ht up the body, I went and put the chain under the big
heap o' sea-weed. When all the fuss was made at the inquest, I was
sorry I had hid the things, but I daren't tell then. And mind ye,
Father Donnelly, I told no lie, for there was no watch, and the chain
wasn't gold at all, but an old-fashioned silver affair. Even so it was
a weight on me, so I thought the best thing I could do was to sell it,
and they gave me fifteen shillings in Coleraine. And that's how I got
the first money for the monument. The wee case--a locket, I believe,
they call it--I 've kept yet. It's made up in a parcel in the corner
of the wee box under the bed. And now that's all I 've to say; but I
knows this affair, and the way the folk has doubted me has been the
cause of my breaking up. And there 's poor Elsie--I believe she swore
she didn't see the chain just to keep me out of trouble, and that cut
me most of all to be the means o' bringin' the poor innocent lass to
tell a lie."

"I'm sorry you did not tell me all this before," said George Hendrick,
his eyes filling with tears as he gazed on the stern, deep-lined face
of the old man; "it might all have been explained."

"I'm sorry too, and often thought to do it; but you see I took a
dislike to you, because your mentioning about the watch--when after all
there was no watch--was the cause of my trouble."

"And now you see, Mike," said the priest, "the evil results of not
coming to confession; I 've often warned you."

"So you have, Father Donnelly, and it's no fault o' yours if I haven't
been a better Catholic; but I 'm punished now, so let us forget the
past."

"Aye," said the priest, "you have suffered for your fault; and now
wouldn't you like to receive the last rites, in case anything might
happen before I come again?"

It was not too soon, for when daylight dawned the proud, restless
spirit had taken flight. Long after the priest had left, Hendrick had
sat, Bible in hand, pointing the dying sinner to the Great High Priest
of our profession; and when the struggle was over he started home
across the moors in the bleak morning, cheered and thankful in heart,
believing that his labours that night had "not been in vain in the
Lord."

CHAPTER VI.

Michael McAravey's death made a considerable difference in the position
of his family. His widow was unable to retain and work the land; and
though she obtained a considerable sum by way of tenant-right from
McAuley, to whose fa