at night, and started off early, having paid a shilling for her lodging and breakfast. This last witness added to the confusion by saying she saw no chain, and did not believe her lodger had a watch, since she had several times asked her the hour, and had annoyed her into saying she ought to have a watch of her own. This witness's "impression" was that deceased had replied, "I wish I had, and I wouldn't trouble you." This was absolutely all that could be ascertained. And accordingly the dead woman was buried by the Rev. Cooper Smith, in Rossleigh graveyard, which she had told Hendrick she had known well in her childhood. All the neighbourhood flocked to the funeral, and even Michael McAravey was for the first time in his life seen inside the doors of a Protestant church. The old man seemed much cut up, probably owing to the doubts cast on his honesty. So sad was the fate of the unknown wanderer, and so great the interest excited, that it was determined to record the mysterious event in a simple headstone, erected by subscription. To the surprise of everybody, McAravey, who had never been known to trouble himself about any one else's affairs, or to give away a shilling, took the matter up warmly, and himself subscribed fifteen shillings, which he paid in three instalments. The stone was erected, bearing this inscription:—

"In Memory"
OF MRS. E. D. (NAME UNKNOWN),
FOUND DROWNED NEAR TOR POINT
On the 13th of March, 186—.

This Stone is Erected by Subscription.

CHAPTER V.

The events narrated in the last chapter were not without lasting effects on most of the persons immediately concerned in them. Michael McAravey was an altered man. His proud reserve seemed changing into petulant self-vindication. He began to look fully his age, and, like many other men of so-called iron constitution, when his strength began to give way it collapsed at once. He also conceived a violent antipathy to George Hendrick. The children were forbidden to attend the class, which had now been resumed; and although they came twice surreptitiously, Mr. Hendrick was no sooner aware of this than he felt obliged to tell them that their first duty was obedience to their guardians. It was a hard parting both for teacher and pupils. It cost George Hendrick no slight effort to dismiss his two favourite scholars, nor could he at once see his duty plain in the matter. As for the children they were broken-hearted and rebellious; but the quiet, sympathetic tenderness of their friend at length reconciled them to their lot. Except on this point, McAravey was far more considerate with the children than formerly. He was now a good deal in the house, having become very asthmatic, and often shielded Elsie and Jim from Mrs. McAravey's harsh tongue.

The effect of what they had gone through was no less evident in the children, though they were very differently affected. Jim never recovered the panic of that March day. Nothing could induce him to go near the shore alone, and the very sight of the sea excited the lad. It was otherwise with Elsie. That solitary interview with the dead had sobered her. The dead woman's face was seldom absent from her thoughts. Elsie had grown to love it, and to regard it as something mysterious and superhuman. She had never before seen so refined and beautiful a countenance; and there was something in the rigid aspect of death that quieted and awed, while it did not the least terrify the child. As the months went by, and the actual event began to fade in the distance, the pale sweet face, with the dripping brown hair drawn back from it, became more and more of an ideal for veneration and love. Thus, while Jim could never be induced to pass near the sandy cove alone, Elsie ceased to have any special association with the actual scene of the occurrence. But in her moments of passion or heedlessness she ever saw before her the dead face—kind, but so calm and firm, that it repressed in an instant her most impetuous outbursts.

As the autumn drew on it became evident that Michael McAravey was dying. That he knew it himself was gathered from the fact that more than once, during the summer, he had walked over to Ballycastle to attend Mass. There seemed a weight on the old man's mind, which he was unable or unwilling to shake off. 'Lisbeth, who for years had suffered severely from "rheumatics," and who had made up her mind that she was to die before the "old man," was but an indifferent nurse. Elsie, however, more than took her place. Michael had become much attached to the child, and as he daily grew weaker he came to look to her for everything.

"Ye 'r a brave wee lass, Elsie," he used to say, "and I doubt I 've not been over kind to ye, but I can't do without ye now."

One gloomy September afternoon, when the blustering winds were again celebrating the return of the equinox, Michael, who had been sleeping heavily all day, suddenly started up and astonished his wife by an eager request that she would send at once for George Hendrick and Father Donnelly.

"I doubt you 're raving, Mike, to send for such a pair. What do you want with either, not to say both? Nice company they 'd be for each other."

"I tell you I'm dying, and I must see them both," cried her husband, rising, gaunt and excited, in the bed. "I say, Elsie," he continued, "this is Wednesday; run down and see can you find Mr. Hendrick anywhere about."

Elsie departed at once, while 'Lisbeth tried to soothe the invalid, muttering all the time, however, her scorn of "Readers" and hatred of "Papish priests."

George Hendrick was easily found, and in a few minutes was sitting by the old man's side, soothing him with simple, kindly words, and waiting for an opening through which to approach the inner man.

"I 've not treated you fair, my mon, and I didn't wish to die without tellin' you so. Besides, there 's a thing or two I 've been thinkin' long to speak about, and now the time's come. I 've sent for Father Donnelly."

"It's far to send and long to wait, Mike; do you not think we can do as well without him?" asked the reader.

"I've not sent for him, and ye may be sure I 'll have none o' your Papish priests coomin' about the house, leastways whiles I 'm in it," interrupted Mrs. McAravey.

"Then you 'd better get out of it," said the old man; "I never interfered with you and your Ranters and Covenanters, and I don't mean to be interfered with. I tell ye, George Hendrick, I'll die in the Church of my fathers, even if I 'm——"

"Hush!" cried Hendrick, putting his hand to the excited man's mouth; "we 'll send for the priest if you wish. God forbid that I should stand between you. Young Jim McAuley is going over to Ballycastle, and will take a message if Elsie gives it him; but he can't be here for three or four hours at least, so let us be quiet a wee bit now. You said you wanted to see me, Mike; and perhaps while we are waiting you 'd like to hear the message of God out of His own book—you needn't wait to send to Ballycastle for it."

"You may read a bit if ye like," responded McAravey, leaning back on the bed, quite satisfied now that the priest had been sent for; "only no controversy; it's not fit for a dyin' man—or for any man, for the matter o' that."

"No controversy!" said Hendrick, smiling; "well, will this suit you? 'Without controversy great is the mystery of godliness. God was manifest in the flesh, justified in the spirit, seen of angels, preached unto the Gentiles, believed on in the world, received up into glory.' Do you believe that, Mike?"

"Aye, aye; it's wonderful to think on," murmured the dying man, in his deep, solemn voice. "I doubt I 've been a bit hard sometimes, but I 've always been honest and paid my way." Then after a pause, "Ye may go on with your readin'; I 'm no ways prejudiced. I think Prodestan and Catholic is pretty much alike with God."

"Aye, Mike, alike in this, that 'all have sinned and come