y hard to get about the clay tracks that served as
streets. As if this were not enough, the river in front of the house
rose--rose, and in two twos was over its banks--and he and Long Jim
spent a night in their clothes, helping neighbours less fortunately
placed to move their belongings into safety.

The lion's share of this work fell on him. Long Jim still carried his
arm in a sling, and was good for nothing but to guard the store and
summon Mahony on the appearance of customers. Since his accident, too,
the fellow had suffered from frequent fits of colic or cramp, and was
for ever slipping off to the township to find the spirits in which his
employer refused to deal. For the unloading and warehousing of the
goods, it was true, old Ocock had loaned his sons; but the strict watch
Mahony felt bound to keep over this pretty pair far outweighed what
their help was worth to him.

Now it was Sunday evening, and for the first time for more than a week
he could call his soul his own again. He stood at the door and watched
those of his neighbours who were not Roman Catholics making for church
and chapel, to which half a dozen tinkly bells invited them. The
weather had finally cleared up, and a goodly number of people waded
past him through the mire. Among them, in seemly Sabbath dress, went
Ocock, with his two black sheep at heel. The old man was a rigid
Methodist, and at a recent prayer-meeting had been moved to bear public
witness to his salvation. This was no doubt one reason why the young
scapegrace Tom's almost simultaneous misconduct had been so bitter a
pill for him to swallow: while, through God's mercy, he was become an
exemplar to the weaker brethren, a son of his made his name to stink in
the nostrils of the reputable community. Mahony liked to believe that
there was good in everybody, and thought the intolerant harshness which
the boy was subjected would defeat its end. Yet it was open to question
if clemency would have answered better. "Bad eggs, the brace of them!"
had been his own verdict, after a week's trial of the lads. One would
not, the other apparently could not work. Johnny, the elder, was dull
and liverish from intemperance; and the round-faced adolescent, the
news of whose fatherhood had raced the wind, was so sheep-faced, so
craven, in the presence of his elders, that he could not say bo to a
battledore. There was something unnatural about this fierce
timidity--and the doctor in Mahony caught a quick g