“Sure, Tim, go!  I tell you to!  ’Tis the only thing to do!  And ’twill be a man’s work and earn ye many hours out of purgatory.  An’ ’twill be grand for ye, ye that never would have a family o’ your own—­here’s the Blessed Virgin pushin’ ye into one, ready-made.  ‘Twill be the makin’ o’ ye, ’twill make ye rale human, an’ ye’ll have no more time for star-gazin’ an’ such foolishness.  Ye can find out what people are in the world for, instead keepin’ yerself so outside o’ things.  Sure, yes, man, yes, I’ll tell Moira ye said good-by to her, an’—­yes, I give ye my word, and promise true and true, I’ll lave ye now if she moves away or if any harm comes to her.”

IV

His grizzled hair was turned quite white when his sister kissed him good-by, fresh tears in her eyes, scarcely dry from the excitement of her youngest daughter’s wedding.  She had a moment of divination like his, and said sadly, “There’s no use trying to thank ye, Timmy, words can’t do it.  If ye’d been anybody else, I cud ha’ said ye got ye’r pay for all these long, hard years in the love the childer bear ye.  That’s the pay folks get for workin’ an’ livin’ for others—­but ye’re not folks.  Is’t that ye’re the seventh son?  Is’t that ye’ve second sight?  Is’t that—­what is’t that makes ye so far away?  An’ what is ye’r pay, Tim?  Now that it’s over and the children all safe and grown up, ye look yerself like a child that’s done its lesson an’ run out to play.  Is’t all just work or play with ye?  Can’t ye niver just live?”

In truth her brother’s eagerness to be away was scarcely concealed at all from the grateful, wistful Irish eyes about him.  He was breathless with haste to be off.  The long trip to New England was a never-ending nightmare of delay to him, and although he had planned for years to walk up the hill, his trembling old legs dragged in a slow progress maddening to his impatience.  A farmer, driving by, offered him a lift, which he accepted gratefully, sitting strained far forward on the high seat.  At a turn of the road he looked back and saw that he had passed the cluster of pines where Moira had laughed at him, and where he had felt so thick about him the thronging rush of his newly awakened perceptions of the finer meaning of things, the gay, sweet crowd of gentle little people.

He stopped the farmer and, leaping down from the high seat, he took his pipes under his arm and fairly ran up the little path.  His rheumatic knee creaked a little, but the color came up hard in his tired old face as the twilight of the pines and their pungent, welcoming breath fell about him.  He cast him down and buried his face in the rust-red dried needles.  He did not weep, but from time to time a long sigh heaved his shoulders.  Then he turned over and lay on his back, looking at the sunset-yellow sky through the green, thick-clustered needles, noticing how the light made each one glisten as though dipped in molten