the water just before where he figured the Bass would be. He could hear
Jimmy smothering oaths. Dannie said something himself as his untouched
bait neared the bank. He lifted it, swung it out, and slowly trailed it
in again. "Spat!" came Jimmy's minnow almost at his feet, and again the
Bass leaped for it. Again he missed. As the minnow reeled away the
second time, Dannie swung his grubs higher, and struck the water
"Spat," as the minnow had done. "Snap," went the Bass. One instant the
line strained, the next the hook came up stripped clean of bait.

Then Dannie and Jimmy really went at it, and they were strangers. Not a
word of friendly banter crossed the river. They cast until the Bass
grew suspicious, and would not rise to the bait; then they fished deep.
Then they cast again. If Jimmy fell into trouble with his reel, Dannie
had the honesty to stop fishing until it worked again, but he spent the
time burrowing for grubs until his hands resembled the claws of an
animal. Sometimes they sat, and still-fished. Sometimes, they warily
slipped along the bank, trailing bait a few inches under water. Then
they would cast and skitter by turns.

The Kingfisher struck his stump, and tilted on again. His mate, and
their family of six followed in his lead, so that their rattle was
almost constant. A fussy little red-eyed vireo asked questions, first
of Jimmy, and then crossing the river besieged Dannie, but neither of
the stern-faced fishermen paid it any heed. The blackbirds swung on the
rushes, and talked over the season. As always, a few crows cawed above
the deep woods, and the chewinks threshed about among the dry leaves. A
band of larks were gathering for migration, and the frosty air was
vibrant with their calls to each other.

Killdeers were circling above them in flocks. A half dozen robins
gathered over a wild grapevine, and chirped cheerfully, as they pecked
at the frosted fruit. At times, the pointed nose of a muskrat wove its
way across the river, leaving a shining ripple in its wake. In the deep
woods squirrels barked and chattered. Frost-loosened crimson leaves
came whirling down, settling in a bright blanket that covered the water
several feet from the bank, and unfortunate bees that had fallen into
the river struggled frantically to gain a footing on them. Water
beetles shot over the surface in small shining parties, and schools of
tiny minnows played along the banks. Once a black ant assassinated an
enemy on Dannie's shoe, by creeping up behind it and puncturing its
abdomen.

Noon came, and neither of the fishermen spoke or moved from their work.
The lunch Mary had prepared with such care they had forgotten. A little
after noon, Dannie got another strike, deep fishing. Mid-afternoon
found them still even, and patiently fishing. Then it was not so long
until supper time, and the air was steadily growing colder. The south
wind had veered to the west, and signs of a black frost were in the
air. About this time the larks arose as with one accord, and with a
whirr of wings that proved how large the flock was, they sailed
straight south.

Jimmy hauled his minnow bucket from the river, poured the water from
it, and picked his last minnow, a dead one, from the grass. Dannie was
watching him, and rightly guessed that he would fish deep. So Dannie
scooped the remaining dirt from his pockets, and found three grubs. He
placed them on his hook, lightened his sinker, and prepared to skitter
once more.

Jimmy dropped his minnow beside the Kingfisher stump, and let it sink.
Dannie hit the water at the base of the stump, where it had not been
disturbed for a long time, a sharp "Spat," with his worms. Something
seized his bait, and was gone. Dannie planted his feet firmly, squared
his jaws, gripped his rod, and loosened his line. As his eye followed
it, he saw to his amazement that Jimmy's line was sailing off down the
river beside his, and heard the reel singing.

Dannie was soon close to the end of his line. He threw his weight into
a jerk enough to have torn the head from a fish, and down the river the
Black Bass leaped clear of the water, doubled, and with a mighty shake
tried to throw the hook from his mouth.

"Got him fast, by God!" screamed Jimmy in triumph.

Straight toward them rushed the fish. Jimmy reeled wildly; Dannie
gathered in his line by yard lengths, and grasped it with the hand that
held the rod. Near them the Bass leaped again, and sped back down the
river. Jimmy's reel sang, and Dannie's line jerked through his fingers.
Back came the fish. Again Dannie gathered in line, and Jimmy reeled
frantically. Then Dannie, relying on the strength of his line thought
he could land the fish, and steadily drew it toward him. Jimmy's reel
began to sing louder, and his line followed Dannie's. Instantly Jimmy
went wild.

"Stop pullin' me little silk thrid!" he yelled. "I've got the Black
Bass hooked fast as a rock, and your domn clothes line is sawin' across
me. Cut there! Cut that domn rope! Quick!"

"He's mine, and I'll land him!" roared Dannie. "Cut yoursel', and let
me get my fish!"

So it happened, that when Mary Malone, tired of waiting for the boys to
come, and anxious as to the day's outcome, slipped down to the Wabash
to see what they were doing, she heard sounds that almost paralyzed
her. Shaking with fear, she ran toward the river, and paused at a
little thicket behind Dannie.

Jimmy danced and raged on the opposite bank. "Cut!" he yelled. "Cut
that domn cable, and let me Bass loose! Cut your line, I say!"

Dannie stood with his feet planted wide apart, and his jaws set. He
drew his line steadily toward him, and Jimmy's followed. "Ye see!"
exulted Dannie. "Ye're across me. The Bass is mine! Reel out your line
till I land him, if ye dinna want it broken."

"If you don't cut your domn line, I will!" raved Jimmy.

"Cut nothin'!" cried Dannie. "Let's see ye try to touch it!"

Into the river went Jimmy; splash went Dannie from his bank. He was
nearer the tangled lines, but the water was deepest on his side, and
the mud of the bed held his feet. Jimmy reached the crossed lines,
knife in hand, by the time Dannie was there.

"Will you cut?" cried Jimmy.

"Na!" bellowed Dannie. "I've give up every damn thing to ye all my
life, but I'll no give up the Black Bass. He's mine, and I'll land him!"

Jimmy made a lunge for the lines. Dannie swung his pole backward
drawing them his way. Jimmy slashed again. Dannie dropped his pole, and
with a sweep, caught the twisted lines in his fingers.

"Noo, let's see ye cut my line! Babby!" he jeered.

Jimmy's fist flew straight, and the blood streamed from Dannie's nose.
Dannie dropped the lines, and straightened. "You--" he panted. "You--"
And no other words came.

If Jimmy had been possessed of any small particle of reason, he lost it
at the sight of blood on Dannie's face.

"You're a domn fish thief!" he screamed.

"Ye lie!" breathed Dannie, but his hand did not lift.

"You are a coward! You're afraid to strike like a man! Hit me! You
don't dare hit me!"

"Ye lie!" repeated Dannie.

"You're a dog!" panted Jimmy. "I've used you to wait on me all me life!"

"THAT'S the God's truth!" cried Dannie. But he made no movement to
strike. Jimmy leaned forward with a distorted, insane face.

"That time you sint me to Mary for you, I lied to her, and married her
meself. NOW, will you fight like a man?"

Dannie made a spring, and Jimmy crumpled up in his grasp.

"Noo, I will choke the miserable tongue out of your heid, and twist the
heid off your body, and tear the body to mince-meat," raved Dannie, and
he promptly began the job.

With one awful effort Jimmy tore the gripping hands from his throat a
little. "Lie!" he gasped. "It's all a lie!"

"It's the truth! Before God it's the truth!" Mary Malone tried to
scream behind them. "It's the truth! It's the truth!" And her ears told
her that she was making no sound as with dry lips she mouthed it over
and over. And then she fainted, and sank down in the bushes.

Dannie's hands relaxed a little, he lifted the weight of Jimmy's body
by his throat, and set him on his feet. "I'll give ye juist ane
chance," he said. "IS THAT THE TRUTH?"

Jimmy's awful eyes were bulging from his head, his hands were clawing
at Dannie's on his throat, and his swollen lips repeated it over and
over as breath came, "It's a lie! It's a lie!"

"I think so myself," said Dannie. "Ye never would have dared. Ye'd have
known that I'd find out some day, and on that day, I'd kill ye as I
would a copperhead."

"A lie!" panted Jimmy.

"Then WHY did ye tell it?" And Dannie's fingers threatened to renew
their grip.

"I thought if I could make you strike back," gasped Jimmy, "my hittin'
you wouldn't same so bad."

