man's voice say harshly:--

"Ah, have done with that thrash of music; sure, it'll be dark night
itself before we're in to Lismore."

There was something familiar in the coarse tones. The weirdness fell
from the wail of the music as Mrs. Pat remembered the woman who had
bothered her for money that morning in Carnfother. She and the blind old
man were tramping slowly up the road, seemingly as useless a couple to
any one in Mrs. Pat's plight as could well be imagined.

"How far am I from Carnfother?" she asked, as they drew near to her. "Is
there any house near here?"

"There is not," said the yellow-haired woman; "and ye're four miles from
Carnfother yet."

"I'll pay you well if you will take a message there for me--" began Mrs.
Pat.

"Are ye sure have ye yer purse in yer pocket?" interrupted the
yellow-haired woman with a laugh that succeeded in being as nasty as she
wished; "or will I go dancin' down to Carnfother--"

"Have done, Joanna!" said the old man suddenly; "what trouble is on the
lady? What lamed the horse?"

He turned his bright blind eyes full on Mrs. Pat. They were of the
curious green blue that is sometimes seen in the eyes of a grey collie,
and with all Mrs. Pat's dislike and suspicion of the couple, she knew
that he was blind.

"He was cut in a ditch," she said shortly.

The old man had placed his fiddle in his daughter's hands; his own hands
were twitching and trembling.

"I feel the blood flowing," he said in a very low voice, and he walked
up to Pilot.

His hands went unguided to the wound, from which the steady flow of
blood had never ceased. With one he closed the lips of the cut, while
with the other he crossed himself three times. His daughter watched him
stolidly; Mrs. Pat, with a certain alarm, having, after the manner of
her kind, explained to herself the incomprehensible with the
all-embracing formula of madness. Yes, she thought, he was undoubtedly
mad, and as soon as the paroxysm was past she would have another try at
bribing the woman.

The old man was muttering to himself, still holding the wound in one
hand. Mrs. Pat could distinguish no words, but it seemed to her that he
repeated three times what he was saying. Then he straightened himself
and stroked Pilot's quarter with a light, pitying hand. Mrs. Pat stared.
The bleeding had ceased. The hunting-scarf lay on the road at the
horse's empurpled hoof. There was nothing to explain the mystery, but
the fact remained.

"He