lds, through the yard and down the Belfast road to
Withero's stone-pile. Willie was just quitting for the day. I was almost
breathless, but I blurted out what then seemed to me the most important
happening in my life.

Willie took his eye-protectors off and looked at me.

"So ye had a crack wi' the masther, did ye?"

"Aye, quite a crack."

"He mistuk ye fur a horse!" he said. This damper on my enthusiasm drew
an instant reply.

"'Deed no, nor an ass naither."

Willie bundled up his hammers and prepared to go home. He took out his
flint and steel. Over the flint he laid a piece of brown paper,
chemically treated, then he struck the flint a sharp blow with the
steel, a spark was produced, the spark ignited the paper, it began to
burn in a smoldering, blazeless way, he stuffed the paper into the bowl
of his pipe, and began the smoke that was to carry him over the journey
home. I shouldered some of his hammers and we trudged along the road
toward Antrim.

"Throth, I know yer no ass, me bhoy, though Jamie's a good dale ov a
mule, but yer Ma's got wit enough fur the family. That answer ye gave
Misther Chaine was frum yer Ma. It was gey cute an'll git ye a job, I'll
bate."

I had something else to tell him, but I dreaded his critical mind. When
we got to the railway bridge he laid his hammers on the wall while he
relit his pipe. I saw my last opportunity and seized it.

"Say, Willie, did ye iver haave a feelin' that made ye feel fine all
over and--and--made ye pray?"

"I niver pray," he said. "These wathery-mouthed gossoons who pray air
jist like oul Hughie Thornton wi' his pockets bulgin' wi' scroof
(crusts). They're naggin at God from Aysther t' Christmas t' fill their
pockets! A good day's stone breakin's my prayer. At night I jist say,
'Thank ye, Father!' In th' mornin' I say 'Morra, Father, how's all up
aroun' th' throne this mornin'?'"

"An' does He spake t' ye back?"

"Ov coorse, d'ye think He's got worse manners nor me? He says, 'Hello,
Willie,' says He. 'How's it wi' ye this fine mornin'?' 'Purty fine,
Father, purty fine,' says I. But tell me, bhoy, was there a girl aroun'
whin that feelin' struck ye?"

"Divil a girl, at all!"

"Them feelin's sometimes comes frum a girl, ye know. I had wan wanst,
but that's a long story, heigh ho; aye, that's a long story!"

"Did she die, Willie?"

"Never mind her. That feelin' may haave been from God. Yer Ma hes a
quare notion that wan chile o' her'n will be inc