short of the glory of God.' None of us can stand before Him as we are; but remember what Paul says again, there could be no disputing about, 'This is a true saying and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.'"

"I believe that," said McAravey; "but now I 'd like to sleep a bit; only don't go away, for if the priest don't come in time, I must confess to you, George. Ye won't object to hear me and give me absolution, will you?" he added with an effort to smile.

"I won't leave you, Mike, and I'll hear what you have to say; and as for absolution, I 'll try to point you to the great Absolver—our Advocate with the Father—who is the propitiation for our sins."

It was after ten o'clock when Father Donnelly arrived. After a short private interview with the patient, Hendrick was summoned to the room.

"There is a part of my confession," said the old man, "which, by your leave, father, I 'd like my friend to hear—it will save us the time of going over the same bit twice."

The priest nodded silently, not, however, looking very pleased at the somewhat light tone in which McAravey spoke.

"It's about the two children, and the poor creature that was found by them on the sands last spring. It's been heavy on my mind this long time, and I can't go out of the world without explaining all I know about the story. And now to begin at the beginning. It's just about seven years ago, and a couple before we came here, that the children came to us. We were very hard-up at that time, and 'Lisbeth and I were down in heart about loosin' our own wains, when one day I was in the market at Ballymena, and there I met James Kinley. He asked me, would the missus like to make a trifle by taking charge of a couple of children? I said I thought she might, and so he brought me to the hotel, and I saw a young woman as said she and her husband were going abroad, and wished to leave the two little ones with some respectable person in the glens. Well, I saw her a second time, and then it was all settled. She gave us 20 pounds down, and said she would write. I didn't like to ask questions, thinking, perhaps, it wasn't all on the square about the bairns, and so I'm not sure I ever even knew the name rightly—it was Davis, or Davison, or Dawson, or something that way. Tom Kinley knew all about the parties, and so I did not trouble. And then when he went to America there was no one to inquire of. Well, we had one letter about a year after, from some place in Inja, I think, and in it they said they was going further, and mightn't be able to write for some time. There was a directed envelope inside, and I sent off a few lines to say the wains was well. After that we never heard more, and we always thought the father and mother had got killed in the strange parts they went to. So we never told the young 'uns anything, but determined to make the best shift we could for them. Then came the day they found the body, and this is where my sore trouble began. After Elsie left me, I was still lookin' at the poor dead thing, when it come on me like a dream that I had seen the face before. At first I couldn't think where it was, and then I remembered the lady Kinley had brought me to see in Ballymena. I stooped down to look at her, and then I noticed the chain round her neck. There was no watch on it, but a sort of wee case that opened, and inside there was a picture and a wee bit o' paper folded. You may be sure Mike McAravey had no thought of stealing; but when I saw some one comin', I said to myself, 'These things belong to the wains, and if I leave 'em here they 'll not get 'em unless I tell all I knows.' And my heart bled to think of the children hearing the first of their mother, when they saw her lying dead. So I slipt the chain and case into my pocket, just as George Hendrick came up. Ye remember, perhaps, I was so confused-like I didn't know what I was doing. Maybe ye thought I was scared. Then, when we brought up the body, I went and put the chain under the big heap o' sea-weed. When all the fuss was made at the inquest, I was sorry I had hid the things, but I daren't tell then. And mind ye, Father Donnelly, I told no lie, for there was no watch, and the chain wasn't gold at all, but an old-fashioned silver affair. Even so it was a weight on me, so I thought the best thing I could do was to sell it, and they gave me fifteen shillings in Coleraine. And that's how I got the first money for the monument. The wee case—a locket, I believe, they call it—I 've kept yet. It's made up in a parcel in the corner of the wee box under the bed. And now that's all I 've to say; but I knows this affair, and the way the folk has doubted me has been the cause of my breaking up. And there 's poor Elsie—I believe she swore she didn't see the chain just to keep me out of trouble, and that cut me most of all to be the means o' bringin' the poor innocent lass to tell a lie."

"I'm sorry you did not tell me all this before," said George Hendrick, his eyes filling with tears as he gazed on the stern, deep-lined face of the old man; "it might all have been explained."

"I'm sorry too, and often thought to do it; but you see I took a dislike to you, because your mentioning about the watch—when after all there was no watch—was the cause of my trouble."

"And now you see, Mike," said the priest, "the evil results of not coming to confession; I 've often warned you."

"So you have, Father Donnelly, and it's no fault o' yours if I haven't been a better Catholic; but I 'm punished now, so let us forget the past."

"Aye," said the priest, "you have suffered for your fault; and now wouldn't you like to receive the last rites, in case anything might happen before I come again?"

It was not too soon, for when daylight dawned the proud, restless spirit had taken flight. Long after the priest had left, Hendrick had sat, Bible in hand, pointing the dying sinner to the Great High Priest of our profession; and when the struggle was over he started home across the moors in the bleak morning, cheered and thankful in heart, believing that his labours that night had "not been in vain in the Lord."

CHAPTER VI.

Michael McAravey's death made a considerable difference in the position of his family. His widow was unable to retain and work the land; and though she obtained a considerable sum by way of tenant-right from McAuley, to whose farm the little patch was now united, she yet found herself in very straitened circumstances, especially as she regarded spending her principal as almost a sin. It was a bitter struggle, and, yet by degrees there crept into her heart a degree of peace and contentment such as she had never known before. Both she and Elsie had been deeply affected by the earnest and simple appeals of the Scripture-reader during that last sad night of watching by the bed of death. The more so, in all probability, in that the words were not addressed directly to them, so that there was none of that irritation which often results when one feels himself being "preached at." Hendrick was now a weekly visitor at Mrs. McAravey's cottage, and he had at length the gratification of seeing, in this one home at least, the results of his long-continued and faithful labours. At his suggestion, Jim, who, especially after the old man's death, could be made nothing of at home, was sent to a distant relative in Coleraine, where he had an opportunity of pursuing his studies at the Model School, with a view to entering some sort of business. This was almost the only object for which Mrs. McAravey would permit a portion of her small capital to be touched. For the rest, she and Elsie struggled on almost in poverty, but helped and, as far as possible, kept in work by the kindness of the neighbours. In some mysterious way the substance of McAravey's confession had become public property, and it was known and suspected by everybody but herself that something had come out to identify the drowned woman as Elsie's mother. Thus the