r out, he remembered with a shiver, Adam Craig sat huddled here in
his wheel-chair listening to wind and rain, sleet and snow, the rustle
of summer trees and the wind of autumn. It was a melancholy thought
and true.

Smoothly hospitable, the invalid poured brandy for himself and his
guest and chatted with an air of courtesy. Kenny found himself in
quieter mood. Reminiscence crackled in the wood-fire. Nights in the
studio by the embers of a log many a Gaelic tale had glowed and
sparkled in his soft, delightful brogue for the ears of men who loved
his tales of folk lore and loved the teller.

Ah, Ireland, dark rosaleen of myths and mirth and melancholy. The
thought of it all made him tender and sad.

Well, he would give this lonely man by the fire an hour of unalloyed
delight. He would tell him tales of Ireland when brehons made the laws
and bards and harpers roved the green hills. Kenny made his
opportunity and began. He told a tale of Choulain, the mountain smith
who forged armor for the Ultonians. He told a lighter tale of three
sisters whom he called Fair, Brown and Trembling. With the brogue
strong upon him he told how Finn McCoul had stolen the clothes of a
bathing queen and he told in stirring phrase the exploits of Ireland's
mighty hero, Cuchullin.

He had never had a better listener. Adam Craig fixed his piercing eyes
inscrutably upon the teller's face, drank glass after glass of brandy,
and remained polite, intent and silent. Kenny, with his heart in the
telling, went on to the tale of Conoclach and the first harp.
Conoclach, he said, hating Cull, her husband, had run away from him
toward the sea. There upon the sand lay the skeleton of a whale and
the wind playing upon the taut sinews made sounds low and soothing
enough to lull her to sleep. And Cull, coming up, marveled at her
slumber, heard the murmuring of the wind through the sinews and made
the first harp. Kenny liked the tale and he liked the way he told it.

Adam Craig nodded.

"Lies!" he said, springing the trap it had pleased him to bait with an
air of courtesy, "All lies."

Kenny flushed with annoyance. The sacrilege of doubt when the tale was
Irish jarred.

"Lies!" said Adam Craig again, "adapted centuries ago by some Irish
word-thief."

"You are pleased to be humorous," said Kenny, glancing coldly at his
host.

"I am pleased," said the old man insolently, "to be truthful, not being
Irish. Fair, Brown and Trembling!" he