Then Dannie's hands relaxed. "Oh, Jimmy! Jimmy!" he cried. "Was there
ever any other mon like ye?"

Then he remembered the cause of their trouble.

"But, I'm everlastingly damned," Dannie went on, "if I'll gi'e up the
Black Bass to ye, unless it's on your line. Get yourself up there on
your bank!"

The shove he gave Jimmy almost upset him, and Jimmy waded back, and as
he climbed the bank, Dannie was behind him. After him he dragged a
tangled mass of lines and poles, and at the last up the bank, and on
the grass, two big fish; one, the great Black Bass of Horseshoe Bend;
and the other nearly as large, a channel catfish; undoubtedly, one of
those which had escaped into the Wabash in an overflow of the Celina
reservoir that spring.

"NOO, I'll cut," said Dannie. "Keep your eye on me sharp. See me cut my
line at the end o' my pole." He snipped the line in two. "Noo watch,"
he cautioned, "I dinna want contra deection about this!"

He picked up the Bass, and taking the line by which it was fast at its
mouth, he slowly drew it through his fingers. The wiry silk line
slipped away, and the heavy cord whipped out free.

"Is this my line?" asked Dannie, holding it up.

Jimmy nodded.

"Is the Black Bass my fish? Speak up!" cried Dannie, dangling the fish
from the line.

"It's yours," admitted Jimmy.

"Then I'll be damned if I dinna do what I please wi' my own!" cried
Dannie. With trembling fingers he extracted the hook, and dropped it.
He took the gasping big fish in both hands, and tested its weight.
"Almost seex," he said. "Michty near seex!" And he tossed the Black
Bass back into the Wabash.

Then he stooped, and gathered up his pole and line.

With one foot he kicked the catfish, the tangled silk line, and the
jointed rod, toward Jimmy. "Take your fish!" he said. He turned and
plunged into the river, recrossed it as he came, gathered up the dinner
pail and shovel, passed Mary Malone, a tumbled heap in the bushes, and
started toward his cabin.

The Black Bass struck the water with a splash, and sank to the mud of
the bottom, where he lay joyfully soaking his dry gills, parched
tongue, and glazed eyes. He scooped water with his tail, and poured it
over his torn jaw. And then he said to his progeny, "Children, let this
be a warning to you. Never rise to but one grub at a time. Three is too
good to be true! There is always a stinger in their midst." And the
Black Bass ruefully shook his sore head and scooped more water.

Chapter IX

WHEN JIMMY MALONE CAME TO CONFESSION

Dannie never before had known such anger as possessed him when he
trudged homeward across Rainbow Bottom. His brain whirled in a tumult
of conflicting passions, and his heart pained worse than his swelling
face. In one instant the knowledge that Jimmy had struck him, possessed
him with a desire to turn back and do murder. In the next, a sense of
profound scorn for the cowardly lie which had driven him to the rage
that kills encompassed him, and then in a surge came compassion for
Jimmy, at the remberence of the excuse he had offered for saying that
thing. How childish! But how like Jimmy! What was the use in trying to
deal with him as if he were a man? A great spoiled, selfish baby was
all he ever would be.

The fallen leaves rustled about Dannie's feet. The blackbirds above him
in chattering debate discussed migration. A stiff breeze swept the
fields, topped the embankment, and rushed down circling about Dannie,
and setting his teeth chattering, for he was almost as wet as if he had
been completely immersed. As the chill struck in, from force of habit
he thought of Jimmy. If he was ever going to learn how to take care of
himself, a man past thirty-five should know. Would he come home and put
on dry clothing? But when had Jimmy taken care of himself? Dannie felt
that he should go back, bring him home, and make him dress quickly.

A sharp pain shot across Dannie's swollen face. His lips shut firmly.
No! Jimmy had struck him. And Jimmy was in the wrong. The fish was his,
and he had a right to it. No man living would have given it up to
Jimmy, after he had changed poles. And slipped away with a boy and
gotten those minnows, too! And wouldn't offer him even one. Much good
they had done him. Caught a catfish on a dead one! Wonder if he would
take the catfish to town and have its picture taken! Mighty fine fish,
too, that channel cat! If it hadn't been for the Black Bass, they would
have wondered and exclaimed over it, and carefully weighed it, and
commented on the gamy fight it made. Just the same he was glad, that he
landed the Bass. And he got it fairly. If Jimmy's old catfish mixed up
with his line, he could not help that. He baited, hooked, played, and
landed the Bass all right, and without any minnows either.

When he reached the top of the hill he realized that he was going to
look back. In spite of Jimmy's selfishness, in spite of the blow, in
spite of the ugly lie, Jimmy had been his lifelong partner, and his
only friend, and stiffen his neck as he would, Dannie felt his head
turning. He deliberately swung his fish pole into the bushes, and when
it caught, as he knew it would, he set down his load, and turned as if
to release it. Not a sight of Jimmy anywhere! Dannie started on.

"We are after you, Jimmy Malone!"

A thin, little, wiry thread of a cry, that seemed to come twisting as
if wrung from the chill air about him, whispered in his ear, and Dannie
jumped, dropped his load, and ran for the river. He couldn't see a sign
of Jimmy. He hurried over the shaky little bridge they had built. The
catfish lay gasping on the grass, the case and jointed rod lay on a
log, but Jimmy was gone.

Dannie gave the catfish a shove that sent it well into the river, and
ran for the shoals at the lower curve of Horseshoe Bend. The tracks of
Jimmy's crossing were plain, and after him hurried Dannie. He ran up
the hill, and as he reached the top he saw Jimmy climb on a wagon out
on the road. Dannie called, but the farmer touched up his horses and
trotted away without hearing him. "The fool! To ride!" thought Dannie.
"Noo he will chill to the bone!".

Dannie cut across the fields to the lane and gathered up his load. With
the knowledge that Jimmy had started for town came the thought of Mary.
What was he going to say to her? He would have to make a clean breast
of it, and he did not like the showing. In fact, he simply could not
make a clean breast of it. Tell her? He could not tell her. He would
lie to her once more, this one time for himself. He would tell her he
fell in the river to account for his wet clothing and bruised face, and
wait until Jimmy came home and see what he told her.

He went to the cabin and tapped at the door; there was no answer, so he
opened it and set the lunch basket inside. Then he hurried home, built
a fire, bathed, and put on dry clothing. He wondered where Mary was. He
was ravenously hungry now. He did all the evening work, and as she
still did not come, he concluded that she had gone to town, and that
Jimmy knew she was there. Of course, that was it! Jimmy could get dry
clothing of his brother-in-law. To be sure, Mary had gone to town. That
was why Jimmy went.

And he was right. Mary had gone to town. When sense slowly returned to
her she sat up in the bushes and stared about her. Then she arose and
looked toward the river. The men were gone. Mary guessed the situation
rightly. They were too much of river men to drown in a few feet of
water; they scarcely would kill each other. They had fought, and Dannie
had gone home, and Jimmy to the consolation of Casey's. WHERE SHOULD
SHE GO? Mary Malone's lips set in a firm line.

"It's the truth! It's the truth!" she panted over and over, and now
that there was no one to hear, she found that she could say it quite
plainly. As the sense of her outraged womanhood swept over her she grew
almost delirious. "I hope you killed him, Dannie Micnoun," she raved.
"I hope you killed him, for if you didn't, I will. Oh! Oh!"

She was almost suffocating with rage. The only thing clear to her was
that she never again would live an hour with Jimmy Malone. He might
have gone home. Probably he did go for dry clothing. She would go to
her sister. She hurried across the bottom, with wavering knees she
climbed the embankment, then skirting the fields, she half walked, half
ran to the village, and selecting back streets and alleys, tumbled,
half distracted, into the home of her sister.

"Holy Vargin!" screamed Katy Dolan. "Whativer do be ailin' you, Mary
Malone?"

"Jimmy! Jimmy!" sobbed the shivering Mary.

"I knew it! I knew it! I've ixpicted it for years!" cried Katy.

"They've had a fight----"

"Just what I looked for! I always told you they were too thick to last!"

"And Jimmy told Dannie he'd lied to me and married me himsilf----"

"He did! I saw him do it!" screamed Katy.

