ain, and lowered her eyes. Old Mother
Nolan turned a searching glance upon her grandson--a glance with
derision and something of pity in it.

"An' how would Chance Along be good enough for the likes o' her?" said
she. "Denny Nolan, bes ye a fool entirely? Good enough for her, says
ye--an' her singin' like a lark afore the young Queen herself, saints
presarve her, wid the Prince an' the dukes a-settin' round in their
grand gold crowns, a-t'rowin' roses an' jewels at her little feet! What
bes Chance Along to her--aye, an' any poor soul in it? We've give her
life back to her, Denny, me lad, an' now we'll give herself back to the
grand world o' up-along, where great singers bes nigh the same as great
ladies, as I have heard me own grandfather tell, who was once in Dublin
a-holdin' the gentry's horses at the play-house door."

The skipper glared straight before him, then sank into his chair.

"I'll pen no letter," he said, "I swears it by the knuckle-bones o' the
holy saints!"

Mother Nolan turned to Mary, wagging her head.

"There bes ink an' a pen on the shelf there, an' a scrap o' clean paper
in Denny's great book yonder," she said. "Take 'em to her an' let her
pen the word wid her own hand." She turned to Denny. "And ye, Denny
Nolan, will send it out to Witless Bay, an' from Witless Bay to St.
John's, an' so to New York."

"I hears ye," returned the skipper.

"Aye, that ye do," said the spirited old woman, "an' a good t'ing for ye
I bes here to tell ye! Why for wouldn't ye be sendin' out the letter?
What for d'ye be wantin' Miss Flora Lockhart to stop here in Chance
Along?--and her who never put a hand to a stroke o' honest work since
her mother bore her!--her who sang to the Queen o' England! Ye'd be
better, Denny, wid a real true mermaid, tail an' all, in Chance Along.
Wrack ye kin break abroad; cargoes ye kin lift an' devour; gold an'
jewels ye kin hide away; but when live women be t'rowed up to ye by the
sea ye kin do naught but let 'em go. The divil bes in the women,
lad--the women from up-along. An' the law would be on yer heels--aye,
an' on to yer neck--afore ye knowed how the wind was blowin'! An' what
would his riverence be sayin' to ye?"

Mary Kavanagh had left the kitchen by this time, carrying pen, ink and
paper to the girl in Father McQueen's room. Denny raised his head, and
met the regard of his grandmother's bright old eyes proudly.

"I wants to marry her," he said. "An' why not? Bain't I skipper