The cover image was created by the transcriber and is dedicated without reservation to the public domain.

Along a quiet road a man was walking at a steady, swinging pace. He was above the medium height, strongly built, and his erect carriage bespoke him one accustomed to military drill, while the knapsack swung over his shoulder and the blue overcoat on his arm seemed to indicate that he was one of the returning veterans of the lately disbanded Union army.

His face, young and strongly Celtic in feature, was not unhandsome, though marred by a sinister expression. It was that of a bold, bad man on the alert to better his own fortunes without regard to the rights of others; and as he pressed onward he sent many a covetous glance toward the comfortable farmhouses, orchards, and rich harvest fields on either hand.

At length, turning aside from the main road and making his way through a bit of woods, he paused in front of a rude cabin standing in a potato patch, enclosed by a rough, zigzag rail-fence. An old man in patched, worn, and by no means clean garments sat on the door-step smoking a dirty pipe.

His wife stood just behind him with her knitting, a coarse woollen stocking, in her hands. She threw it from her as the traveller opened the gate, and with a wild cry, “It’s me son! me bye Phalim come home till his mither at last!” rushed out and threw herself upon his breast, weeping for very joy.

He returned her embrace with ardor almost equal to her own, filial affection so softening his countenance that the evil look was banished for the moment.

The old man rose with trembling eagerness and grasped his son’s hand. “An’ it’s yersilf, lad!” he cried. “Thank the blessed Vargin an’ all the howly saints that ye’ve come back till yer mither an’ me alive an’ well afther all the fightin’ ye’ve been in!”

There were rapid questions and answers, knapsack and overcoat were bestowed within the cabin, a chair or two were brought out into the shade before the door, and with a pipe apiece and a bottle of whiskey the three made themselves comfortable, while Phelim gave an account of his wanderings and exploits, inventing, embellishing, or suppressing occurrences as suited his fancy.

“An’ have yees made yer fortin, Phalim, me lad?” queried his mother, regarding him with a look of maternal pride and fondness.

“Not jist yit, ould lady,” he answered, with an unpleasant laugh; “but,” pulling out a handful of gold and silver coins and a roll of bank-notes, “here’s the beginnin’