had the opportunity (which did not often occur) of seeing him in a good light, without the big slouched felt hat which he generally wore, noticed, first, that his forehead was not only very white, but of the height and width which lead one to expect an intellect above the average; and, secondly, that, though the slightly curling hair was still brown and thick, there was a curious bald spot on the crown of the head. It was whispered that he was a priest who had gone mad and taken to a vagabond life. He called himself Finnerty, and his mates had, of their own accord, dubbed him "Pat.” Some of the navvies lodged in the town, but the greater number lived in a huge shanty or "bothy," built within a short distance of the line. These collectively engaged the services of an elderly and stalwart Irish widow to cook their meals and wash their shirts. There was a similar bothy at a village some six miles away, whence another gang, working towards the town, were bringing a fresh instalment of the line to meet that which was gradually advancing from it.

It was in the "bothy" that Pat Finnerty, so called, laid his head at night, and a queer character its inmates voted him. He would sometimes spend his evenings strolling along the shore, in a way which conclusively established the fact of his being "a bit cracked," if not absolutely insane; for, especially on moonlight nights, he would frequently prolong his rambles so far as only to return when the whole establishment was asleep, and what man in his senses would do that after a hard day's work? Then, again, he possessed some most unusual portable property-no less than a violin (a good one, too, if they had known it) and two or three books in queer outlandish characters-and sometimes, when it was not his humour to wander abroad, he would sit on the edge of his bed-place (the sides of the building were fitted with bunks, like a ship's cabin) and play weird tunes on the one, or study the others by the light of a tallow candle stuck in a bottle, till the navvies felt quite uncanny, and the more superstitious among his countrymen crossed themselves.

But he did not invariably act thus. Sometimes he joined with cheery good-fellowship in the conversation; and, without for a moment assuming a preaching tone, or seeming other than one of themselves, he insensibly introduced a purer atmosphere into the bothy. The talk there was apt not only to be garnished with oaths, but to consist of matter quite worthy of such garnish. Nobody could remember to have heard Pat utter a word of rebuke, or in any way "bear testimony," as some people call it; but every man there knew that he did not like that sort of thing, and very soon it became the fashion to discontinue it in his presence. They liked him, in spite of the

creepy" feeling he sometimes inspired-he had the genial goodhumour of his race, and when he laid himself out to be sociable he was simply irresistible. He would play and sing to them-he possessed a mellow baritone voice and an endless repertory of songs, sentimental and humorous; he would tell Irish stories that made the most saturnine hold their sides. Even when he was only bearing his part in the general talk, his ready wit and keen repartee-keen, yet always kindly-were the life of the party; and more than one dull brain began to get a hazy glimmering of the notion that it was possible to be "jolly " without "going on the spree," as that process is generally understood. And they were filled with a kind of rough pity at the sight of those occasional fits of silence and dejection which they attributed to the influence of his supposed mental disorder.

He was on friendly terms with all, more or less; yet there was a certain something about him which precluded any of those free and easy intimacies which men, thrown together in rough circumstances, are apt to fall into. No one felt that he could venture to question him about his private affairs or his past; they felt, without being able to explain or define the feeling, that this man, who treated them all so frankly as comrades-even brothers-was yet, in some ways, infinitely far away from them-all of them, that is to say, but one.

This one was down on the overseer's books as George Collins, though nobody who ever gave the matter a thought supposed that to be his real name. After all, who cared whether he had a real name, or what it was, or why he did not choose to be known by it? He was usually known as "Crusty," an abbreviation of "Upper Crust," a name which combined a reference to an evident descent in the social scale on his part with an implied allusion to his fastidiousness, reticence, and scarcely disguised dislike of their society. No one cared to inquire into the history which probably lay behind him. Men with histories more or less serious were not uncommon in the railway gangs, and this one had none of the attractions and interesting points which stimulated curiosity in the case of the mad Irish priest.

George Collins never made himself remarkable in any way by his conduct. He neither got drunk nor quarrelled with any one, nor otherwise called for notice. He was not strong, and scarcely equal to the work; but he had contrived to struggle through so far, and meant to keep on as long as he could. Perhaps he hoped that one day strength and life would fail together.

He might have been six or seven and twenty. His face had been handsome, and still bore a certain look of refinement; but hardship

and anxiety had left their traces all too distinctly, and he habitually wore a half sullen, half terrified expression.

There were those, less forbearing and inoffensive than himself, to whom his want of sociability appeared in the light of a standing insult, and who would decidedly have preferred a quarrelsome to a silent companion; but against these he had secured an efficient protector ever since the day of "Pat Finnerty's" arrival. That eccentric person stood up for him at the very first opportunity, and thus earned his lasting gratitude; and the two soon drew together. The wit, intellect, and scholarship which pierced, every now and then, through the Irishman's quaint disguise could not escape the eye of an educated man, though by the coarse, untrained minds which surrounded him they were confounded with the crack-brained vagaries of a harmless madman. Collins was not a specially intellectual man, but he could feel all this, and appreciate still more the gentle heart and the warm sympathy for every living thing which Finnerty could no more disguise than the star can help shining. They had never hitherto said very much to each other, but the lonely, dispirited young fellow clung to the Irishman as his only friend.

