At the bedside stood Tim with a scowl on his face as he glared, first, on the noisy mourners, and then looked down on the white face on the pillow.

At the fireplace sat his honour, buried in thought, and not heeding the talk of the jovial priest who sat and stirred his cup beside him.

There, too, among the crowd of dirge- singing, laughing, whisky-drinking neighbours, I could see the outlandish-looking skipper of the _Cigale_.
It was a weird, woeful spectacle, and made me long more than ever for the pure, fresh breezes of the lonely headland.

But Tim looked round as I entered, and his face, till now so black and sullen, lit up as he saw me, and he beckoned me to him.

When last we parted it had been in anger and shame; now, over the body of our dead mother, we met in peace and brotherly love, and felt stronger each of us by the presence of the other.
My father, half-stupid with sorrow and whisky, roused himself and called out my name.
"Arrah, Barry, my son, are you there?
Faith, it's a sore day for the motherless lad.