Kate,' said he in a mournful whisper; 'it's no use, girl. I can't help it. I can't help it. I'm down. You'd wait, I know-but I want money. It's not you I want now-it's money, money. I'm sellin' you an' sellin' myself. This very night I'm goin' to do it. To-morrow you'll know ; an' I'll see you no more. See you no more see you no more . see you no more.'

Over and over he repeated the phrase; then, mastered by sudden impulse, turned quickly and pulled out his watch. 'I will see you!' he cried, his face kindling. 'It's your due, an' I will see you. Let them wait.' Hurriedly he took up the ledger, the accountbooks and bills, and locked them in the safe ; then blew out the candles, and made for the door.

Taking hat and staff from a rack in the hall, he opened an inner door and entered the kitchen. There it was all light and comfort, a big fire blazing, the tins shining on the walls and the crockery on the dresser, the tiled floor swept, tables and chairs scrubbed white, ceiling heavy with hams and dried fish, shelves laden with canisters and medicine-bottles. A dog lay stretched upon the hearth, a cat curled

upon the flour-box. In a corner George the servant-boy sat smoking and greasing his boots; at a table Mary the maid was busy ironing. Hearing Martin's foot the dog rose and came to heel, and the servants looked round; but without heeding, Martin crossed towards the yard, turned through a narrow doorway, and closed the door behind him.

delf, loaves and A set of harness

He was now in a little room that looked upon the yard. There were shelves at one end carrying milk - crocks and grocery, saucepans and tins. hung on the wall, and a new saddle and bridle. A table, spread with a clean cloth, stood by the window; near the door a small fire burnt, and before it in a wicker chair Martin's mother sat knitting. A shawl was round her shoulders; she wore a black dress, a lace cap, and felt slippers. She was tall and thin, old and wrinkled, with white hair, placid features, delicate hands. A distinguished old lady she looked, dignified and serene, her mouth firm, chin strong, the lines of experience and patience clear on her face. As Martin entered she looked up, smiled, and went on knitting.

'Well, mother.' Martin took his place

before her, elbow on the mantel-shelf and 'Still busy?

feet crossed.

'Yes, Martin.' She turned her needles and started a new row; then glanced over her spectacles at Martin's hat and staff. You're going out?'

'I am.' Martin stood upright, fumbled with his hat and dropped the end of his staff sharply upon the tiles. 'I'm goin' across the fields for an hour or so; I'll be back—I'll not be long.' His mother smiled and nodded ; she was used to his going across the fields. He crossed to a shelf and drank deeply from a bowl of milk; came back and stood by the door. He had a doubtful look, an air of constraint; seemed almost possessed of shame. 'You'll not be sittin' up?' he said. 'There's no need.'

'Oh no, Martin.' She knitted a few stitches, her needles clicking through the silence. 'You'll be wanting supper, I suppose?'

'To be sure to be sure I will. Why, I'll only be a while; just across the fields I'm goin' for an hour or so.' Martin paused, turned to the door, and opened it a little. 'Well, good night, in case I don't see you

again.' He closed the door, came back, and stood by her chair. 'There's nothing the matter, mother?' he asked. 'Is there, now?'

6

'The matter?' His mother looked up, searching his face with steady eyes. Why, what could be the matter?' she asked, her placid old voice just ruffled with surprise. Martin looked at the fire. 'Ah, I thought maybe there was,' he said. 'You seemed hardly yourself, somehow.' He backed towards the door, but his mother stretched a hand and laid it on his arm.

'Martin,' she said, her eyes steady on his face, are you sure it is not yourself? Tell me, my son.'

'What, mother?'

'What's the matter with you, Martin?' Her voice was low, but big with meaning. 'Tell me, my son.'

Look at

'With me?' He laughed uneasily, his face flushing deep. 'Me? Well, that's a question! Why, I never was better in my life. me,' he said, drawing himself to full and flinging back his shoulders.

at me.'

stature,

'Look

But his mother shook her head.

'It's not that, Martin.' She touched her forehead. 'It's here,' she went on. 'Tell me, is there anything on your mind?'

He dropped his eyes; appeared to consider a moment; looked up again. No, mother;

there's nothing.'

'You're sure-quite sure?' 'Certain sure.'

'And I can't help you at all?'

6

Martin stood considering, seriously now and swiftly. Should he tell her everything; confide in her and ask counsel? She was wise; she might understand and forgive, might help and advise. She had a little money in her own right; she must have some suspicion of the condition of things: maybe after all it were wiser-? No. She would not understand, could never forgive. He looked her in the face. 'No, mother; there's nothing to help.'

'You're sure, Martin—quite sure?' 'Certain sure.'

'Ah, well!' She turned away, sighed, and took up her knitting. Ah, well!' she sighed.

Martin turned for the door, came back, bent