"And Dannie tried to kill him----"

"I hope to Hivin he got it done, for if any man iver naded killin'! A
carpse named Jimmy Malone would a looked good to me any time these
fiftane years. I always said----"

"And he took it back----"

"Just like the rid divil! I knew he'd do it! And of course that
mutton-head of a Dannie Micnoun belaved him, whativer he said."

"Of course he did!"

"I knew it! Didn't I say so first?"

"And I tried to scrame and me tongue stuck----"

"Sure! You poor lamb! My tongue always sticks! Just what I ixpicted!"

"And me head just went round and I keeled over in the bushes----"

"I've told Dolan a thousand times! I knew it! It's no news to me!"

"And whin I came to, they were gone, and I don't know where, and I
don't care! But I won't go back! I won't go back! I'll not live with
him another day. Oh, Katy! Think how you'd feel if some one had
siparated you and Dolan before you'd iver been togither!"

Katie Dolan gathered her sister into her arms. "You poor lamb," she
wailed. "I've known ivery word of this for fiftane years, and if I'd
had the laste idea 'twas so, I'd a busted Jimmy Malone to smithereens
before it iver happened!"

"I won't go back! I won't go back!" raved Mary.

"I guess you won't go back," cried Katy, patting every available spot
on Mary, or making dashes at her own eyes to stop the flow of tears. "I
guess you won't go back! You'll stay right here with me. I've always
wanted you! I always said I'd love to have you! I've told thim from the
start there was something wrong out there! I've ixpicted you ivry day
for years, and I niver was so surprised in all me life as whin you
came! Now, don't you shed another tear. The Lord knows this is enough,
for anybody. None at all would be too many for Jimmy Malone. You get
right into bid, and I'll make you a cup of rid-pipper tay to take the
chill out of you. And if Jimmy Malone comes around this house I'll lav
him out with the poker, and if Dannie Micnoun comes saft-saddering
after him I'll stritch him out too; yis, and if Dolan's got anything to
say, he can take his midicine like the rist. The min are all of a pace
anyhow! I've always said it! If I wouldn't like to get me fingers on
that haythen; never goin' to confission, spindin' ivrything on himself
you naded for dacent livin'! Lit him come! Just lit him come!"

Thus forestalled with knowledge, and overwhelmed with kindness, Mary
Malone cuddled up in bed and sobbed herself to sleep, and Katy Dolan
assured her, as long as she was conscious, that she always had known
it, and if Jimmy Malone came near, she had the poker ready.

Dannie did the evening work. When he milked he drank most of it, but
that only made him hungrier, so he ate the lunch he had brought back
from the river, as he sat before a roaring fire. His heart warmed with
his body. Irresponsible Jimmy always had aroused something of the
paternal instinct in Dannie. Some one had to be responsible, so Dannie
had been. Some way he felt responsible now. With another man like
himself, it would have been man to man, but he always had spoiled
Jimmy; now who was to blame that he was spoiled?

Dannie was very tired, his face throbbed and ached painfully, and it
was a sight to see. His bed never had looked so inviting, and never had
the chance to sleep been further away. With a sigh, he buttoned his
coat, twisted an old scarf around his neck, and started for the barn.
There was going to be a black frost. The cold seemed to pierce him. He
hitched to the single buggy, and drove to town. He went to Casey's, and
asked for Jimmy.

"He isn't here," said Casey.

"Has he been here?" asked Dannie.

Casey hesitated, and then blurted out, "He said you wasn't his keeper,
and if you came after him, to tell you to go to Hell."

Then Dannie was sure that Jimmy was in the back room, drying his
clothing. So he drove to Mrs. Dolan's, and asked if Mary were there for
the night. Mrs. Dolan said she was, and she was going to stay, and he
might tell Jimmy Malone that he need not come near them, unless he
wanted his head laid open. She shut the door forcibly.

Dannie waited until Casey closed at eleven, and to his astonishment
Jimmy was not among the men who came out. That meant that he had drank
lightly after all, slipped from the back door, and gone home. And yet,
would he do it, after what he had said about being afraid? If he had
not drank heavily, he would not go into the night alone, when he had
been afraid in the daytime. Dannie climbed from the buggy once more,
and patiently searched the alley and the street leading to the footpath
across farms. No Jimmy. Then Dannie drove home, stabled his horse, and
tried Jimmy's back door. It was unlocked. If Jimmy were there, he
probably would be lying across the bed in his clothing, and Dannie knew
that Mary was in town. He made a light, and cautiously entered the
sleeping room, intending to undress and cover Jimmy, but Jimmy was not
there.

Dannie's mouth fell open. He put out the light, and stood on the back
steps. The frost had settled in a silver sheen over the roofs of the
barns and the sheds, and a scum of ice had frozen over a tub of
drippings at the well. Dannie was bitterly cold. He went home, and
hunted out his winter overcoat, lighted his lantern, picked up a heavy
cudgel in the corner, and started to town on foot over the path that
lay across the fields. He followed it to Casey's back door. He went to
Mrs. Dolan's again, but everything was black and silent there. There
had been evening trains. He thought of Jimmy's frequent threat to go
away. He dismissed that thought grimly. There had been no talk of going
away lately, and he knew that Jimmy had little money. Dannie started
for home, and for a rod on either side he searched the path. As he came
to the back of the barns, he rated himself for not thinking of them
first. He searched both of them, and all around them, and then wholly
tired, and greatly disgusted, he went home and to bed. He decided that
Jimmy HAD gone to Mrs. Dolan's and that kindly woman had relented and
taken him in. Of course that was where he was.

Dannie was up early in the morning. He wanted to have the work done
before Mary and Jimmy came home. He fed the stock, milked, built a
fire, and began cleaning the stables. As he wheeled the first barrow of
manure to the heap, he noticed a rooster giving danger signals behind
the straw-stack. At the second load it was still there, and Dannie went
to see what alarmed it.

Jimmy lay behind the stack, where he had fallen face down, and as
Dannie tried to lift him he saw that he would have to cut him loose,
for he had frozen fast in the muck of the barnyard. He had pitched
forward among the rough cattle and horse tracks and fallen within a few
feet of the entrance to a deep hollow eaten out of the straw by the
cattle. Had he reached that shelter he would have been warm enough and
safe for the night.

Horrified, Dannie whipped out his knife, cut Jimmy's clothing loose and
carried him to his bed. He covered him, and hitching up drove at top
speed for a doctor. He sent the physician ahead and then rushed to Mrs.
Dolan's. She saw him drive up and came to the door.

"Send Mary home and ye come too," Dannie called before she had time to
speak. "Jimmy lay oot all last nicht, and I'm afraid he's dead."

Mrs. Dolan hurried in and repeated the message to Mary. She sat
speechless while her sister bustled about putting on her wraps.

"I ain't goin'," she said shortly. "If I got sight of him, I'd kill him
if he wasn't dead."

"Oh, yis you are goin'," said Katy Dolan. "If he's dead, you know, it
will save you being hanged for killing him. Get on these things of mine
and hurry. You got to go for decency sake; and kape a still tongue in
your head. Dannie Micnoun is waiting for us."

Together they went out and climbed into the carriage. Mary said
nothing, but Dannie was too miserable to notice.

"You didn't find him thin, last night?" asked Mrs. Dolan.

"Na!" shivered Dannie. "I was in town twice. I hunted almost all nicht.
At last I made sure you had taken him in and I went to bed. It was
three o'clock then. I must have passed often, wi'in a few yards of him."

"Where was he?" asked Katy.

"Behind the straw-stack," replied Dannie.

"Do you think he will die?"

"Dee!" cried Dannie. "Jimmy dee! Oh, my God! We mauna let him!"

Mrs. Dolan took a furtive peep at Mary, who, dry-eyed and white, was
staring straight ahead. She was trembling and very pale, but if Katy
Dolan knew anything she knew that her sister's face was unforgiving and
she did not in the least blame her.

Dannie reached home as soon as the horse could take them, and under the
doctor's directions all of them began work. Mary did what she was told,
but she did it deliberately, and if Dannie had taken time to notice her
he would have seen anything but his idea of a woman facing death for
any one she ever had loved. Mary's hurt went so deep, Mrs. Dolan had
trouble to keep it covered. Some of the neighbors said Mary was
cold-hearted, and some of them that she was stupefied with grief.

