if skilfully handled, but as dangerous
as a wounded animal if insulted and rebuffed.

After breakfast she asked for Pat Kavanagh. She did not remember his
name, but spoke of him as the funny old fellow with the violin and the
wooden leg.

"If he were here we could have a fine concert," she said, "and forget
all about the terrible wind and snow whirling around the house." Her
laughing face was turned to the skipper.

"Sure then, Pat bes the lad we wants," said the skipper, grinning like
one entranced by a glimpse of heaven itself. There was a golden vision
in his head, poor fool, of this beautiful creature sitting beneath his
roof for all time, her red lips and wonderful eyes always laughing at
him, her silvery voice forever telling him to forget the storm outside.
The future looked to him like a state of bliss such as one sometimes
half-sees, half-feels, in dreams.

"I'll go fetch him an' his fiddle," he said, pulling on his heavy
jumper.

"Now don't ye be losin' yerself in the flurry," continued Mother Nolan.

"It bes nought, Granny," returned the skipper. "Sure I kin feel me way
on me hands an' knees."

It took him fifteen minutes to find Pat Kavanagh's shanty and locate the
door of it, so blinding and choking was the storm. He pushed the door
open, stumbled into the warmth, and slammed the timbers shut behind him.
Mary was sewing beside the stove, and Pat was mumbling over the first
verse of a new "come-all-ye." They looked up at the skipper in
astonishment.

"What the divil bes troublin' ye, Denny Nolan, to fetch ye out o' yer
own house sich a day as this?" demanded the ex-sailorman. "Bes there
anything the matter wid that grand young lady from up-along?"

The skipper removed his cap and with it beat the snow from his limbs and
body. He breathed heavily from his struggle with the storm. Mary eyed
him anxiously, her hands idle in her lap.

"I's come to fetch yer over to me own house--ye an' yer fiddle," said
Nolan.

"The divil ye has!" retorted Pat Kavanagh. "Saints presarve ye, lad,
what kind o' rum has ye bin a-drinkin' of this mornin' already?"

"Herself bes wantin' ye, Pat--ye an' yer fiddle, for to have a concert
wid," said the skipper, with childlike trust and delight in his voice.

"Skipper, dear, would ye be haulin' me an' me wooden leg out into sich a
desperate flurry as this here?" inquired Pat, aghast. "Saints be good to
ye, skipper, but I'd die in me tracks!"

Some of the foolish deligh