t an evening in confidential talk with his honour and
other less reputable characters, we guessed he was embarked on a
business of no little risk, which might land him some fine day, with a
file of marines to take care of him, in Derry Jail.

For all that, I would fain have taken to the sea with him; for every day
I longed more for the open life of a sailor, and chafed at the shackles
of my landsman's fate. What made it worse was that one day, sorely
against Tim's will, my father ordered him to get ready for the sea,
leaving me, who would have given my eyes for the chance, not only
disappointed, but brotherless and alone in the world.

But I must tell you how this great change in our fortunes came to pass.

It was about a year after my mother's death when, one dark night, as
father and we two sat round the peat fire in the cabin, father telling
us queer stories about the Frenchmen, and icebergs in the Atlantic, and
races with the king's cruisers, that the door opened suddenly, and a
woman I had never seen before looked in.

"Biddy McQuilkin, as I'm a sinner!" said my father, taking the pipe from
his lips, and looking, I thought, not altogether pleased. But he got
up, as a gentleman should.

"Arrah, Mike, you may well wonder! I hardly know myself at all, at all.
And there's the boys. My! but it's myself's glad to see the pretty
darlints." And she gave us each a hug and a kiss.

Somehow or other I did not at first take kindly to Biddy McQuilkin. She
was a stout woman of about mother's age, with little twinkling eyes that
seemed to look not quite straight, and gave her face, otherwise comely
enough, rather a sly expression. And I guessed when she made so much of
us that it was perhaps less on our account than on my father's.

As for father, I think he felt pretty much as I did, and had not the
cunning to conceal it.

"I thought you were in Paris, Biddy?" said he.

"So I was, and so, maybe, I'll be again," said the widow, taking her
shawl from her head, and seating herself on a stool at the fire. "'Twas
a chance I got to come and see the folk at home while the master and
mistress are in Galway seeing what they can save out of the ruin of
their estate there. Ochone, it's bad times, Mike; indeed it is. Lonely
enough for you and me and the motherless boys. I've a mind to stay
where I am, and settle down in the ould country."

My father looked genuinely alarmed.

"Lonely!" said he with a laugh; "like enou