood 279 
 
 rooted out from either bank, the floods wouldn't 
 rise so high. If all the men in the glen, whos 
 farms touch the river, spent a week at the work 
 they could get it done quite easily." 
 
 ' 'Twas spoken about iv old, but what's the good 
 iv talk," said Oiney. "The people below the r.ock 
 say that if it was taken out iv the river they'd get 
 flooded out iv house and home. The river was 
 good enough for the people that went before us, 
 they say, and why is it not good enough for us? 
 Then, below us here, there's Crania Coolin's holm 
 that sticks out across the river and it's almost 
 touching Micky Neddy's holm on the other side. 
 There are bushes growing on both lips iv land, and 
 between them the river has no flow at all. But will 
 Grania or Micky let anybody widen it? No fear! 
 They make a penny or two, be sellin' the sally rods 
 that grow there, and they're not goin' to lose the 
 few ha'pence that can be made this way, in order 
 to save the hay iv them that's further up the glen 
 than themselves. And I don't blame them, for they 
 wouldn't get much thanks after they had done it." 
 
 "It looks as if it's going to dry up, now," said 
 Doalty as he clambered up on top of a ditch that 
 stood beside him. "We'll maybe have some good 
 weather again." 
 
 "Iv coorse we'll have lashin's and lavin's iv it," 
 said Oiney. "I'll bet the morrow will be good. The 
 wind is comin' from the east, a dry quarter, and 
 God is good! And we'll need it, if it keeps up, for 
 the corn is settin' ripe on the braes, and be the look 
 iv it, the crop is goin' to be a good one for the grain
 
 280 Glenmornan 
 
 is heavy iv head. Never saw it as good for miny's 
 a year. And the pratees are grand too. God is 
 still watchin' over us and if he takes away from us 
 in one way he sends us back seven-fold in another." 
 
 IV 
 
 That evening, when darkness had all but fallen, 
 Sheila Dermod came down through the awlth, her 
 cattle in front of her, the animals sliddering and 
 stumbling over the stones which the torrents had 
 washed from the hills earlier in the day. The flood 
 on the braes had fallen rapidly when the rain, 
 ceased, but a dark sheet of water still lay on the 
 holms and the river could be heard roaring, as it 
 made its way to the sea. A strong breeze was 
 blowing from the east and the bushes verging the 
 awlth were already dry. The hazel-nuts which 
 ripen with the corn, hung in clusters on the 
 branches, and Sheila, who had pulled a number 
 kept cracking them between her white teeth and 
 spitting the kernels into the brook, as she followed 
 her cows to the byre. 
 
 Suddenly she saw Doalty Gallagher, sitting 
 astride an ash, which projected over the stream and 
 cutting a young sapling with a clasp-knife. He did 
 not look round as the girl approached. 
 
 "And it's here ye are, Doalty Gallagher!" she 
 said, looking up at him and spitting the nut, which 
 she held between her teeth, into the rivulet. "Ye're 
 everywhere."
 
 The Flood 281 
 
 Doalty glanced at the girl, a look of feigned 
 surprise in his face. He had been watching her 
 through the bushes for the last five minutes. 
 
 "I've just come up to cut an ash-plant for the 
 next fair," he said. "I did not think I'd meet you 
 here, Sheila." 
 
 "Then who did ye think ye'd meet here?" she 
 asked, with a laugh, enquiry in her big blue eyes. 
 
 "Well, to tell you the truth, Sheila, I expected 
 to meet you," he confessed, "I've come up to see 
 you." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Sheila looked 
 down at a cluster of nuts which she held in her 
 hand. Selecting one, she leant back a little as if 
 going to fling it up to Doalty. 
 
 "Now, catch it if ye can!" she called. "I'm 
 goin' to throw it up !" 
 
 "Just one minute!" said the young man. "Wait 
 till I get a better hold!" 
 
 He twined his legs round the branch, which he 
 gripped with his left hand. Then leaning out- 
 wards, he held his right hand open, fingers out- 
 stretched, and waited expectantly. 
 
 "Throw!" he called. 
 
 She flung the nut up. Doalty made one wild 
 effort to catch it, missed, and almost toppled off 
 .his perch. 
 
 "Ye almost were comin' down!" laughed the; 
 girl. 
 
 "Throw another one," said Doalty. 
 
 "No fear," said Sheila. "I don't want yer deatK 
 to be on me head."
 
 282 Glenmornan 
 
 "Then I'm coming down, Sheila," said Doalty,' 
 scrambling out to the end of the branch, which 
 bent with him until his feet touched the ground. 
 Then he released his hold and the branch shot up 
 again. He turned to Sheila. 
 
 "I've come up to see you," he said, reaching out 
 and clasping her hands. 
 
 "But ye said that 'twas to cut a stick for the fair 
 that ye came up," said the girl diffidently. "Ye're 
 the one for lettin' on." 
 
 She drew her hands away from Doalty as she 
 spoke, and stepped backwards into the stream. The 
 muddy water covered her bare feet and played 
 about her ankles. She looked down at the ground. 
 
 "I've come up to see you, Sheila," Doalty re- 
 peated. "I cannot live without you. My eyes fol- 
 low you all day and I'm thinking of you all night." 
 
 "And I suppose I'm not the first that ye've told 
 the same story to," said the girl, the slightest note 
 of railery in her voice. "What about the girls that 
 ye have been talkin' to, beyont the wather?" 
 
 "Who has been telling you stories?" Doalty en- 
 quired and he caught the girl's hand again. 
 
 "I was just told," said Sheila. 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 "Oh! I just heard." 
 
 "Well, if any one told you things like that, it was 
 all a lie," said Doalty, as he seized her in his arms 
 and pressed her to his breast. He hardly knew 
 what he was doing; all ideas left him and it seemed 
 as if he were going to fall. He could feel her 
 bosom press against him, her tresses brushing his
 
 The Flood 283 
 
 lips. She leant back her head and looked up at 
 him and he could see the sparkle of her eyes. Her 
 lips moved, as if she were going to speak but no 
 words came. Doalty trembled; he felt his heart- 
 strings quiver, his will weaken. The fresh night, 
 the moist odour of the damp soil, the penetrating 
 fragrance of the autumn, the soft, yielding young 
 girl in his arms, excited an ecstasy of passion in 
 Doalty's heart. Almost without knowing it he 
 pressed his hand on Sheila's bosom. She shuddered 
 but clung more closely to him. He bent down and 
 pressed his lips against hers. 
 
 "It's a sin, that, what ye're doin'," she faltered. 
 
 "Sin," Doalty stammered. "It's no sin; it's . . ." 
 
 He kissed her again, then released her from his 
 arms. 
 
