The events narrated in the last chapter were not without lasting effects on most of the persons immediately concerned in them. Michael McAravey was an altered man. His proud reserve seemed changing into petulant self-vindication. He began to look fully his age, and, like many other men of so-called iron constitution, when his strength began to give way it collapsed at once. He also conceived a violent antipathy to George Hendrick. The children were forbidden to attend the class, which had now been resumed; and although they came twice surreptitiously, Mr. Hendrick was no sooner aware of this than he felt obliged to tell them that their first duty was obedience to their guardians. It was a hard parting both for teacher and pupils. It cost George Hendrick no slight effort to dismiss his two favourite scholars, nor could he at once see his duty plain in the matter. As for the children they were broken-hearted and rebellious; but the quiet, sympathetic tenderness of their friend at length reconciled them to their lot. Except on this point, McAravey was far more considerate with the children than formerly. He was now a good deal in the house, having become very asthmatic, and often shielded Elsie and Jim from Mrs. McAravey’s harsh tongue.

The effect of what they had gone through was no less evident in the children, though they were very differently affected. Jim never recovered the panic of that March day. Nothing could induce him to go near the shore alone, and the very sight of the sea excited the lad. It was otherwise with Elsie. That solitary interview with the dead had sobered her. The dead woman’s face was seldom absent from her thoughts. Elsie had grown to love it, and to regard it as something mysterious and superhuman. She had never before seen so refined and beautiful a countenance; and there was something in the rigid aspect of death that quieted and awed, while it did not the least terrify the child. As the months went by, and the actual event began to fade in the distance, the pale sweet face, with the dripping brown hair drawn back from it, became more and more of an ideal for veneration and love. Thus, while Jim could never be induced to pass near the sandy cove alone, Elsie ceased to have any special association with the actual scene of the occurrence. But in her moments of passion or heedlessness she ever saw before her the dead face kind, but so calm and firm, that it repressed in an instant her most impetuous outbursts.

As the autumn drew on it became evident that Michael McAravey was dying. That he knew it himself was gathered from the fact that more than once, during the summer, he had walked over to Ballycastle to attend Mass. There seemed a weight on the old man’s mind, which he was unable or unwilling to shake off. ’Lisbeth, who for years had suffered severely from “rheumatics,” and who had made up her mind that she was to die before the “old man,” was but an indifferent nurse. Elsie, however, more than took her place. Michael had become much attached to the child, and as he daily grew weaker he came to look to her for everything.

“Ye ’r a brave wee lass, Elsie,” he used to say, “and I doubt I ’ve not been over kind to ye, but I can’t do without ye now.”

One gloomy September afternoon, when the blustering winds were again celebrating the return of the equinox, Michael, who had been sleeping heavily all day, suddenly started up and astonished his wife by an eager request that she would send at once for George Hendrick and Father Donnelly.

“I doubt you ’re raving, Mike, to send for such a pair. What do you want with either, not to say both? Nice company they ’d be for each other.”

“I tell you I’m dying, and I must see them both,” cried her husband, rising, gaunt and excited, in the bed. “I say, Elsie,” he continued, “this is Wednesday; run down and see can you find Mr. Hendrick anywhere about.”

Elsie departed at once, while ’Lisbeth tried to soothe the invalid, muttering all the time, however, her scorn of “Readers” and hatred of “Papish priests.”

George Hendrick was easily found, and in a few minutes was sitting by the old man’s side, soothing him with simple, kindly words, and waiting for an opening through which to approach the inner man.

“I ’ve not treated you fair, my mon, and I didn’t wish to die without tellin’ you so. Besides, there ’s a thing or two I ‘ve been thinkin’ long to speak about, and now the time’s come. I ’ve sent for Father Donnelly.”

“It’s far to send and long to wait, Mike; do you not think we can do as well without him?” asked the reader.

“I’ve not sent for him, and ye may be sure I ‘ll have none o’ your Papish priests coomin’ about the house, leastways whiles I ’m in it,” interrupted Mrs. McAravey.

Then you d better get out of it, said the old man; I never interfered with you and your Ranters and Covenanters, and I dont mean to be interfered with. I tell ye, George Hendrick, Ill die in the Church of my fathers, even if I m

“Hush!” cried Hendrick, putting his hand to the excited man’s mouth; “we ’ll send for the priest if you wish. God forbid that I should stand between you. Young Jim McAuley is going over to Ballycastle, and will take a message if Elsie gives it him; but he can’t be here for three or four hours at least, so let us be quiet a wee bit now. You said you wanted to see me, Mike; and perhaps while we are waiting you ’d like to hear the message of God out of His own book you needn’t wait to send to Ballycastle for it.”

