CHAPTER XX.
"Thus far," said Malachi of the Long Glen, "the story of Marco Polo." "That is a warm story, Malachi of the Glen, a warm and colored story, and great life to it, and Golden Bells is as alive to me as herself there by the fire, and I can see Marco Polo as plain as I can see my cousin Randall, and he playing with dogs..." "If they weren't real and live and warm, what would a story be, Brian Oge, but a jumble of dead words?
A house with nobody in it, the poorest thing in the world." "But Marco Polo came back to Venice, Malachi, and fought in the sea-wars." "There's more to tell, Brian Oge.

But sometimes I wonder shouldn't the best part of the story be kept to yourself.

The people aren't as wise as they used to be, brown lad.

The end of a story now is a bit of kissing and courting and the kettle boiling to be making tea.
"But the older ones were wiser, Brian Donn.

They knew that the rhythm of life is long and swinging, and that time doesn't stop short as a clock.