 "Your feet are all wet, Sheila," he said, "Come 
 up on the bank." 
 
 She obeyed meekly and stood beside him. 
 
 "And where will the cows be now?" she en- 
 quired. "They'll be all over the glen." 
 
 "Well, what does it matter?" said the young 
 man. "You'll have plenty of time to trouble about 
 the cattle to-morrow, and the day afterwards. 
 But at present we'll talk of something else." 
 
 "And what widye be wantin' to talk about now?" 
 she enquired, edging away from him. 
 
 "About love," said Doalty. "I've told you often 
 that I am in love with you and I want you to marry 
 me if you will. Will you, Sheila?" 
 
 "Are you in fun about it?" she asked, taking a 
 step backwards.
 
 284 Glenmornan 
 
 "I never was more in earnest in all my life," 
 said Doalty. 
 
 "Cross on yer neck, then." 
 
 Doalty made the sign of the cross with his finger 
 and fixed a pair of serious eyes on the girl. 
 
 "Tell me, now," he enquired. "Will you marry 
 me?" 
 
 "Well, I'll tell ye ... sometime," said the girl. 
 Now that she was free from his embrace she had 
 more confidence in herself. "Maybe I'll tell ye 
 the morra and maybe next week. ... I must have 
 time to think. . . . I'll see ye at Mass the morra 
 and then I'll tell ye ... maybe." 
 
 As she spoke she blushed crimson, but still kept 
 edging away. Doalty fixed a steady look on her 
 and she suddenly winced, turned round and ran off. 
 His eyes followed her until she disappeared 
 through the bushes, but she did not turn round 
 once. 
 
 The young man stopped where he was, for a long 
 time, and listened to the cows going into the byre. 
 But he did not hear Sheila speak. From the dis- 
 tance he could hear the sound of a fiddle playing 
 "The Moving Bogs of Allen," and he knew that 
 Oiney Leahy was seeking solace from the fiddle 
 for his lost trampcock.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 READ FROM THE ALTAR 
 
 His gnarled fingers against his hips, 
 A wee black dudheen between his lips ; 
 Bearded and wrinkled. . . . The mart is full 
 Of the herdsman's sheep and the mountain wool- 
 Woollen wrapper and woollen socks 
 Bawnagh-brockagh. Keeper of flocks, 
 Branded and ribbiged wethers and ewes; 
 A man of substance whom every one knows, 
 See him stand in the market town, 
 Paying in guineas, money down. 
 Ready to bargain and ready to spend, 
 Or stand a drink to a drouthy friend 
 A man that his neighbours speak about 
 As they sit at the bar and drink their stout, 
 And they wish, to the Man Of Flocks, increase, 
 Who has not his heart in the penny piece. 
 
 The Mountainy Man. 
 
 DOALTY, early on the road the next morn- 
 ing, was one of the first to enter the chapel 
 of Greenanore. The morning being very 
 hot he took a seat near the door, where a breeze 
 blew in from the fields. Sitting there he watched 
 the congregation file in. Those who had furthest 
 to come, were the first to enter. The big-boned and 
 
 285
 
 286 Glenmornan 
 
 hairy mountainy men tramped in, their sticks un- 
 der their arms; their barefooted women followed, 
 their perspiring feet leaving impressions of toe and 
 heel on the dry floor of the church. One of the 
 first of the men was big Hudagh Murnagh, a man 
 with a beard like a besom, full of money, and not. a 
 word of learning in his head. But for all that he 
 was very astute and dealt largely in sheep. The 
 mountains were white with his wool. He came up 
 the aisle of the church, took a seat opposite Doalty 
 and looked round, his shrewd eyes taking in every- 
 thing. Then, spitting on the floor, he knelt down 
 and said his prayers. 
 
 Next to come was Grania Coolin, her gosling- 
 grey handkerchief wrapped tightly round her head 
 and her white wisps of hair hanging down over her 
 yellow and wrinkled forehead. When she came op- 
 posite Hudagh Murnagh she knelt on the floor, 
 looked at the altar, and made the triple sign of the 
 cross. Getting to her feet again, she coughed with 
 the hollow cough of age, and went in and sat be- 
 side Hudagh. 
 
 Eileen Kelly and Sheila Dermod came up the 
 church together. Eileen gave Doalty a sidelong 
 glance as she passed him, and a little roguish smile 
 played round her three-cornered lips. Sheila, with 
 her eyes fixed on the altar, did not bestow a glance 
 on the young man. She seemed to be saying her 
 prayers as she walked. 
 
 Heel-ball took a seat in front of Doalty. His 
 bald head, rimmed by a red weal made by the hat, 
 rose to a point and shone as if polished. From it
 
 Read From the Altar 287 
 
 a light vapour was rising, as if Quigley's very sins 
 were evaporating from him at sight of the altar. 
 When he knelt down, he blessed himself in a slow, 
 calm, authoritative manner, pressing his white 
 flabby hand against brow, shoulder and chest, with 
 an air of decision. When he had blest himself, he 
 looked round at the congregation as much as to 
 say: "I've made the sign of the cross in the correct 
 and proper manner, and you all see that." The 
 poor of the congregation knew this look and had 
 often seen it on the man's face when he robbed 
 them of their hard-earned pence. But he was al- 
 ways within his rights and nothing could be said, 
 for as gombeen man, behind the counter, or wor- 
 shipper in the village church, he did everything in 
 the correct and proper manner. All his actions 
 being fair and above board, he was a man removed 
 from reproach, an honest business man and a credit 
 to his church and congregation. 
 
 His three daughters came in, just in time for the 
 prayers before Mass, Gwendoline leading, her 
 broad-brimmed hat well down over her face and 
 only a little bit of the chin showing. Her bosom 
 and hips were padded, and she wore a hobble skirt, 
 then fashionable with the quality of Greenanore, 
 but a thing of the past in larger towns. Gwendoline 
 had a nickname which Rabelais, were he a Glen- 
 mornan man, would have used as copy in his book. 
 This nickname was given to Gwendoline, when she 
 first padded her hips and used too much material 
 in the process. The girl's other two sisters were 
 named Stephanette and Winifred. They dressed
 
 888 Glenmornan 
 
 well, used rouge for their cheeks, but their clothes 
 and paint did not make up for their lack of beauty. 
 "It doesn't matter what they put on, they'll never 
 be but what God made them," Greenanore often 
 remarked, when referring to Heel-ball's daughters. 
 "A worm in a rose is always a worm." 
 
 Then there was Miss Mooney, the doctor's 
 daughter, the two Miss Rooneys, children of the 
 village draper, and Miss Boyle, stumpy and low- 
 set, like a winter trampcock, who was a school- 
 mistress at the convent school. 
 