Without stopping for food or sleep, Dannie nursed Jimmy. He rubbed, he
bathed, he poulticed, he badgered the doctor and cursed his inability
to do some good. To every one except Dannie, Jimmy's case was hopeless
from the first. He developed double pneumonia in its worst form and he
was in no condition to endure it in the lightest. His labored breathing
could be heard all over the cabin, and he could speak only in gasps. On
the third day he seemed a little better, and when Dannie asked what he
could do for him, "Father Michael," Jimmy panted, and clung to Dannie's
hand.

Dannie sent a man and remained with Jimmy. He made no offer to go when
the priest came.

"This is probably in the nature of a last confession," said Father
Michael to Dannie, "I shall have to ask you to leave us alone."

Dannie felt the hand that clung to him relax, and the perspiration
broke on his temples. "Shall I go, Jimmy?" he asked.

Jimmy nodded. Dannie arose heavily and left the room. He sat down
outside the door and rested his head in his hands.

The priest stood beside Jimmy. "The doctor tells me it is difficult for
you to speak," he said, "I will help you all I can. I will ask
questions and you need only assent with your head or hand. Do you wish
the last sacrament administered, Jimmy Malone?"

The sweat rolled off Jimmy's brow. He assented.

"Do you wish to make final confession?"

A great groan shook Jimmy. The priest remembered a gay, laughing boy,
flinging back a shock of auburn hair, his feet twinkling in the lead of
the dance. Here was ruin to make the heart of compassion ache. The
Father bent and clasped the hand of Jimmy firmly. The question he asked
was between Jimmy Malone and his God. The answer almost strangled him.

"Can you confess that mortal sin, Jimmy?" asked the priest.

The drops on Jimmy's face merged in one bath of agony. His hands
clenched and his breath seemed to go no lower than his throat.

"Lied--Dannie," he rattled. "Sip-rate him--and Mary."

"Are you trying to confess that you betrayed a confidence of Dannie
Macnoun and married the girl who belonged to him, yourself?"

Jimmy assented.

His horrified eyes hung on the priest's face and saw it turn cold and
stern. Always the thing he had done had tormented him; but not until
the past summer had he begun to realize the depth of it, and it had
almost unseated his reason. But not until now had come fullest
appreciation, and Jimmy read it in the eyes filled with repulsion above
him.

"And with that sin on your soul, you ask the last sacrament and the
seal of forgiveness! You have not wronged God and the Holy Catholic
Church as you have this man, with whom you have lived for years, while
you possessed his rightful wife. Now he is here, in deathless devotion,
fighting to save you. You may confess to him. If he will forgive you,
God and the Church will ratify it, and set the seal on your brow. If
not, you die unshriven! I will call Dannie Macnoun."

One gurgling howl broke from the swollen lips of Jimmy.

As Dannie entered the room, the priest spoke a few words to him,
stepped out and closed the door. Dannie hurried to Jimmy's side.

"He said ye wanted to tell me something," said Dannie. "What is it? Do
you want me to do anything for you?"

Suddenly Jimmy struggled to a sitting posture. His popping eyes almost
burst from their sockets as he clutched Dannie with both hands. The
perspiration poured in little streams down his dreadful face.

"Mary," the next word was lost in a strangled gasp. Then came "yours"
and then a queer rattle. Something seemed to give way. "The Divils!" he
shrieked. "The Divils have got me!"

Snap! his heart failed, and Jimmy Malone went out to face his record,
unforgiven by man, and unshriven by priest.

Chapter X

DANNIE'S RENUNCIATION

So they stretched Jimmy's length on Five Mile Hill beside the three
babies that had lacked the "vital spark." Mary went to the Dolans for
the winter and Dannie was left, sole occupant of Rainbow Bottom.
Because so much fruit and food that would freeze were stored there, he
was even asked to live in Jimmy's cabin.

Dannie began the winter stolidly. All day long and as far as he could
find anything to do in the night, he worked. He mended everything about
both farms, rebuilt all the fences and as a never-failing resource, he
cut wood. He cut so much that he began to realize that it would get too
dry and the burning of it would become extravagant, so he stopped that
and began making some changes he had long contemplated. During fur time
he set his line of traps on his side of the river and on the other he
religiously set Jimmy's.

But he divided the proceeds from the skins exactly in half, no matter
whose traps caught them, and with Jimmy's share of the money he started
a bank account for Mary. As he could not use all of them he sold
Jimmy's horses, cattle and pigs. With half the stock gone he needed
only half the hay and grain stored for feeding. He disposed of the
chickens, turkeys, ducks, and geese that Mary wanted sold, and placed
the money to her credit. He sent her a beautiful little red bank book
and an explanation of all these transactions by Dolan. Mary threw the
book across the room because she wanted Dannie to keep her money
himself, and then cried herself to sleep that night, because Dannie had
sent the book instead of bringing it. But when she fully understood the
transactions and realized that if she chose she could spend several
hundred dollars, she grew very proud of that book.

About the empty cabins and the barns, working on the farms, wading the
mud and water of the river bank, or tingling with cold on the ice went
two Dannies. The one a dull, listless man, mechanically forcing a
tired, overworked body to action, and the other a self-accused murderer.

"I am responsible for the whole thing," he told himself many times a
day. "I always humored Jimmy. I always took the muddy side of the road,
and the big end of the log, and the hard part of the work, and filled
his traps wi' rats from my own; why in God's name did I let the Deil o'
stubbornness in me drive him to his death, noo? Why didna I let him
have the Black Bass? Why didna I make him come home and put on dry
clothes? I killed him, juist as sure as if I'd taken an ax and broken
his heid."

Through every minute of the exposure of winter outdoors and the torment
of it inside, Dannie tortured himself. Of Mary he seldom thought at
all. She was safe with her sister, and although Dannie did not know
when or how it happened, he awoke one day to the realization that he
had renounced her. He had killed Jimmy; he could not take his wife and
his farm. And Dannie was so numb with long-suffering, that he did not
much care. There come times when troubles pile so deep that the edge of
human feeling is dulled.

He would take care of Mary, yes, she was as much Jimmy's as his farm,
but he did not want her for himself now. If he had to kill his only
friend, he would not complete his downfall by trying to win his wife.
So through that winter Mary got very little consideration in the
remorseful soul of Dannie, and Jimmy grew, as the dead grow, by leaps
and bounds, until by spring Dannie had him well-nigh canonized.

When winter broke, Dannie had his future well mapped out. And that
future was devotion to Jimmy's memory, with no more of Mary in it than
was possible to keep out. He told himself that he was glad she was away
and he did not care to have her return. Deep in his soul he harbored
the feeling that he had killed Jimmy to make himself look victor in her
eyes in such a small matter as taking a fish. And deeper yet a feeling
that, everything considered, still she might mourn Jimmy more than she
did.

So Dannie definitely settled that he always would live alone on the
farms. Mary should remain with her sister, and at his death, everything
should be hers. The night he finally reached that decision, the
Kingfisher came home. Dannie heard his rattle of exultation as he
struck the embankment and the suffering man turned his face to the wall
and sobbed aloud, so that for a little time he stifled Jimmy's dying
gasps that in wakeful night hours sounded in his ears. Early the next
morning he drove through the village on his way to the county seat,
with a load of grain. Dolan saw him and running home he told Mary. "He
will be gone all day. Now is your chance!" he said.

Mary sprang to her feet, "Hurry!" she panted, "hurry!"

An hour later a loaded wagon, a man and three women drew up before the
cabins in Rainbow Bottom. Mary, her sister, Dolan, and a scrub woman
entered. Mary pointed out the objects which she wished removed, and
Dolan carried them out. They took up the carpets, swept down the walls,
and washed the windows. They hung pictures, prints, and lithographs,
and curtained the windows in dainty white. They covered the floors with
bright carpets, and placed new ornaments on the mantle, and comfortable
furniture in the rooms. There was a white iron bed, and several rocking
chairs, and a shelf across the window filled with potted hyacinths in
bloom. Among them stood a glass bowl, containing three wonderful little
gold fish, and from the top casing hung a brass cage, from which a
green linnet sang an exultant song.

