t Patent) if the old
lord died before his child was born, his high-built hopes would be in
the dust, his eagerness became a consuming fire.

For the first time in his life his excitement took forms of religion and
benevolence. He promised that if everything went well he would give a
new altar to Our Lady's Chapel in the parish church of St. Mary, a ton
of coals to every poor person within a radius of five miles, and a
supper to every inhabitant of the neighbouring village who was more than
sixty years of age. It was even rumoured that he went so far in secret
as to provide funds for the fireworks with which some of his flatterers
were to celebrate the forthcoming event, and that one form of
illumination was a gigantic frame which, set upon the Sky Hill,
immediately in front of our house, was intended to display in brilliant
lights the glowing words "God Bless the Happy Heir." Certainly the birth
was to be announced by the ringing of the big bell of the tower as
signal to the country round about that the appointed festivities might
begin.

Day by day through September into October, news came from Castle Raa by
secret channels. Morning by morning, Doctor Conrad was sent for to see
my mother. Never had the sun looked down on a more gruesome spectacle.
It was a race between the angel of death and the angel of life, with my
father's masterful soul between, struggling to keep back the one and to
hasten on the other.

My father's impatience affected everybody about him. Especially it
communicated itself to the person chiefly concerned. The result was just
what might have been expected. My mother was brought to bed prematurely,
a full month before her time.

SECOND CHAPTER

By six o'clock the wind had risen to the force of a hurricane. The last
of the withered leaves of the trees in the drive had fallen and the bare
branches were beating together like bundles of rods. The sea was louder
than ever, and the bell on St. Mary's Rock, a mile away from the shore,
was tolling like a knell under the surging of the waves. Sometimes the
clashing of the rain against the window-panes was like the wash of
billows over the port-holes of a ship at sea.

"Pity for the poor folk with their fireworks," said Father Dan.

"They'll eat their suppers for all that," said my father.

It was now dark, but my father would not allow the lamps to be lighted.
There was therefore no light in his gaunt room except a sullen glow from
the fir