 These, being part and parcel of the quality, made 
 the whole rounds of the church before sitting down. 
 While looking for comfortable seats, as it seemed, 
 they were in reality, showing off their finery to the 
 congregation. On seeing these women, one would 
 form a very high opinion of the wealth of Greena- 
 nore, but nobody would believe that old Hudagh 
 Murnagh, the man, with the beard like a besom, 
 who was spitting on the floor, was, with the excep- 
 tion of two or three others, the wealthiest man in 
 the building. 
 
 Father Devaney officiated, and when he looked 
 round during the service his face had the same 
 stubborn look that Doalty had noticed there on 
 the day that Breed Dermod was buried. But the 
 look was not peculiar to any occasion. It was the 
 habitual look of the man. He seemed to be always 
 ready to pounce on everybody whom he saw. His 
 look was the look ecclesiastic as made manifest in 
 the face of the gombeen priest. 
 
 When the first gospel was read a collection was
 
 Read From the Altar 289 
 
 made. The priest sat down by the side of the altar 
 and waited until his dues were lifted. Doalty no- 
 ticed Grania Coolin put a halfpenny in the plate. 
 She put it down slily amidst the copper coins, look- 
 ing round as she did so. The old woman did not 
 want her neighbours to see her poor contribution. 
 Heel-ball placed a pound-note in the plate. He 
 pulled it out of his pocket with surreptitious fin- 
 gers and kept the collector waiting for a moment. 
 The congregation looked at Heel-ball, who, know- 
 ing that all eyes were on him, concealed the note in 
 his hand, allowing only one end to show. Placing it 
 on the plate with quiet assurance, he covered it up 
 with pence so that it would not be blown away as 
 the collector made the rounds of the church. When 
 the plate passed to the next man there was only 
 one end of the note, peeping out from beneath 
 Grania Coolin's halfpenny, to be seen. But that 
 was sufficient. 
 
 When the collection was taken, the priest got up 
 on the altar steps again and read the Epistle and 
 Gospel of the day. Then he gave a sermon. Never 
 before had the priest a congregation so attentive, 
 so subdued. The worshippers listened in breath- 
 less silence. Not a soul coughed, not a foot stirred. 
 Hudagh Murnagh ceased spitting on the floor. A 
 feather might be heard dropping in a crock of milk.
 
 290 Glenmornan 
 
 ii 
 
 "My dear children," the priest began, in a low, 
 quiet voice of studied calmness, which the threat- 
 ening eyes, that seemed fixed on every soul in the 
 congregation, utterly belied; "I'm goin' to speak 
 this day on a matter that I would rather not have 
 to talk about here in the holy Church iv Greenanore 
 to the good men and women, the good boys and 
 girls, iv the parish. Here, to-day, I have in front 
 iv me a congregation iv good Catholics, as religious 
 and God-fearing as any ye can find in all Ireland. 
 And when that's said, what more can I say ? From 
 the earliest days the Catholic Church has found its 
 strongest supporters in the Irish people. The Irish 
 people and the Catholic Church are one and the 
 same. The Danes came to Ireland iv old and tried 
 to over-run the country, but priest and people stood 
 together and defeated the Dane and drove him into 
 the sea. Then the Sassenach came and put the 
 country to the sword. A price was offered for the 
 head iv a priest in the penal days, but even then, 
 when hunger was at every door and a sword at 
 every throat, did the people iv Ireland ever sell their 
 priest to the Saxon ? No fear ! They stood by him 
 in thick and thin, and he stood by them, tended the 
 dyin' and celebrated Mass on the lone hills, cov- 
 ered with snow, in the darkest hours iv stress and 
 danger. But that was in the old times." 
 
 The priest's voice sank as he said this, and those
 
 Read From the Altar 291 
 
 in the back seats had to strain their ears to catch 
 his utterance. 
 
 "But, my dear children, it is not the same to- 
 day," Devaney continued, his voice rising in a 
 grand burst of passion. "The priest of Ireland 
 and the people of Ireland are in danger now, and 
 the danger does not come from abroad. It is not 
 the Saxon who is to blame now. The danger is 
 within, like a worm in an apple. The danger is 
 here, in the parish, aye, and here in this very 
 chapel, where all iv ye, good people, come to say 
 yer prayers and make yer peace with God, The 
 devil has sent his minion here/' 
 
 The priest paused and the beads of sweat stood 
 out on his pink forehead. Doalty Gallagher felt 
 that all eyes were fixed on himself. 
 
 "I'm not goin' to mention any names," said the 
 priest. "I'm just goin' to tell ye what has come to 
 me notice. A young man, a young Irishman, and 
 God forgive me for callin' him an Irishman ! came 
 back from abroad, where he has been at work writ- 
 in' for the papers. That, in itself, is bad enough, 
 for all papers away abroad, have, for their first 
 aim and object, the destruction iv the holy Roman 
 Catholic religion. But worse was to follow, for 
 this young man came back here and began to work 
 on his mother's farm. As if he wanted to help 
 her! Ah! my dearly beloved brethren, Satan has 
 cunning in his ways and no one can do enough to 
 keep clear from him. This young man who pre- 
 tended to work on his mother's farm came to 
 Greenanore with another purpose. He came here
 
 292 Glenmornan 
 
 to make all ye people the laughing stock iv the 
 whole, wide world. He listened to what ye said, 
 he saw what ye did at wake, fair and funeral, and 
 he wrote about it and what he wrote came to light 
 in papers in London. I read it all in black and 
 white yesterday, for as a priest I must read the pa- 
 pers, a thing that none iv ye must do, bear in mind, 
 for ye have not been educated up to it and ye might 
 fall into sin if ye do things that yer priest forbids 
 ye to do. Well, this young man wrote about the 
 people iv the parish and held them up to ridicule. 
 He told how one iv them, an old man, went to 
 Lough Derg to do penance for his sins, and this 
 man returned drunk. He doesn't give the man's 
 name at all, not even the name iv the parish, but 
 it's easy seen by readin' between the lines that 
 Greenanore is the place that he means. And the lies 
 that he tells about it ! Think iv one iv ye, me dear 
 brethren, goin' to Lough Derg and comin' back 
 again, drunk! Ah! no, this parish is far above 
 things like that!" 
 
 The priest paused, and as he did so, Doalty Gal- 
 lagher got to his feet and walked out into the mid- 
 dle of the church. For a moment he stood, facing 
 the altar ; then he turned on his heel and went out. 
 
 in 
 
 Maura The Rosses, who was in chapel, heard 
 Devaney's sermon. She was one of the last to 
 leave her seat when the service came to an end.
 