You should have seen Mary Malone! When everything was finished, she was
changed the most of all. She was so sure of Dannie, that while the
winter had brought annoyance that he did not come, it really had been
one long, glorious rest. She laughed and sang, and grew younger with
every passing day. As youth surged back, with it returned roundness of
form, freshness of face, and that bred the desire to be daintily
dressed. So of pretty light fabrics she made many summer dresses, for
wear mourning she would not.

When calmness returned to Mary, she had told the Dolans the whole
story. "Now do you ixpict me to grieve for the man?" she asked.
"Fiftane years with him, through his lying tongue, whin by ivery right
of our souls and our bodies, Dannie Micnoun and I belanged to each
other. Mourn for him! I'm glad he's dead! Glad! Glad! If he had not
died, I should have killed him, if Dannie did not! It was a happy thing
that he died. His death saved me mortal sin. I'm glad, I tell you, and
I do not forgive him, and I niver will, and I hope he will burn----"

Katy Dolan clapped her hand over Mary's mouth. "For the love of marcy,
don't say that!" she cried. "You will have to confiss it, and you'd be
ashamed to face the praste."

"I would not," cried Mary. "Father Michael knows I'm just an ordinary
woman, he don't ixpict me to be an angel." But she left the sentence
unfinished.

After Mary's cabin was arranged to her satisfaction, they attacked
Dannie's; emptying it, cleaning it completely, and refurnishing it from
the best of the things that had been in both. Then Mary added some new
touches. A comfortable big chair was placed by his fire, new books on
his mantle, a flower in his window, and new covers on his bed. While
the women worked, Dolan raked the yards, and freshened matters outside
as best he could. When everything they had planned to do was
accomplished, the wagon, loaded with the ugly old things Mary despised,
drove back to the village, and she, with little Tilly Dolan for
company, remained.

Mary was tense with excitement. All the woman in her had yearned for
these few pretty things she wanted for her home throughout the years
that she had been compelled to live in crude, ugly surroundings;
because every cent above plainest clothing and food, went for drink for
Jimmy, and treats for his friends. Now she danced and sang, and flew
about trying a chair here, and another there, to get the best effect.
Every little while she slipped into her bedroom, stood before a real
dresser, and pulled out its trays to make sure that her fresh, light
dresses were really there. She shook out the dainty curtains
repeatedly, watered the flowers, and fed the fish when they did not
need it. She babbled incessantly to the green linnet, which with
swollen throat rejoiced with her, and occasionally she looked in the
mirror.

She lighted the fire, and put food to cook. She covered a new table,
with a new cloth, and set it with new dishes, and placed a jar of her
flowers in the center. What a supper she did cook! When she had waited
until she was near crazed with nervousness, she heard the wagon coming
up the lane. Peeping from the window, she saw Dannie stop the horses
short, and sit staring at the cabins, and she realized that smoke would
be curling from the chimney, and the flowers and curtains would change
the shining windows outside. She trembled with excitement, and than a
great yearning seized her, as he slowly drove closer, for his brown
hair was almost white, and the lines on his face seemed indelibly
stamped. And then hot anger shook her. Fifteen years of her life
wrecked, and look at Dannie! That was Jimmy Malone's work.

Over and over, throughout the winter, she had planned this home-coming
as a surprise to Dannie. Book-fine were the things she intended to say
to him. When he opened the door, and stared at her and about the
altered room, she swiftly went to him, and took the bundles he carried
from his arms.

"Hurry up, and unhitch, Dannie," she said. "Your supper is waiting."

And Dannie turned and stolidly walked back to his team, without
uttering a word.

"Uncle Dannie!" cried a child's voice. "Please let me ride to the barn
with you!"

A winsome little maid came rushing to Dannie, threw her arms about his
neck, and hugged him tight, as he stooped to lift her. Her yellow curls
were against his cheek, and her breath was flower-sweet in his face.

"Why didn't you kiss Aunt Mary?" she demanded. "Daddy Dolan always
kisses mammy when he comes from all day gone. Aunt Mary's worked so
hard to please you. And Daddie worked, and mammy worked, and another
woman. You are pleased, ain't you, Uncle Dannie?"

"Who told ye to call me Uncle?" asked Dannie, with unsteady lips.

"She did!" announced the little woman, flourishing the whip in the
direction of the cabin. Dannie climbed down to unhitch. "You are goin'
to be my Uncle, ain't you, as soon as it's a little over a year, so
folks won't talk?"

"Who told ye that?" panted Dannie, hiding behind a horse.

"Nobody told me! Mammy just SAID it to Daddy, and I heard," answered
the little maid. "And I'm glad of it, and so are all of us glad. Mammy
said she'd just love to come here now, whin things would be like white
folks. Mammy said Aunt Mary had suffered a lot more'n her share. Say,
you won't make her suffer any more, will you?"

"No," moaned Dannie, and staggered into the barn with the horses. He
leaned against a stall, and shut his eyes. He could see the bright
room, plainer than ever, and that little singing bird sounded loud as
any thunder in his ears. And whether closed or open, he could see Mary,
never in all her life so beautiful, never so sweet; flesh and blood
Mary, in a dainty dress, with the shining, unafraid eyes of girlhood.
It was that thing which struck Dannie first, and hit him hardest. Mary
was a careless girl again. When before had he seen her with neither
trouble, anxiety or, worse yet, FEAR, in her beautiful eyes?

And she had come to stay. She would not have refurnished her cabin
otherwise. Dannie took hold of the manger with both hands, because his
sinking knees needed bracing.

"Dannie," called Mary's voice in the doorway, "has my spickled hin
showed any signs of setting yet?"

"She's been over twa weeks," answered Dannie. "She's in that barrel
there in the corner."

Mary entered the barn, removed the prop, lowered the board, and
kneeling, stroked the hen, and talked softly to her. She slipped a hand
under the hen, and lifted her to see the eggs. Dannie staring at Mary
noted closer the fresh, cleared skin, the glossy hair, the delicately
colored cheeks, and the plumpness of the bare arms. One little wisp of
curl lay against the curve of her neck, just where it showed rose-pink,
and looked honey sweet. And in one great surge, the repressed stream of
passion in the strong man broke, and Dannie swayed against his horse.
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he caught at the harness
to steady himself, while he strove to grow accustomed to the fact that
Hell had opened in a new form for him. The old heart hunger for Mary
Malone was back in stronger force than ever before; and because of him
Jimmy lay stretched on Five Mile Hill.

"Dannie, you are just fine!" said Mary. "I've been almost wild to get
home, because I thought iverything would be ruined, and instid of that
it's all ixactly the way I do it. Do hurry, and get riddy for supper.
Oh, it's so good to be home again! I want to make garden, and fix my
flowers, and get some little chickens and turkeys into my fingers."

"I have to go home, and wash, and spruce up a bit, for ladies," said
Dannie, leaving the barn.

Mary made no reply, and it came to him that she expected it. "Damned if
I will!" he said, as he started home. "If she wants to come here, and
force herself on me, she can, but she canna mak' me."

Just then Dannie stepped in his door, and slowly gazed about him. In a
way his home was as completely transformed as hers. He washed his face
and hands, and started for a better coat. His sleeping room shone with
clean windows, curtained in snowy white. A freshly ironed suit of
underclothing and a shirt lay on his bed. Dannie stared at them.

"She think's I'll tog up in them, and come courtin'" he growled. "I'll
show her if I do! I winna touch them!"

To prove that he would not, Dannie caught them up in a wad, and threw
them into a corner. That showed a clean sheet, fresh pillow, and new
covers, invitingly spread back. Dannie turned as white as the pillow at
which he stared.

"That's a damn plain insinuation that I'm to get into ye," he said to
the bed, "and go on living here. I dinna know as that child's jabber
counts. For all I know, Mary may already have picked out some town dude
to bring here and farm out on me, and they'll live with the bird cage,
and I can go on climbin' into ye alone."

Here was a new thought. Mary might mean only kindness to him again, as
she had sent word by Jimmy she meant years ago. He might lose her for
the second time. And again a wave of desire struck Dannie, and left him
staggering.

"Ain't you comin', Uncle Dannie?" called the child's voice at the back
door.