“You may read a bit if ye like,” responded McAravey, leaning back on the bed, quite satisfied now that the priest had been sent for; “only no controversy; it’s not fit for a dyin’ man or for any man, for the matter o’ that.”

“No controversy!” said Hendrick, smiling; “well, will this suit you? ’Without controversy great is the mystery of godliness. God was manifest in the flesh, justified in the spirit, seen of angels, preached unto the Gentiles, believed on in the world, received up into glory.’ Do you believe that, Mike?”

“Aye, aye; it’s wonderful to think on,” murmured the dying man, in his deep, solemn voice. “I doubt I ’ve been a bit hard sometimes, but I ’ve always been honest and paid my way.” Then after a pause, “Ye may go on with your readin’; I ’m no ways prejudiced. I think Prodestan and Catholic is pretty much alike with God.”

“Aye, Mike, alike in this, that ’all have sinned and come short of the glory of God.’ None of us can stand before Him as we are; but remember what Paul says again, there could be no disputing about, ’This is a true saying and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.’”

“I believe that,” said McAravey; “but now I ’d like to sleep a bit; only don’t go away, for if the priest don’t come in time, I must confess to you, George. Ye won’t object to hear me and give me absolution, will you?” he added with an effort to smile.

“I won’t leave you, Mike, and I’ll hear what you have to say; and as for absolution, I ’ll try to point you to the great Absolver our Advocate with the Father who is the propitiation for our sins.”

It was after ten o’clock when Father Donnelly arrived. After a short private interview with the patient, Hendrick was summoned to the room.

“There is a part of my confession,” said the old man, “which, by your leave, father, I ’d like my friend to hear it will save us the time of going over the same bit twice.”

The priest nodded silently, not, however, looking very pleased at the somewhat light tone in which McAravey spoke.

“It’s about the two children, and the poor creature that was found by them on the sands last spring. It’s been heavy on my mind this long time, and I can’t go out of the world without explaining all I know about the story. And now to begin at the beginning. It’s just about seven years ago, and a couple before we came here, that the children came to us. We were very hard-up at that time, and ’Lisbeth and I were down in heart about loosin’ our own wains, when one day I was in the market at Ballymena, and there I met James Kinley. He asked me, would the missus like to make a trifle by taking charge of a couple of children? I said I thought she might, and so he brought me to the hotel, and I saw a young woman as said she and her husband were going abroad, and wished to leave the two little ones with some respectable person in the glens. Well, I saw her a second time, and then it was all settled. She gave us 20 pounds down, and said she would write. I didn’t like to ask questions, thinking, perhaps, it wasn’t all on the square about the bairns, and so I’m not sure I ever even knew the name rightly it was Davis, or Davison, or Dawson, or something that way. Tom Kinley knew all about the parties, and so I did not trouble. And then when he went to America there was no one to inquire of. Well, we had one letter about a year after, from some place in Inja, I think, and in it they said they was going further, and mightn’t be able to write for some time. There was a directed envelope inside, and I sent off a few lines to say the wains was well. After that we never heard more, and we always thought the father and mother had got killed in the strange parts they went to. So we never told the young ’uns anything, but determined to make the best shift we could for them. Then came the day they found the body, and this is where my sore trouble began. After Elsie left me, I was still lookin’ at the poor dead thing, when it come on me like a dream that I had seen the face before. At first I couldn’t think where it was, and then I remembered the lady Kinley had brought me to see in Ballymena. I stooped down to look at her, and then I noticed the chain round her neck. There was no watch on it, but a sort of wee case that opened, and inside there was a picture and a wee bit o’ paper folded. You may be sure Mike McAravey had no thought of stealing; but when I saw some one comin’, I said to myself, ’These things belong to the wains, and if I leave ’em here they ’ll not get ‘em unless I tell all I knows.’ And my heart bled to think of the children hearing the first of their mother, when they saw her lying dead. So I slipt the chain and case into my pocket, just as George Hendrick came up. Ye remember, perhaps, I was so confused-like I didn’t know what I was doing. Maybe ye thought I was scared. Then, when we brought 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.”