 Read From the Altar 293 
 
 She had no eyes for anybody at the gate and came 
 up the glen road alone, her thoughts on her own 
 moral excellence and the iniquities of Doalty her 
 son. "To be read out from the altar!" she said 
 to herself, speaking half aloud. "And every one 
 in the place listenin' ! As if I wasn't a good mother 
 to him, and kept him at school, and got him to learn 
 the cathechiz, and made him go to Mass every Sun- 
 day, and to his duties at laste three times a year, 
 and made him say his prayers every morn, noon 
 and night. But now, and before every one, he has 
 brought shame on me house and home. And it's 
 known to every one !" Maura The Rosses said. "To 
 every one from the mountains to the sea!" In 
 Glenmornan, as in many other parts of the world, 
 the sin made public is much worse than the sin 
 concealed. 
 
 When she got home she found Doalty there, sit- 
 ting on a chair by the fire, telling stories to Hughie 
 Beag, who was sitting on the flagged floor, with his 
 heels in the ashes. Maura The Rosses looked at 
 Doalty steadily for a moment, as if trying to make 
 certain that he was still in existence. Anything 
 might happen to a man who has been read from the 
 altar. He might wither away, go mad, cut his own 
 throat. If he did any of these things the woman 
 would not be surprised. But to find Doalty sitting 
 there, smoking a cigarette, and telling a story as if 
 nothing had happened, was more than she ex- 
 pected. 
 
 "And ye're here?" she enquired in a voice of 
 wonderment.
 
 294 Glenmornan 
 
 "Of course I'm here," Doalty replied. "Where 
 did you expect me to be?" 
 
 "Askin' me that!" said Maura The Rosses, tak- 
 ing off her shawl and hanging it on a nail behind 
 the half -open door. Then, shaking her head, she 
 sat down on a stool as if recognising her inability 
 to find words suitable for the occasion. Doalty 
 glanced at his mother. Hughie rubbed his tousled 
 head with a grubby hand, and gazed in turn at 
 Doalty and his mother. 
 
 "The old priest was very angry to-day," Doalty 
 commented coolly. "One would think that he, 
 himself, was the only person in the congregation 
 free from sin. I suppose he meant me in his 
 sermon." 
 
 "And to think that it was yerself that was read 
 out from the altar, Doalty," said Maura The 
 Rosses, speaking as if she had not heard his re- 
 mark. "Yerself, iv all the boys in the glen, that 
 has the edication and the good upbringin'. As if 
 I didn't do all I could for ye when ye were wee, 
 and not the height iv two turf. And now ye come 
 home and this is the way that ye behave in the eyes 
 iv the glen. Ye should be ashamed iv yerself !" 
 
 "But I'm not," said Doalty, with the red blood 
 of anger rising in his cheeks. "By God ! if I hear 
 anything more about this matter I'll go down and 
 pull the damned priest, old man though he is, out 
 of his house and trounce him on the street. To 
 think that all the people about here are such fools, 
 as to suffer a tyrant like that to rule over them! 
 . . . Poor unhappy Ireland! If it's not the land-
 
 Read From the Altar 295 
 
 lord who is the tyrant, it's the gombeen man, and 
 if it's not the gombeen man it's the priest. . . . 
 If they were only educated, if they only read books, 
 papers, anything." 
 
 "That's what has put yerself wrong," said Mau- 
 ra The Rosses, with an air of finality. "It was 
 the readin' and the books. I did me best to keep 
 ye from the readin' but ye wouldn't take heed to 
 what I said. . . . Even if ye stopped away from 
 Glenmornan and done as ye're doin' now, it would 
 be bad and bad enough ; but to come home and make 
 yerself the laughin' stock iv the whole glen. But 
 ye'll go away now. . . ." 
 
 "No fear !" Doalty replied. "Do you think that 
 I'm going to leave here because that old fool spoke 
 about me to-day?" 
 
 Maura The Rosses looked at Hughie, who was 
 now sitting on the kitchen bed, looking at his toes 
 and listening to the conversation. 
 
 "Run out, Hughie," she said to him, "and see if 
 the cows are up on the hill and don't come in until 
 I call ye." 
 
 When Hughie disappeared Maura The Rosses 
 turned to Doalty. 
 
 "Ye've got to go," she said with a decided nod 
 of her head, "back to where ye've been for the last 
 five years, and I'll not mind if ye never put yer foot 
 inside this door again." 
 
 As she spoke she fastened a button of her blouse 
 with studied care, rose to her feet, and went out, 
 leaving Doalty alone in the house. 
 
 The blood beat like a hammer in his head and
 
 296 Glenmornaii 
 
 his heart got chill as a stone. He gazed at the 
 fire, at the dying turf embers and the little red 
 flames licking up against the soot. The kettle hang- 
 ing from the crook was bubbling merrily. The 
 ashes littered the hearth, and by the hob where 
 Hughie had been sitting Doalty could see the im- 
 pressions of the youngster's heels. . . . But every- 
 thing was shattered, finished. His whole little 
 world was torn up by the roots, leaving nothing to 
 cling to. Sheila Dermod, Oiney Leahy, Dennys 
 The Drover, ... all the inhabitants of the glen 
 and parish would treat him with derision and con- 
 tempt. The simple-minded peasantry would look 
 on him as a turncoat, a Cath-breac, a renegade. A 
 man at variance with their ideals, the people would 
 no longer endure him. To the children, growing 
 up, he would be spoken of in the same breath as 
 Judas Iscariot and Luther. As Doalty thought of 
 Luther, he remembered how he had been taught 
 to hate the memory of the reformer when at school. 
 "Luther went straight to hell when he died," the 
 schoolmaster used to say. "Even when he was 
 dying the devil was standing over his bed so that 
 everybody could see him." And Doalty believed 
 it then, and hated Luther. 
 
 "I'll not mind if ye never put yer foot inside 
 this door again," Doalty repeated, with a bitter 
 laugh. A momentary rage rose like a whirlwind 
 in his heart. "That hideous priest !" he repeated. 
 "How he hates me, and how he'll chuckle with glee 
 when he finds that he has chased me out of the 
 place ! How my mother fears him ! . . . And what
 
 Read From the Altar 297 
 
 a strange eloquence his hatred towards me, gave to 
 his sermon to-day ! . . . Just a few words from the 
 altar is sufficient and I will have to clear out of the 
 glen. The people, the poor, silly people, will boy- 
 cott me now. They'll shun me on the roads, pass 
 me by in silence at the fairs, cast me out. . . . But 
 what's to be done?" he asked himself. "Will I go 
 and see her?" he meant Sheila Dermod "or will 
 I see about getting a car to take me to the station 
 to-morrow morning?" 
 