"What's your name, little lass?" inquired Dannie.

"Tilly," answered the little girl promptly.

"Well, Tilly, ye go tell your Aunt Mary I have been in an eelevator
handlin' grain, and I'm covered wi' fine dust and chaff that sticks me.
I canna come until I've had a bath, and put on clean clothing. Tell her
to go ahead."

The child vanished. In a second she was back. "She said she won't do
it, and take all the time you want. But I wish you'd hurry, for she
won't let me either."

Dannie hurried. But the hasty bath and the fresh clothing felt so good
he was in a softened mood when he approached Mary's door again. Tilly
was waiting on the step, and ran to meet him. Tilly was a dream.
Almost, Dannie understood why Mary had brought her. Tilly led him to
the table, and pulled back a chair for him, and he lifted her into
hers, and as Mary set dish after dish of food on the table, Tilly
filled in every pause that threatened to grow awkward with her chatter.
Dannie had been a very lonely man, and he did love Mary's cooking.
Until then he had not realized how sore a trial six months of his own
had been.

"If I was a praying mon, I'd ask a blessing, and thank God fra this
food," said Dannie.

"What's the matter with me?" asked Mary.

"I have never yet found anything," answered Dannie. "And I do thank ye
fra everything. I believe I'm most thankful of all fra the clean
clothes and the clean bed. I'm afraid I was neglectin' myself, Mary."

"Will, you'll not be neglected any more," said Mary. "Things have
turned over a new leaf here. For all you give, you get some return,
after this. We are going to do business in a businesslike way, and
divide even. I liked that bank account, pretty will, Dannie. Thank you,
for that. And don't think I spint all of it. I didn't spind a hundred
dollars all togither. Not the price of one horse! But it made me so
happy I could fly. Home again, and the things I've always wanted, and
nothing to fear. Oh, Dannie, you don't know what it manes to a woman to
be always afraid! My heart is almost jumping out of my body, just with
pure joy that the old fear is gone."

"I know what it means to a mon to be afraid," said Dannie. And vividly
before him loomed the awful, distorted, dying face of Jimmy.

Mary guessed, and her bright face clouded.

"Some day, Dannie, we must have a little talk," she said, "and clear up
a few things neither of us understand. 'Til thin we will just farm, and
be partners, and be as happy as iver we can. I don't know as you mean
to, but if you do, I warn you right now that you need niver mintion the
name of Jimmy Malone to me again, for any reason."

Dannie left the cabin abruptly.

"Now you gone and made him mad!" reproached Tilly.

During the past winter Mary had lived with other married people for the
first time, and she had imbibed some of Mrs. Dolan's philosophy.

"Whin he smells the biscuit I mane to make for breakfast, he'll get
glad again," she said, and he did.

But first he went home, and tried to learn where he stood. WAS HE TRULY
RESPONSIBLE FOR JIMMY'S DEATH? Yes. If he had acted like a man, he
could have saved Jimmy. He was responsible. Did he want to marry Mary?
Did he? Dannie reached empty arms to empty space, and groaned aloud.
Would she marry him? Well, now, would she? After years of neglect and
sorrow, Dannie knew that Mary had learned to prefer him to Jimmy. But
almost any man would have been preferable to a woman, to Jimmy. Jimmy
was distinctly a man's man. A jolly good fellow, but he would not deny
himself anything, no matter what it cost his wife, and he had been very
hard to live with. Dannie admitted that. So Mary had come to prefer him
to Jimmy, that was sure; but it was not a question between him and
Jimmy, now. It was between him, and any marriageable man that Mary
might fancy.

He had grown old, and gray, and wrinkled, though he was under forty.
Mary had grown round, and young, and he had never seen her looking so
beautiful. Surely she would want a man now as young, and as fresh as
herself; and she might want to live in town after a while, if she grew
tired of the country. Could he remember Jimmy's dreadful death, realize
that he was responsible for it, and make love to his wife? No, she was
sacred to Jimmy. Could he live beside her, and lose her to another man
for the second time? No, she belonged to him. It was almost daybreak
when Dannie remembered the fresh bed, and lay down for a few hours'
rest.

But there was no rest for Dannie, and after tossing about until dawn he
began his work. When he carried the milk into the cabin, and smelled
the biscuit, he fulfilled Mary's prophecy, got glad again, and came to
breakfast. Then he went about his work. But as the day wore on, he
repeatedly heard the voice of the woman and the child, combining in a
chorus of laughter. From the little front porch, the green bird warbled
and trilled. Neighbors who had heard of her return came up the lane to
welcome a happy Mary Malone. The dead dreariness of winter melted
before the spring sun, and in Dannie's veins the warm blood swept up,
as the sap flooded the trees, and in spite of himself he grew gladder
and yet gladder.

He now knew how he had missed Mary. How he had loathed that empty,
silent cabin. How remorse and heart hunger had gnawed at his vitals,
and he decided that he would go on just as Mary had said, and let
things drift; and when she was ready to have the talk with him she had
mentioned, he would hear what she had to say. And as he thought over
these things, he caught himself watching for furrows that Jimmy was not
making on the other side of the field. He tried to talk to the robins
and blackbirds instead of Jimmy, but they were not such good company.
And when the day was over, he tried not to be glad that he was going to
the shining eyes of Mary Malone, a good supper, and a clean bed, and it
was not in the heart of man to do it.

The summer wore on, autumn came, and the year Tilly had spoken of was
over. Dannie went his way, doing the work of two men, thinking of
everything, planning for everything, and he was all the heart of Mary
Malone could desire, save her lover. By little Mary pieced it out.
Dannie never mentioned fishing; he had lost his love for the river. She
knew that he frequently took walks to Five Mile Hill. His devotion to
Jimmy's memory was unswerving. And at last it came to her, that in
death as in life, Jimmy Malone was separating them. She began to
realize that there might be things she did not know. What had Jimmy
told the priest? Why had Father Michael refused to confess Jimmy until
he sent Dannie to him? What had passed between them? If it was what she
had thought all year, why did it not free Dannie to her? If there was
something more, what was it?

Surely Dannie loved her. Much as he had cared for Jimmy, he had vowed
that everything was for her first. She was eager to be his wife, and
something bound him. One day, she decided to ask him. The next, she
shrank in burning confusion, for when Jimmy Malone had asked for her
love, she had admitted to him that she loved Dannie, and Jimmy had told
her that it was no use, Dannie did not care for girls, and that he had
said he wished she would not thrust herself upon him. On the strength
of that statement Mary married Jimmy inside five weeks, and spent years
in bitter repentance.

That was the thing which held her now. If Dannie knew what she did, and
did not care to marry her, how could she mention it? Mary began to grow
pale, and lose sleep, and Dannie said the heat of the summer had tired
her, and suggested that she go to Mrs. Dolan's for a weeks rest. The
fact that he was willing, and possibly anxious to send her away for a
whole week, angered Mary. She went.

Chapter XI

THE POT OF GOLD

Mary had not been in the Dolan home an hour until Katy knew all she
could tell of her trouble. Mrs. Dolan was practical. "Go to see Father
Michael," she said. "What's he for but to hilp us. Go ask him what
Jimmy told him. Till him how you feel and what you know. He can till
you what Dannie knows and thin you will understand where you are at."

Mary was on the way before Mrs. Dolan fully finished. She went to the
priest's residence and asked his housekeeper to inquire if he would see
her. He would, and Mary entered his presence strangely calm and
self-possessed. This was the last fight she knew of that she could make
for happiness, and if she lost, happiness was over for her. She had
need of all her wit and she knew it. Father Michael began laughing as
he shook hands.

"Now look here, Mary," he said, "I've been expecting you. I warn you
before you begin that I cannot sanction your marriage to a Protestant."

"Oh, but I'm going to convart him!" cried Mary so quickly that the
priest laughed harder than ever.

"So that's the lay of the land!" he chuckled. "Well, if you'll
guarantee that, I'll give in. When shall I read the banns?"

"Not until we get Dannie's consint," answered Mary, and for the first
her voice wavered.

Father Michael looked his surprise. "Tut! Tut!" he said. "And is Dannie
dilatory?"

