alhouns risin' high
beyant poverty and misfortune some day."

Old Christopher nodded.

"I'm glad Miles Calhoun was buried on the hilltop above Playmore. He had
his day; he lived his life. Things went wrong with him, and he paid the
price we all must pay for work ill-done."

"There you're right, Christopher Dogan, and I remember the day the
downfall began. It was when him that's now Lord Mallow, Governor of
Jamaica, came to summon Miles Calhoun to Dublin. Things were never the
same after that; but I well remember one talk I had with Miles Calhoun
just before his death. 'Michael,' he said to me, 'my family have had
many ups and downs, and some that bear my name have been in prison
before this, but never for killing a man out of fair fight.' 'One of
your name may be in prison, sir,' said I, 'but not for killing a man out
of fair fight. If you believe he did, there's no death bad enough for
you!' He was silent for a while; then at last he whispered Mr. Dyck's
name, and said to me: 'Tell him that as a Calhoun I love him, and as his
father I love him ten times more. For look you, Michael, though we never
ran together, but quarrelled and took our own paths, yet we are both
Calhouns, and my heart is warm to him. If my son were a thousand times a
criminal, nevertheless I would ache to take him by the hand.'"

"Hush! Look at the prison gate," said his companion, and stood up.

As the gates of the prison opened, the sun broke through the clouds and
gave a brilliant phase to the scene. Out of the gates there came slowly,
yet firmly, dressed in peasant clothes, the stalwart but faded figure of
Dyck Calhoun.

Terribly changed he was. He had entered prison with the flush upon his
cheek, the lilt of young manhood in his eyes, with hair black and hands
slender and handsome. There was no look of youth in his face now. It was
the face of a middle-aged man from which the dew of youth had vanished,
into which life's storms had come and gone. Though the body was held
erect, yet the head was thrust slightly forward, and the heavy eyebrows
were like a pent-house. The eyes were slightly feverish, and round
the mouth there crept a smile, half-cynical but a little happy. All
freshness was gone from his hands. One hung at his side, listless,
corded; the other doffed his hat in reply to the salute of his two
humble friends.

As the gates closed behind him he looked gravely at the two men, who
were standing not a foot apart. There swept slow