 He got to his feet, lit a cigarette and peeped out 
 through the door. His mother was up on the brae 
 and Hughie was with her. She was to all appear- 
 ances looking after the cattle, But Doalty had never 
 before seen her show such interest in the cattle on 
 a Sunday afternoon. 
 
 "What am I to do?" he asked himself again, 
 hardly knowing what he was saying. "I must see 
 Sheila. That is certain. I yearn for the girl and 
 I cannot live without her. If she consents to marry 
 me I'll stay here, it doesn't matter what happens. 
 
 If anybody dares to say anything, I'll " He 
 
 clenched his fists in desperation, but did not finish 
 the sentence. 
 
 "But does she love me?" flashed through his 
 mind. "She must! She does! If she did not, her 
 hand would not press mine so tightly last night. 
 . . . And what was she going to tell me to-day?" 
 
 His cigarette had gone out. He lit another, 
 puffed at it for a few moments, then flung it in 
 the fire. 
 
 "I'll go up and see Sheila to-night," he said, after
 
 298 Glenmornan 
 
 a few moments' silence. He spoke in tones of ob- 
 stinate decision. "It doesn't matter what happens 
 I'll go and see her. And for once I'll be firm. I'll 
 make her answer me." 
 
 He went out and made his way to the river, 
 which had fallen very low during the night. The 
 hollows in the holms were rapidly drying. From 
 the hay, which had been dragged the day before, a 
 thin vapour was rising into the air. Oiney Leahy's 
 two trampcocks drooped abjectly towards one an- 
 other, as if in sorrow for the one which had gone 
 away. On the way to the river Doalty met Oiney, 
 who was on his way to a near shop for provisions. 
 The old man looked at him in passing. 
 
 "Good day, Oiney," said Doalty in a constrained 
 voice. 
 
 But Oiney did not reply. He raised one shoul- 
 der, the one next Doalty, higher than the other, 
 held his head up, so that his white beard stuck out 
 almost straight, and passed by in silence. 
 
 IV 
 
 In the evening when darkness had fallen Doalty 
 Gallagher went up the brae to see Sheila Dermod. 
 The girl was all alone in the house ; her aunt Anna 
 Ruagh had gone to Kelly's house to borrow a wash- 
 board for the morrow's washing. There were only 
 two wash-boards in the townland and these used in 
 turn by the families of Stranameera. 
 
 Sheila was baking scones on the pan, that hung
 
 Read From the Altar 299 
 
 from the crook over the fire, when Doalty entered. 
 She turned round with a start when she heard his 
 foot on the doorstep. 
 
 "Good evening, Sheila/' said Doalty, going up to 
 where she was standing at the fire and stretching 
 out his hand to the girl. But apparently she did 
 not notice the outstretched hand. If she did, she 
 did not touch it. Her face was flushed and crim- 
 son, due, no doubt, to bending over the hot fire. 
 The lamp, lit on the brace, showed up her girlish 
 features ; and her blue eyes, fixed on Doalty, seemed 
 to have in them a look of anger, not unmixed with 
 fear. 
 
 For a moment Doalty stood silent and looked at 
 his hand. 
 
 "You're not angry with me, Sheila, are you?" 
 he asked, letting his arm drop to his side. 
 
 "Well, what are you wantin' here when I'm all 
 alone?" said Sheila, drawing a deep breath as she 
 spoke. 
 
 Doalty looked at the girl, and recalled the empty 
 days that he had passed before he came to know 
 her. His former life seemed so fatuous and lack- 
 ing in purpose, and now, if he went back to Lon- 
 don, the same dull, empty and useless routine would 
 again assert its sway and eat up the meaningless 
 and foolish hours of his future life. 
 
 "You know very well what I'm wanting," he 
 replied. "Last night I did not go to sleep from 
 thinking of you. ... I love you, Sheila, and I 
 want you to be my wife. I want you to marry me, 
 Sheila. Tell me that you care for me."
 
 3OO Glenmornan 
 
 The girl edged back against the wall and fixed a 
 frightened look on Doalty. Her cheeks grew very 
 white, her lips trembled. Her fingers fumbled 
 nervously with her petticoat. Doalty was seized 
 with a mad, exquisite passion, acute and terrible in 
 its strength. He could catch her in his arms and 
 squeeze her, crush her in one mad ecstasy of love ! 
 He would grip her white, full throat with his hands, 
 squeeze it until she yelled with pain. She was the 
 thing which he desired, which his whole body 
 yearned for. She was his, his! 
 
 "Leave me be, Doalty Gallagher," he heard her 
 say in a faltering voice. "I don't know what ye're 
 talkin' about. I don't want to be yer wife, not 
 after what was said about ye be the priest the day. 
 Go 'way, Doalty Gallagher, and leave me be me- 
 self," she pleaded, almost on the point of tears 
 
 Then she suddenly seemed to pluck up courage 
 and an angry light showed in her eyes. 
 
 "Comin' here when I'm all alone !" she exclaimed, 
 her voice rising a little. "If ye had decent thoughts 
 in yer head ye wouldn't come here and talk about 
 me marryin' ye, when ye are the talk iv the parish, 
 because ye're makin' fun h everybody about the 
 place. Ye're not everybody to do as 1 ye like here, 
 Doalty Gallagher !" 
 
 As she said this her eyebrows contracted firmly, 
 her lips met in a hard straight line. Only once had 
 Doalty seen a similar look, and that was on Breed 
 Dermod's face, when the old woman came down to 
 Maura The Rosses' house a few months before.
 
 Read From the Altar 301 
 
 The dead woman was now looking out through 
 Sheila Dermod's eyes. 
 
 "That's it, Sheila Dermod! Show the dhirty. 
 turncoat what ye think iv him!" 
 
 Doalty turned with a start to find Owen Briney 
 behind him. The man, who seemed to be always 
 hanging round the door, had slunk into the house 
 when Doalty was speaking to Sheila. 
 
 Doalty, filled with a consciousness of his own 
 superiority, fixed a look of scorn on Owen. 
 
 "So you are guardian of the morals of the young 
 women of Glenmornan, Owen?" he enquired in a 
 deliberate and ironical voice. The young man's 
 voice was low and almost apologetic and he smiled 
 as he spoke. But behind all this a fire was burning, 
 ready to break forth at any moment. 
 
 "Clear out, ye dirty scapegoat!" Owen shouted. 
 "Out iv the door with ye, and out iv the country as 
 well, ye turncoat." 
 