"Dannie is the finest man that will ever live in this world," said
Mary, "but he don't want to marry me."

"To my certain knowledge Dannie has loved you all your life," said
Father Michael. "He wants nothing here or hereafter as he wants to
marry you."

"Thin why don't he till me so?" sobbed Mary, burying her burning face
in her hands.

"Has he said nothing to you?" gravely inquired the priest.

"No, he hasn't and I don't belave he intinds to," answered Mary, wiping
her eyes and trying to be composed. "There is something about Jimmy
that is holding him back. Mrs. Dolan thought you'd help me."

"What do you want me to do, Mary?" asked Father Michael.

"Two things," answered Mary promptly. "I want you to tell me what Jimmy
confissed to you before he died, and then I want you to talk to Dannie
and show him that he is free from any promise that Jimmy might have got
out of him. Will you?"

"A dying confession--" began the priest.

"Yes, but I know--" broke in Mary. "I saw them fight, and I heard Jimmy
till Dannie that he'd lied to him to separate us, but he turned right
around and took it back and I knew Dannie belaved him thin; but he
can't after Jimmy confissed it again to both of you."

"What do you mean by 'saw them fight?'" Father Michael was leaning
toward Mary anxiously.

Mary told him.

"Then that is the explanation to the whole thing," said the priest.
"Dannie did believe Jimmy when he took it back, and he died before he
could repeat to Dannie what he had told me. And I have had the feeling
that Dannie thought himself in a way to blame for Jimmy's death."

"He was not! Oh, he was not!" cried Mary Malone. "Didn't I live there
with them all those years? Dannie always was good as gold to Jimmy. It
was shameful the way Jimmy imposed on him, and spint his money, and
took me from him. It was shameful! Shameful!"

"Be calm! Be calm!" cautioned Father Michael. "I agree with you. I am
only trying to arrive at Dannie's point of view. He well might feel
that he was responsible, if after humoring Jimmy like a child all his
life, he at last lost his temper and dealt with him as if he were a
man. If that is the case, he is of honor so fine, that he would
hesitate to speak to you, no matter what he suffered. And then it is
clear to me that he does not understand how Jimmy separated you in the
first place."

"And lied me into marrying him, whin I told him over and over how I
loved Dannie. Jimmy Malone took iverything I had to give, and he left
me alone for fiftane years, with my three little dead babies, that died
because I'd no heart to desire life for thim, and he took my youth, and
he took my womanhood, and he took my man--" Mary arose in primitive
rage. "You naden't bother!" she said. "I'm going straight to Dannie
meself."

"Don't!" said Father Michael softly. "Don't do that, Mary! It isn't the
accepted way. There is a better! Let him come to you."

"But he won't come! He don't know! He's in Jimmy's grip tighter in
death than he was in life." Mary began to sob again.

"He will come," said Father Michael. "Be calm! Wait a little, my child.
After all these years, don't spoil a love that has been almost
unequaled in holiness and beauty, by anger at the dead. Let me go to
Dannie. We are good friends. I can tell him Jimmy made a confession to
me, that he was trying to repeat to him, when punishment, far more
awful than anything you have suffered, overtook him. Always remember,
Mary, he died unshriven!" Mary began to shiver. "Your suffering is
over," continued the priest. "You have many good years yet that you may
spend with Dannie; God will give you living children, I am sure. Think
of the years Jimmy's secret has hounded and driven him! Think of the
penalty he must pay before he gets a glimpse of paradise, if he be not
eternally lost!"

"I have!" exclaimed Mary. "And it is nothing to the fact that he took
Dannie from me, and yet kept him in my home while he possessed me
himsilf for years. May he burn----"

"Mary! Let that suffice!" cried the priest. "He will! The question now
is, shall I go to Dannie?"

"Will you till him just what Jimmy told you? Will you till him that I
have loved him always?"

"Yes," said Father Michael.

"Will you go now?"

"I cannot! I have work. I will come early in the morning."

"You will till him ivirything?" she repeated.

"I will," promised Father Michael.

Mary went back to Mrs. Dolan's comforted. She was anxious to return
home at once, but at last consented to spend the day. Now that she was
sure Dannie did not know the truth, her heart warmed toward him. She
was anxious to comfort and help him in the long struggle which she saw
that he must have endured. By late afternoon she could bear it no
longer and started back to Rainbow Bottom in time to prepare supper.

For the first hour after Mary had gone Dannie whistled to keep up his
courage. By the second he had no courage to keep. By the third he was
indulging in the worst fit of despondency he ever had known. He had
told her to stay a week. A week! It would be an eternity! There alone
again! Could he bear it? He got through to mid-afternoon some way, and
then in jealous fear and foreboding he became almost frantic. One way
or the other, this thing must be settled. Fiercer raged the storm
within him and at last toward evening it became unendurable.

At its height the curling smoke from the chimney told him that Mary had
come home. An unreasoning joy seized him. He went to the barn and
listened. He could hear her moving about preparing supper. As he
watched she came to the well for water and before she returned to the
cabin she stood looking over the fields as if trying to locate him.
Dannie's blood ran hotly and his pulses were leaping. "Go to her! Go to
her now!" demanded passion, struggling to break leash. "You killed
Jimmy! You murdered your friend!" cried conscience, with unyielding
insistence. Poor Dannie gave one last glance at Mary, and then turned,
and for the second time he ran from her as if pursued by demons. But
this time he went straight to Five Mile Hill, and the grave of Jimmy
Malone.

He sat down on it, and within a few feet of Jimmy's bones, Dannie took
his tired head in his hands, and tried to think, and for the life of
him, he could think but two things. That he had killed Jimmy, and that
to live longer without Mary would kill him. Hour after hour he fought
with his lifelong love for Jimmy and his lifelong love for Mary. Night
came on, the frost bit, the wind chilled, and the little brown owls
screeched among the gravestones, and Dannie battled on. Morning came,
the sun arose, and shone on Dannie, sitting numb with drawn face and
bleeding heart.

Mary prepared a fine supper the night before, and patiently waited, and
when Dannie did not come, she concluded that he had gone to town,
without knowing that she had returned. Tilly grew sleepy, so she put
the child to bed, and presently she went herself. Father Michael would
make everything right in the morning. But in the morning Dannie was not
there, and had not been. Mary became alarmed. She was very nervous by
the time Father Michael arrived. He decided to go to the nearest
neighbor, and ask when Dannie had been seen last. As he turned from the
lane into the road a man of that neighborhood was passing on his wagon,
and the priest hailed him, and asked if he knew where Dannie Macnoun
was.

"Back in Five Mile Hill, a man with his head on his knees, is a-settin'
on the grave of Jimmy Malone, and I allow that would be Dannie Macnoun,
the damn fool!" he said.

Father Michael went back to the cabin, and told Mary he had learned
where Dannie was, and to have no uneasiness, and he would go to see him
immediately.

"And first of all you'll tell him how Jimmy lied to him?"

"I will!" said the priest.

He entered the cemetery, and walked slowly to the grave of Jimmy
Malone. Dannie lifted his head, and stared at him.

"I saw you," said Father Michael, "and I came in to speak with you." He
took Dannie's hand. "You are here at this hour to my surprise."

"I dinna know that ye should be surprised at my comin' to sit by Jimmy
at ony time," coldly replied Dannie. "He was my only friend in life,
and another mon so fine I'll never know. I often come here."

The priest shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and then he
sat down on a grave near Dannie. "For a year I have been waiting to
talk with you," he said.

Dannie wiped his face, and lifting his hat, ran his fingers through his
hair, as if to arouse himself. His eyes were dull and listless. "I am
afraid I am no fit to talk sensibly," he said. "I am much troubled.
Some other time----"

"Could you tell me your trouble?" asked Father Michael.

Dannie shook his head.

"I have known Mary Malone all her life," said the priest softly, "and
been her confessor. I have known Jimmy Malone all his life, and heard
his dying confession. I know what it was he was trying to tell you when
he died. Think again!"

Dannie Macnoun stood up. He looked at the priest intently. "Did ye come
here purposely to find me?"

"Yes."

"What do ye want?"

"To clear your mind of all trouble, and fill your heart with love, and
great peace, and rest. Our Heavenly Father knows that you need peace of
heart, and rest, Dannie."

