would give Fanad Head a wide berth before he put such a wind as this at his back. This stranger must be either disabled or ignorant of the coast, or she would never drive in thus towards a lee-shore like ours. Boy as I was, I knew better seamanship than that.

Yet as I watched her, she seemed to me neither cripple nor fool. She was a cutter-rigged craft, long and low in the water, under close canvas, and to my thinking wonderfully light and handy in the heavy sea. She did not belong to these parts—even I could tell that—and her colours, if she had any, had gone with the wind.

The question was, would she on her present tack weather Fanad Head (on which I lay) and win the lough? And if not, how could she escape the rocks on which every moment she was closing?

At first it seemed that nothing could save her, for she broke off short of the point, and drove in within half-a-mile of the rocks. Then, while I waited to see the end of her, she suddenly wore round, and after staggering a moment while the sea broke over her, hauled up to the wind, and careening over, with her mainsail sweeping the water, started gaily on the contrary tack.

It was so unlike anything any of our clumsy trawler boats were capable of, that I was lost in admiration at the suddenness and daring of the manoeuvre. But Fanad was still to be weathered, and close as she sailed to the wind, it seemed hardly possible to gain sea-room to clear it.

Yet she cleared it, even though the black rocks frowned at her not a cable’s length from her lee-quarter, and the wind laid her over so that her mast-head seemed almost to touch them as it passed. Then, once clear, up went her helm as she turned again into the wind, and slipped, with the point on her weather-quarter, into the safe waters of the lough.

I was so delighted watching this adventure from my lonely perch that I did not notice the October afternoon was nearly spent, and that the light was beginning to fade. The storm gathered force every moment, so that when at last I turned to go home I had to crawl a yard or two to shelter before I could stand on my feet.

As for the sheep, unless Tim had driven them in, which was not likely, they would have to shift for themselves for this night. It was too late to see them, and Con, who limped at my heels, had not a yap left in him.

As I staggered home, leaning my back against the wind, I could not help wondering what this strange boat might be, and why she should make for the lough on so perilous a course. She might be a smuggler anxious to avoid the observation of the revenue officers. If so, her cargo must be precious indeed to make up for the risk she ran. Or she might be a foreigner, driven in by one of the king’s cruisers, which had not dared to follow her into the bay.

Whatever she was, she was a pretty sailer, and prettily handled. I wondered if ever I, when I grew to be a man, should be able to weather a point as skilfully.

It was night before I reached our cabin, and all there was dark. Neither Tim nor father was home, the fire was out on the hearth, and the poor fevered sufferer lay tossing and breathing hard on the bed.

She was worse, far worse than when we left her in the morning; and I could have died of shame when I came to think that all those hours she had lain alone and untended. I struck a light and put it in the window.

“Is that Barry?” said she faintly.

“Ay, mother, it’s Barry,” said I, going to the bed and bending over her.

“Bring the light, and let me look at you,” she said.

I obeyed. She scrutinised my face eagerly, and then turned her head wearily on the pillow.

“Barry,” said she presently.

“Well?” said I, as I took the hot worn hand in mine.

She lay silent a long while, so that I thought she had fallen asleep, then she said,—

“Where is father?”

“Away with the boats.”

“And Tim?”

“I can’t say. Tim and I fought the day, and—”

“Fought? Ay, there’ll be fighting enough before wrong’s made right, Barry. Listen! I’m dying, son, but I must see him before I go.”

“Is it Tim?” said I.

“No.” Then she lifted herself in her bed, and her face was wild and excited as she clutched my hand. “Barry, it’s Gorman I must see—Maurice Gorman. Fetch him to me. Make him come. Tell him I’m a dying woman, and must speak before I go. There’s time yet—go, Barry!”

“Mr Gorman!” exclaimed I. What could my mother want with his honour down at Knockowen?

“Ay, and quickly—or it will be too late.”

Knockowen was across the lough, five miles up above Dunree. It would be hours on a night like this before he could be here. But my mother continued to moan, “Go, Barry—make haste.” So, much against my will, I put on my cap and prepared to leave her alone. At the door she called me back.

“Kiss me, Barry,” said she. Then before I could obey her she fell to raving.

“Give me back the lassie,” she cried, “dead or alive. She’s more to me than all Kilgorman! Trust me, Mr Maurice—I’ll breathe never a word if you’ll but save Mike. It’s false—he never had a hand in it! Some day truth will out—if the lad’s mine no harm shall come to him. I’ll use him against you, Mr Maurice. The truth’s buried, but it’s safe. There’s more than earth under a hearthstone.” And she laughed in a terrible way.

After a minute she opened her eyes again and saw me.

“Not gone, Barry? For pity’s sake, fetch him, or I must go myself.” And she even tried to get up from her bed.

This settled it, and I rushed from the house, whimpering with misery and terror.

What was it all about? Why did she send me away thus on a fool’s errand? For Mr Gorman was not likely to come out on a night like this at the bidding of Mike Gallagher’s English wife.

If there had only been some one I could have sent to mind her while I was gone! But our cabin on the bleak headland was miles from a neighbour—Knockowen, whither I was speeding, was indeed the nearest place.

For a lad of twelve it was no easy task on a dark stormy night like this to cross the lough. But I thought nothing of that. Most of my short life I had spent afloat, and I knew every rock and creek along the shores.

The boat lay tugging at her moorings when I got down to her, as if impatient to be away. Luckily her mast was up. It would need but the least taste of canvas to run her across. The business would be coming back in the face of the wind.

Sure enough, when I cast off, she rushed through the water like something mad. And again my spirits rose as I heard the hiss of the foam at her bows, and felt her rear and plunge among the big boisterous waves.

After a time I could catch the light at Knockowen as it flickered in the wind, and put up my helm so as to clear the shoal. This would bring me close under Kilgorman rock, whence I could drive before the wind as far as Knockowen.

To my surprise, as I closed in on the shore I saw strange lights at the water’s edge, and casting my eyes up towards Kilgorman (which I never did in those days without a qualm, because of the ghost that haunted it) I seemed to see a moving light there also.

I said a hurried prayer, and put round my helm into the wind before my time. Even the shoal, thought I, was less to fear than the unearthly terrors of that awful deserted house.

By good luck the strong wind carried me in clear of the bank and so into fairly still water, and in half-an-hour more I was in under the light of Knockowen, mooring my boat in his honour’s little harbour.

It must have been near midnight, and I was wondering how I should waken the house and deliver my message, when a voice close beside me said,—

“Are the guns all landed and taken up to the house?”

It was his honour’s voice. But I could not see him in the dark.

“I beg your pardon, your honour,” said I, “it’s me, Barry