 As Owen spoke he raised his fist and rushed at 
 'Doalty, only to find himself lying on the ground 
 the next moment. He got to his feet again and 
 tried to close with the young man. But the effort 
 was futile. Doalty seized Owen's right arm by the 
 wrist, twisted it outwards and pressed the elbow 
 inwards. Owen uttered a shriek and dropped to 
 the floor again. 
 
 "Come in!" he yelled. "He's killin' me!" 
 
 As if waiting for this call, half a dozen men ap- 
 peared at the door. All had their caps drawn 
 down over their eyes, and a few carried ash-plants. 
 Doalty loosened his grip on Owen, turned round
 
 302 Glenmornan 
 
 and faced them, scornfully indifferent to their num- 
 bers. He was just in time to dodge a blow aimed 
 at him by Micky Neddy. A mad scramble followed 
 and Doalty, getting pressed back against the wall, 
 saw big, strong hands rising and hitting him on 
 shoulder and chest. But somehow the blows caused 
 him no pain. He was shoved back against the 
 wall, and kicked on the shins by the attackers. He 
 could not raise his arms. . . . 
 
 "That's the way, Micky Neddy!" said a voice 
 from the doorway. "Go for him and tear him to 
 pieces. He's only one agin six iv ye and ye have 
 every chance." 
 
 All, including Doalty, looked towards the door, 
 to find Dennys The Drover standing there, one 
 hand in his coat pocket as if searching for a match, 
 the scornful smile on his lips more pronounced 
 than ever. 
 
 "Go for him, and tear him to pieces," Drover 
 Dennys repeated, and stepping towards Micky 
 Neddy, he caught him by the scruff of the neck, 
 swung him round with a mighty sweep, and shoved 
 him bodily through the door. Two others went 
 out in a similar fashion and the remainder hurried 
 away like whipped dogs. The last to leave was 
 Owen Briney and Dennys helped him out with the 
 iron toe-plate of his boot. 
 
 "Well, that's settled, anyway!" said Dennys The 
 Drover in a most casual voice, speaking, as if the 
 incident in which he had just taken part was one of 
 every-day occurrence. "I didn't think Micky Neddy 
 would be party to a thing like that. . . . And
 
 Read From the Altar 303 
 
 Sheila ?" he enquired, turning to the girl, who was 
 still standing as Doalty had left her, "how are ye 
 keepin'?" 
 
 "Don't ask me," said the girl in a petulant voice, 
 "after all this happenin' in me house!" 
 
 "But what else can ye expect ?" Dennys enquired, 
 sitting down on a chair and fixing a sly glance on 
 Sheila, "seein' that ye're the beauty iv Glenmornan, 
 ye must expect us all to be fightin' after ye." 
 
 "Get away with ye," said the girl, and her eyelids 
 dropped. 
 
 "Isn't that the truth, Doalty?" asked Dennys, 
 turning round to the other man. But Doalty had 
 gone. 
 
 "Where did he go to?" asked Dennys. 
 
 "He's just gone out," said the girl. 
 
 "He did it very quiet," said the Drover. "Well, 
 tell me now, how all the row started?" he asked. 
 
 " 'Twas like this," said Sheila. "I was bakin' 
 the bread . . . it's all burned now . . . when 
 Doalty Gallagher came in. He began to speak silly 
 about all sorts iv funny things, and him after bein' 
 read from the altar. He wanted to ... I don't 
 know what he didn't want to do, but just then Owen 
 Briney came in." 
 
 "But what was Doalty wantin' to do?" Dennys 
 enquired, waving the account of Owen's entry aside 
 as a matter of no import 
 
 "How am I to know what he was manin' to do?", 
 said the girl with a blush. "But anyway Owen 
 came in and said the sharp word to Doalty Galla- 
 gher, and Doalty, without showin' the colour iv
 
 304 Glenmornan 
 
 temper, gets hold iv Owen and Owen falls to the 
 ground. It must be the black art that he has, to 
 make a man fall without hardly touchin' him at 
 all." 
 
 "It's what he learned abroad," said Dennys, with 
 an air of authority. "He was showin' me them 
 tricks. It's rasslin', the kind that's done in Japan. 
 . . . But I would have give a lot to see Owen 
 Briney go to the floor on his back, the dirty ranny !" 
 
 "But I don't know why everybody's down on poor 
 Owen," said the girl. "He's very good to me and 
 he's always ready to help me when there's any work 
 that's needin' doin'." 
 
 "Then he must have somethin' in his mind," said 
 Dennys. "Catch him doin' anything for nothin'! 
 If he'd give ye the sweepin's iv his fireplace he'd 
 want it back in gold. . . . But ye haven't told me 
 yet what Doalty wanted to do, Sheila ! Was it that 
 he wanted to put his arms round ye ?" 
 
 "As if I'd let him," said the girl, and a tremor 
 played round her lips. 
 
 "Ye'll never let anybody play with ye, Sheila," 
 said Dennys. "Ye're far and away too proud. If 
 the lamp was out I wouldn't be sittin' here, lookin' 
 at ye, when I could be doin' somethin' else, I'm 
 tellin' ye." 
 
 "What would ye be doin', then?" 
 
 "I'd be havin' me arms about ye and tellin' ye 
 things," said Dennys. 
 
 "If ye'd dare," said Sheila with a laugh. 
 
 "I'd dare more than that," said Dennys. 
 
 "Yes, ye would," said Sheila, lifting the pan from
 
 Read From the Altar 305 
 
 the crook and placing it on the floor. The little 
 scones were charred and blackened. "But it will 
 be with Norah Gallagher that ye'll dare it, Dennys 
 Jhe Drover." 
 
 "But I haven't a notion iv Norah Gallagher." 
 
 "But ye have no notion iv anybody," said the 
 girl in a laughing voice. "Ye think that every one 
 is dirt under yer feet be the way ye carry on. Run 
 away home widye, Dennys The Drover," she com- 
 manded, speaking in hurried tones with her hand 
 over her ear. "There's Anna Ruagh comin' back 
 with the washin' board." 
 
 Dennys got to his feet, went up to Sheila and 
 chucked her under the chin with a playful finger. 
 
 "I'm goin' away," he said. 
 
 "Well, it's time anyway," was the girl's reply as 
 she looked at him. "Ye're always about every- 
 where." 
 
 "Ye've splendid eyes, Sheila," said Dennys, look- 
 ing tenderly at the girl. "I've never seen eyes as 
 nice as yers. . . . But that doesn't matter, for I'm 
 goin' away." 
 
 He put his arms around her as he spoke, and 
 pressed her head in against his shoulder. 
 
 "It's a funny way that iv goin' away," said the 
 girl, making no effort to free herself. 
 