"To fill my heart wi' peace, ye will have to prove to me that I'm no
responsible fra the death of Jimmy Malone; and to give it rest, ye will
have to prove to me that I'm free to marry his wife. Ye can do neither
of those things."

"I can do both," said the priest calmly. "My son, that is what I came
to do."

Dannie's face grew whiter and whiter, as the blood receded, and his big
hands gripped at his sides.

"Aye, but ye canna!" he cried desperately. "Ye canna!"

"I can," said the priest. "Listen to me! Did Jimmy get anything at all
said to you?"

"He said, 'Mary,' then he choked on the next word, then he gasped out
'yours,' and it was over."

"Have you any idea what he was trying to tell you?"

"Na!" answered Dannie. "He was mortal sick, and half delirious, and I
paid little heed. If he lived, he would tell me when he was better. If
he died, nothing mattered, fra I was responsible, and better friend mon
never had. There was nothing on earth Jimmy would na have done for me.
He was so big hearted, so generous! My God, how I have missed him! How
I have missed him!"

"Your faith in Jimmy is strong," ventured the bewildered priest, for he
did not see his way.

Dannie lifted his head. The sunshine was warming him, and his thoughts
were beginning to clear.

"My faith in Jimmy Malone is so strong," he said, "that if I lost it, I
never should trust another living mon. He had his faults to others, I
admit that, but he never had ony to me. He was my friend, and above my
life I loved him. I wad gladly have died to save him."

"And yet you say you are responsible for his death!"

"Let me tell ye!" cried Dannie eagerly, and began on the story the
priest wanted to hear from him. As he finished Father Michael's face
lighted.

"What folly!" he said, "that a man of your intelligence should torture
yourself with the thought of responsibility in a case like that. Any
one would have claimed the fish in those circumstances. Priest that I
am, I would have had it, even if I fought for it. Any man would! And as
for what followed, it was bound to come! He was a tortured man, and a
broken one. If he had not lain out that night, he would a few nights
later. It was not in your power to save him. No man can be saved from
himself, Dannie. Did what he said make no impression on you?"

"Enough that I would have killed him with my naked hands if he had na
taken it back. Of course he had to retract! If I believed that of
Jimmy, after the life we lived together, I would curse God and mon, and
break fra the woods, and live and dee there alone."

"Then what was he trying to tell you when he died?" asked the
bewildered priest.

"To take care of Mary, I judge."

"Not to marry her; and take her for your own?"

Dannie began to tremble.

"Remember, I talked with him first," said Father Michael, "and what he
confessed to me, he knew was final. He died before he could talk to
you, but I think it is time to tell you what he wanted to say.
He--he--was trying--trying to tell you, that there was nothing but love
in his heart for you. That he did not in any way blame you. That--that
Mary was yours. That you were free to take her. That----"

"What!" cried Dannie wildly. "Are ye sure? Oh, my God!"

"Perfectly sure!" answered Father Michael. "Jimmy knew how long and
faithfully you had loved Mary, and she had loved you----"

"Mary had loved me? Carefu', mon! Are ye sure?"

"I know," said Father Michael convincingly. "I give you my priestly
word, I know, and Jimmy knew, and was altogether willing. He loved you
deeply, as he could love any one, Dannie, and he blamed you for nothing
at all. The only thing that would have brought Jimmy any comfort in
dying, was to know that you would end your life with Mary, and not hate
his memory."

"Hate!" cried Dannie. "Hate! Father Michael, if ye have come to tell me
that Jimmy na held me responsible fra his death, and was willing fra me
to have Mary, your face looks like the face of God to me!" Dannie
gripped the priest's hand. "Are ye sure? Are ye sure, mon?" He almost
lifted Father Michael from the ground.

"I tell you, I know! Go and be happy!"

"Some ither day I will try to thank ye," said Dannie, turning away.
"Noo, I'm in a little of a hurry." He was half way to the gate when he
turned back. "Does Mary know this?" he asked.

"She does," said the priest. "You are one good man, Dannie, go and be
happy, and may the blessing of God go with you."

Dannie lifted his hat.

"And Jimmy, too," he said, "put Jimmy in, Father Michael."

"May the peace of God rest the troubled soul of Jimmy Malone," said
Father Michael, and not being a Catholic, Dannie did not know that from
the blessing for which he asked.

He hurried away with the brightness of dawn on his lined face, which
looked almost boyish under his whitening hair.

Mary Malone was at the window, and turmoil and bitterness were
beginning to burn in her heart again. Maybe the priest had not found
Dannie. Maybe he was not coming. Maybe a thousand things. Then he WAS
coming. Coming straight and sure. Coming across the fields, and leaping
fences at a bound. Coming with such speed and force as comes the strong
man, fifteen years denied. Mary's heart began to jar, and thump, and
waves of happiness surged over her. And then she saw that look of dawn,
of serene delight on the face of the man, and she stood aghast. Dannie
threw wide the door, and crossed her threshold with outstretched arms.

"Is it true?" he panted. "That thing Father Michael told me, is it
true? Will ye be mine, Mary Malone? At last will you be mine? Oh, my
girl, is the beautiful thing that the priest told me true?"

"THE BEAUTIFUL THING THAT THE PRIEST TOLD HIM!"

Mary Malone swung a chair before her, and stepped back. "Wait!" she
cried sharply. "There must be some mistake. Till me ixactly what Father
Michael told you?"

"He told me that Jimmy na held me responsible fra his death. That he
loved me when he died. That he was willing I should have ye! Oh, Mary,
wasna that splendid of him. Wasna he a grand mon? Mary, come to me. Say
that it's true! Tell me, if ye love me."

Mary Malone stared wide-eyed at Dannie, and gasped for breath.

Dannie came closer. At last he had found his tongue. "Fra the love of
mercy, if ye are comin' to me, come noo, Mary" he begged. "My arms will
split if they dinna get round ye soon, dear. Jimmy told ye fra me,
sixteen years ago, how I loved ye, and he told me when he came back how
sorry ye were fra me, and he--he almost cried when he told me. I never
saw a mon feel so. Grand old Jimmy! No other mon like him!"

Mary drew back in desperation.

"You see here, Dannie Micnoun!" she screamed. "You see here----"

"I do," broke in Dannie. "I'm lookin'! All I ever saw, or see now, or
shall see till I dee is 'here,' when 'here' is ye, Mary Malone. Oh! If
a woman ever could understand what passion means to a mon! If ye knew
what I have suffered through all these years, you'd end it, Mary
Malone."

Mary gave the chair a shove. "Come here, Dannie," she said. Dannie
cleared the space between them. Mary set her hands against his breast.
"One minute," she panted. "Just one! I have loved you all me life, me
man. I niver loved any one but you. I niver wanted any one but you. I
niver hoped for any Hivin better than I knew I'd find in your arms.
There was a mistake. There was an awful mistake, when I married Jimmy.
I'm not tillin' you now, and I niver will, but you must realize that!
Do you understand me?"

"Hardly," breathed Dannie. "Hardly!"

"Will, you can take your time if you want to think it out, because
that's all I'll iver till you. There was a horrible mistake. It was YOU
I loved, and wanted to marry. Now bend down to me, Dannie Micnoun,
because I'm going to take your head on me breast and kiss your dear
face until I'm tired," said Mary Malone.

An hour later Father Michael came leisurely down the lane, and the
peace of God was with him.

A radiant Mary went out to meet him.

"You didn't till him!" she cried accusingly. "You didn't till him!"

The priest laid a hand on her head.

"Mary, the greatest thing in the whole world is self-sacrifice," he
said. "The pot at the foot of the rainbow is just now running over with
the pure gold of perfect contentment. But had you and I done such a
dreadful thing as to destroy the confidence of a good man in his
friend, your heart never could know such joy as it now knows in this
sacrifice of yours; and no such blessed, shining light could illumine
your face. That is what I wanted to see. I said to myself as I came
along, 'She will try, but she will learn, as I did, that she cannot
look in his eyes and undeceive him. And when she becomes reconciled,
her face will be so good to see.' And it is. You did not tell him
either, Mary Malone!"

End of Project Gutenberg's At the Foot of the Rainbow, by Gene Stratton-Porter