It was a burning day in August. For once in a way there had been a whole week without either rain or east wind-the wind which drives delicate mortals to fires and fur capes in the middle of July and the inhabitants of St. Andrews felt as if they were enjoying quite a tropical summer. Collins got through his work that day with a heavy heart. He was not strong, as we have said, though of late he had been getting more accustomed to the labour. Perhaps, too, the exercise in the open air and Finnerty's cheerful companionship, which raised his spirits and took him out of himself, had combined to do him good. But to-day he felt overpowered by a physical exhaustion such as he had not felt for long. His head swam, and when from time to time he was forced to stop and take breath his knees shook under him. twice he felt near fainting, but he pulled himself together by a determined effort. He was not going to "give himself away" like that before his mates, whose rough chaff even now fell on his ear, though he paid no attention to it. Finnerty was nowhere near; he happened to be working on another part of the line that day. Collins had missed him a good deal of late-he had absented himself from the bothy several evenings in succession, little knowing what a difference it made to one lonely man. He struggled on, with aching back and burning throat, and repeated to himself

Once or

mechanically from time to time some lines he had heard somewhere long ago

Be the day weary, or be the day long,

At the last it ringeth to evensong.

They had come floating into his mind-he knew not whence—and the ring of them pleased him somehow.

At last the day was over. The men trooped noisily back to the bothy, like boys just out of school, tired and hot as they were. Collins followed more slowly, but quickened his listless pace a little as he looked round for Finnerty; but Finnerty was nowhere to be seen. He was in that state of mind-or rather of nerves-when even a slight disappointment seems to darken our whole sky. He knew that he would probably find his friend at the bothy a little later; but he had reckoned on meeting him just then, and on the walk back together, and, for the moment, to his tired brain the whole universe seemed out of gear.

But when he reached the bothy Finnerty was not there. A fresh detachment arrived. He looked through them eagerly, then turned aside; and, slipping away from the preparations for supper which were going on, sat down on his bunk in the corner, feeling sick and wretched. They were talking excitedly. He paid no heed to their words at first; then a sentence here and there forced itself on his ear, and as he began to attach a meaning to the words his heart stood still. There had been an accident a little way up the line. A trolly loaded with earth had somehow been upset, and had fallen down the side of the embankment. Two men had been in the way, and were badly injured. No, there were three. One was killed. They had taken them to the hospital. Who were they? Tyneside Bill was one; the others The buzz of talk grew louder. Collins only caught Finnerty's name. He could bear it no longer. He hurried out, his weariness quite forgotten, and began walking as quickly as he could towards the place where he understood the accident to have happened. People were standing about in groups, talking excitedly, but he did not stop to listen. Intent only on reaching the spot, he did not notice a man coming from another direction, who hastened towards him and caught him by the arm, saying—

66

Indeed, and where are ye after hurrying to now?"

"Oh! it's you!" cried Collins, catching his breath. "I thought . . They told me . . Where have you been all this time?"

"Is it a ghost you've been seeing, George, me boy?" asked Finnerty, looking at him narrowly. "Is it myself you were looking for? I've only been with some of the boys to take Simmons to the

hospital. The doctor says he's broken one of the bones in his arm; but it's not a bad break, and he'll be all right before very long."

"And you're not hurt?" asked Collins.

"The sorrow a bit! barrin' that meself and two other fellows got a hape of dirt spilt on us, that knocked us clane down; but no harm. done. Come now, or we'll not get anything to ate. You're not looking well," he suddenly added, as he turned to get a better view of his companion's face.

"I've not been feeling well to-day, but I'm better now. It's the heat, I think."

Finnerty was clamorously greeted as he entered, and assailed with a hundred questions as to the accident and its causes and effects, which he answered as well as he could for some time, and then suddenly exclaimed, "Och, thin! get away wid yez; ye'll be the death of me... Where's the tay?"

Collins drank a cup of tea, as soon as he could get it, with feverish eagerness, and, yielding to his friend's persuasions, tried to eat; but Mrs. Flanagan's fried bacon and eggs failed to tempt him, though hot off the fire, and as soon as he could he slipped away and threw himself on his bed.

"Play us a spring, Paddy," was the general request when the somewhat irregular meal was over; and "Paddy," nothing loth, produced his violin, and, sitting down on the edge of his bunk, struck into "Tullochgorum." Then he played another tune, and yet another jigs and reels and strathspeys-and by-and-by he forgot all about his audience, and went on, long after they were snoring in their respective bed-places, playing soft, dreamy music to himself. And as he played, his face—if any had been there to look at it—was no longer the face of Pat Finnerty, navvy, but the face of Lawrence Ahearne, T.C.D., first of his year in classics, of whom one of the professors had once said, "If that fellow doesn't end in an asylum, I expect it will be in a Trappist monastery."

They were not all asleep, however. He was stopped in the middle of a chord in the "Dark Rosaleen" by becoming aware that some one had sat down on the ground beside him, and was leaning his head against his knee.

"Is it you, my boy?" he asked softly, as he continued his playing.

The Irishman did not answer; but as the low notes died away on the air, his hand-a strong, capable, tender hand, though roughened