 "Yes, I'm goin'," Dennys repeated in a firm 
 voice as if he had been contradicted. "Away out 
 iv the country altogether." 
 
 "Glory me !" Sheila exclaimed, looking up at him. 
 
 "Yes, out iv the country," the young man con- 
 tinued, pressing the girl with a strong arm. "I
 
 306 Glenmornan 
 
 can't live here where there's nothin'. If I stay 
 here what will it all end in ? I'll have me bit iv land 
 and I'll maybe marry and get old and never have 
 seen anything. That is not the life for a young 
 man. See Doalty Gallagher! He has been away 
 and he came back, and he's not afraid iv any one. 
 Some may laugh at him, but what does he care? 
 He has the laugh iv them all the time. He doesn't 
 care for anybody, not even for the priest. We're 
 all afraid iv the priest who is nothin' more or less 
 than an old rascal. But Doalty ! See the way he 
 put Owen Briney on his back the night, and that 
 was because he learned how to do things like that 
 when abroad. And he's goin' abroad again ; maybe 
 the morra morn. If he goes I'll be with him." 
 
 "And leave us all here and forget all about us," 
 said Sheila with an angry toss of her chin. She 
 moved away from Drover Dennys as she spoke. 
 
 "Oh ! I'll come back again," said Dennys. "Next 
 year maybe. But to stay here ! It's only men like 
 Owen Briney that stay here, where everything is 
 always the same and no change. . . . Maybe I'll 
 not see ye again," he added, holding out his hand 
 to the girl. "So I'll say good-bye t'ye." 
 
 She gave him her hand and as he pressed it very 
 tightly she drew it away again. 
 
 "I suppose ye'll be up here the morrow night just 
 the same; that's if ye're not down seein' Norah 
 .Gallagher."
 
 Read From the Altar 307 
 
 Dennys went to the door, stood there for a. mo- 
 ment and looked back. Then, shrugging his shoul- 
 ders, he went out into the night. 
 
 Ten minutes later he called at the house of 
 Maura The Rosses to find Doalty busy at work 
 packing all his belongings into a trunk. The old 
 woman was washing the supper dishes. She had 
 been washing them for the last half hour, though 
 on ordinary occasions the job was completed in a 
 space of five minutes. Her thoughts were not on 
 her work now. She was thinking of Doalty, who 
 had been read from the altar, and who was going 
 away with the first train in the morning. Maura 
 The Rosses, in great distress, was finding relief 
 from her feelings in work. 
 
 Norah was helping Doalty at the packing, Kitty 
 was learning her lessons for the school in the morn- 
 ing, Hughie Beag was in bed, still awake, but wait- 
 ing for his story. Teague had gone to Greenanore 
 to order a car to take Doalty to the station at dawn. 
 
 "Good night t'ye, Maura The Rosses," said Den- 
 nys The Drover, when he entered. (Glenmornan 
 people know no afternoon. Evening with them 
 starts at noon and finishes at dusk.) 
 
 "Good night, Dennys The Drover," said Maura 
 The Rosses with a sigh. 
 
 Hughie Beag looked from under the bedclothes 
 and fixed his bright eyes on the visitor. 
 
 "Dover Denny!" he called.
 
 308 Glenmornan 
 
 "What are ye sayin', ye vagabone?" said the 
 Drover, going up to the bed. 
 
 "Bought a bull de day?" Hughie asked. 
 
 "I did," said the Drover. "A big bull with six 
 horns and I've left it outside. If ye don't go to 
 sleep at once the bull will come in and take ye away 
 on its horns." 
 
 "Will de bull take Doalty 'way?" 
 
 "It will." 
 
 "And Teague?" 
 
 "It will." 
 
 "Can't take Teague 'way," said Hughie with a 
 chuckle. "Teague 'way down de town for car for 
 Doalty. Priest read Doalty from altar de day and 
 Doalty's goin j way." 
 
 "Now get off to sleep," said Dennys The Drover. 
 "If you don't the bogey man will come down the 
 chimney for ye." 
 
 "Me don't care for bogey man," said the little 
 boy. "Bogey man will take oo; not me, cos I say 
 me prayers. Doalty not say prayers." 
 
 "Hughie, get a sleep on ye," said Maura The 
 Rosses. "Ye're always talkin'." 
 
 Teague came in at that moment. 
 
 "What time will the car be here in the morning?" 
 Doalty enquired. 
 
 These were the first words he had spoken since 
 Dennys The Drover came in. Teague stammered, 
 blushed, and looked confused. 
 
 "I couldn't get a car," he said. "Micky Ronan's 
 horses are mostly all lame, and the other cars in 
 Greenanore are wanted be other people."
 
 Read From the Altar 309 
 
 "So I can't get a car on account of what the priest 
 said this morning," said Doalty bitterly. "But it 
 doesn't matter. I'll carry my box on my shoulder 
 and I'll walk down to the station." 
 
 "I'll help ye," said Dennys The Drover. "I'm 
 goin' to the station meself." 
 
 "Don't trouble to come on my account," said 
 Doalty. "Teague will help me down." 
 
 "But I'm goin' away," said Dennys The Drover, 
 fumbling nervously with his pocket. "I'm leavin' 
 this place for I'm sick iv it. I can't stand it, for 
 it's so backward like. All that people do here is to 
 grow old and die. It's only a place for sick people 
 and old people. . . . Not the place at all for us 
 young fellows. I should have been out of it ages 
 ago." 
 
 "But yer mother and yer sister, Dennys The 
 Drover," said Maura The Rosses, glad of a topic 
 that would make her forget her own troubles. 
 "What will they do, not havin' any one to help 
 them with the farm?" 
 
 "It's not much help that I give them, except in 
 the money that I bring them," said Dennys The 
 Drover. "Whether I'm here or away they'll just 
 work the same, for they can't help it. But I'm 
 goin' out into the world to see what it's like. I'll 
 be a sailor, maybe. . . . Anyway I'll go to London 
 town with Doalty and then I'll have a look round 
 me. Ye don't mind if I go with ye?" asked the 
 young man, turning to Doalty, who was tying up 
 his trunk. 
 
 "I'll be delighted," said Doalty.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A LETTER FROM HOME 
 
 The winds come soft of an evening o'er the fields of 
 
 golden grain, 
 And good sharp scythes will cut the corn ere we come 
 
 back again 
 The village girls will tend the grain and mill the 
 
 Autumn yield, 
 
 While we are out on other work upon another field. 
 
 Soldier Songs. 
 
