cking up an important article,
"and read it on the journey. I will send it back in the motor."

A quarter of an hour later he was being carried at full speed in a
twenty-horse power Fiat car towards Grey Town.

"If you delay one moment; if you blow out, or even puncture, I will
never employ you again," he remarked to the chauffeur.

"It's all luck," the driver answered, indignantly.

"I prefer lucky men," Denis replied. "Now drive like the very deuce."

Nursing his outraged dignity, the chauffeur sent the car at its topmost
speed on the long road to Grey Town. This was his lucky trip; stray
nails there were in plenty, also dangerous places, but the Fiat raced
through in six hours. Denis sat rigidly perusing and correcting the
article, determined not to think of grey sorrow at the other end. Once
he groaned to himself.

"The last good thing in life, and I am to close it. But, there is
work--and the Church, thank God!"

Then he made a further correction, folded the article, and placed it in
an envelope. This he confided to the chauffeur.

"I like you," he remarked; "you can be as reckless as I when it is
necessary. I shall want a driver soon. Would you take the post?"

"I prefer to be where I am," the man answered. "A driver can't be lucky
always."

"He only needs to be lucky on occasions like this, when a mother is
waiting to say 'Good-bye' to a son."

In six hours' time the car raced up the avenue at "Layton," to find
Samuel Quirk pacing the verandah while he awaited his son. Denis could
see the hand of bitter grief in the old man's bent figure, in the deep
lines on his face, and in the sunken eyes. After nearly fifty years'
companionship the prospect of losing his faithful wife struck Samuel
Quirk a titanic blow.

Denis had never been outwardly demonstrative towards his father. Samuel
Quirk had not invited any sign of affection, and his son had not offered
it. But they loved and respected one another, for Samuel Quirk was the
type of man that Denis could best admire. He recognised honesty and
purity of intention in the old man; he knew that Samuel Quirk would
never intentionally injure another. These virtues appealed to him like
rich jewels hidden within a rough casket. To-day his heart went right
out to the pathetic figure of hopeless misery portrayed by his father.

He sprang from the car and took his father's hand tenderly.

"It's the will of God," he said.

"Did I say it was not?" asked Samuel Qui