 DENNYS The Drover's sister, Rose Dar- 
 roch, was a big-boned, dark-haired girl, 
 of terrific vitality. Glenmornan nick- 
 named her Rosha Dhu (Black Rose). Being 
 strong and energetic, the girl was a grand hand at 
 hard work, but she was nothing to notice at a 
 dance. In fact, Rosha was not at all good-looking 
 and no Glenmornan boy ever accompanied her 
 home from an airnall. She was one of those simple 
 souls who lack all claims to personality. When a 
 man met her, he was in a hurry to get away from 
 her; when he left her company he forgot her. 
 There are many people like Rosha in the world, 
 women for whom no man would yearn, for whom 
 no man would sin, and against whom, no member 
 310
 
 A Letter from Home 311 
 
 of their own sex would entertain any feelings of 
 envy. 
 
 When in Ireland Doalty Gallagher met her sev- 
 eral times ; and when he left the country he forgot 
 her, an easy matter. 
 
 But he became conscious of her existence again, 
 two years after the events described in the last 
 chapter. It was in the early summer of 1915 that 
 an orderly handed a letter and a newspaper to 
 Lieutenant Gallagher, D.S.O., who was sitting in 
 a dug-out in the Flanders firing-line. The news- 
 paper came from Lady Ronan and contained an 
 account of her daughter's marriage to the editor 
 under which Doalty served his first years of jour- 
 nalism. The letter was from Rosha, the sister of 
 Drover Dennys. Sitting on the firestep, where 
 the light was good, Doalty read it. It ran: 
 
 II 
 
 "STRANAMEERA, 
 
 "GREENANORE, 
 
 "Co. DONEGAL. 
 "DEAR MR. DOALTY GALLAGHER, 
 
 "A line to let you know we are well, hopin' yourself the 
 same. I must say that you are a very nice gentleman not 
 to forget us. My mother would write to you only she 
 hasn't the learning, for she was never at the school. The 
 two of us is broken-hearted since the War Office wrot to us 
 and said that poor Dennys was killed, and mother says 
 that nobody knows what black war is as much as people 
 that is left alone with nobody to help them and them that 
 used to help them killed and ded. I can't help thinkin when
 
 312 Glenmornan 
 
 I'm be myself that if Sheila Dermod had taken Dennys 
 he would be here with us still, though for myself I dont 
 like Sheila Dermod. She is almost one of the lowest of 
 the low and I would be ashamed off my life if our Dennys 
 had married her and him such a handsome boy that could 
 have any of the girls in the place. Even the town girls 
 were lookin at him when he went in there on a fair day. 
 
 "My mother dose not know what was the reason Dennys 
 went away to the black war when he had his farm at 
 home and nobody to say a word against him, but she thinks 
 that he must have a terrible pain when he was dying, and 
 I suppose there was no priest to look at him and give him 
 forgiveness for his sins. I can hardly live at home without 
 him and he was so good to me, and he always bought me 
 pink and green ribons from the fair when he came home 
 at night. It's an awful thing to die at the war with not one 
 days sickness so that you can prepare for deth. To go 
 away just like a leaf from a tree in a big wind is a afful 
 thing. My mother is hart-broke over poor beloved Dennys, 
 but she trusts in God that his soul is in heaven, and this life 
 is very short and full of trouble. I have to console hen 
 If I did not she would die off greef. She is always saying 
 that she has nothing more to live for in this dark world, 
 and that it can do nothing more to her than it has done al- 
 redy. I hope you are keepon alright, but I have no doubt 
 that you are for you always have the greatest luck and was 
 able to get on so well in the world. We have got very hard 
 work to do on the farm now, and we must do the best we 
 can. We did not think once that we would be lef here 
 alone, but people don't know what the have to come thru 
 in this world. I hope that after the war you will come 
 back to the glen again. Poor Dennys thought a lot of you 
 and he was always saying that you were the nicest man 
 that ever came back to the glen from forrin parts, for you 
 were just as simple-minded as one of ourselves and never 
 put on airs like a shopboy that has nothin' on him but a 
 white collar and wouldn't take off his coat to do a hand's 
 turn on his own people's farm.
 
 A Letter from Home 313 
 
 "Things are much the same as when you left here but 
 a lot of men and women died. God rest Crania Coolin for 
 she is ded and her wake was a poor one, and at the grave 
 the offerin's was only a bit over three pound ten. Old 
 Mister Quigley is dead to, and he left the bulk of his mony 
 to the church for he was full of gold. His people wanted 
 the money and they had a lawsoot with the church, and it's 
 not settled yet. I think for myself that people sib to a ded 
 man should be give the money and not the preests. All the 
 young people think the same, but the old people think that 
 nobody should go to law with the church. . . . Father 
 Devaney is ded, and a good job too, for nobody cared very 
 much for the man. You should hear the countrey boys 
 talking about him and saying that he was not worthy of his 
 coat He met his deth in a strange way. He was at a 
 dance in the town, and this was a dance give by the quality 
 and all the peeple with money was at it as well as the priest, 
 him that wouldnt allow the countrey boys to have dances 
 in their own house. But when the quality were having a 
 dance it didnt matter. None of the countrey boys were al- 
 lowed into the dance, but it was such a grand dance that 
 the preest himself went with his sister. Well, it was a 
 night of big snow and the countrey boys went down to the 
 town and the would not be allowed in, but had to stand out- 
 side and freez, so the picked up snoballs and flung them 
 thru the window of the market hall where the dance was. 
 Then the priest came out with his stick and chased them 
 away with a stick. So the ran off. He followed them for 
 a bit and the somehow got angry and turned on him and 
 began to throw snoballs at him. The knocked his hat off, 
 thru the snow down his back and sent him running back. 
 As he was going into the hall again he fell and the boys cov- 
 ered him up with snow. When he got in he was white with 
 fright for he thought that the were going to kill him. Next 
 day he had a bad cold and he died from it. The war is 
 doing a lot of good for the glen one way and another, and 
 them that has beasts bringing up now are getting no end of 
 money.
 
 314 Glenmornan 
 
 "Your mother is well and she has three cows coming 
 come Bonfires night next. Sheila Dermod is marrid now 
 to Owen Briney and the to farms are made into one. The 
 have to servant boys and the make them to work for 
 Sheila is very like her mother that's ded god rest her, and 
 always tries to have a white shilling for her sixpence. Also 
 Eileen Kelly is married to Micky Neddy. 
 
 "Oincy Leahy is still living but he has the notions now 
 and is more fond of the drink than ever he was. He is 
 always forgetin things, and he can be seen every morning 
 out in the park under the house lookin for the pipes that he 
 put under the ground. . . . 
 
 "Your obeedin servant, 
 
 "Miss ROSIE DARROCH. 
 
 "Send me a line when you get this at the war and you'll 
 find the address at the top of the leter. May, 1915."
 
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