He moved toward the fireplace and turned slowly about again to his father. "You were saying," he asked, "that that place of McKenna's was for sale. I wonder how much he 'd want for it." "He 'd take four thousand pounds," his father answered. "Maybe less." "I 'm afraid I have n't got that much." Grant shook his head. "I 've only two thousand." "We can lend you the difference, Willie John," Joe broke in. He squinted down the barrel of the rifle. "Can't we, Dad?" "Ay sure!" his father answered. "I 'm much obliged to both of you," Grant said. He reached for his hat. "Are you going out, Willie John?" his mother asked. "I thought I 'd go up and call on Eunice Doran," Grant answered her. "I might as well be neighborly." He went out, and there was silence in the kitchen for a few minutes. Joe clicked the lock of the gun. "Do you mind that wild gander I put a ring on three years ago?" he asked his father. "It's back again. I saw it over the marshes to-day." "It 'll take a mate and settle down in the marsh now." His father nodded. "It took it three years to find out that home is a good place. It's a queer, silly bird--the barnacle goose." A little ripple of laughter came from the mother's lips as she stood over and poked the turf. The elder Grant looked up, astonished. "What are you laughing at, Sarah Ann?" he inquired. "I was thinking," she answered. "What was it you were thinking about?" he pursued. "Oh nothing!" she parried. "I was just thinking." And she went on teasing the fire, while a subtle, affectionate smile played about the corners of her eyes. BELFASTERS "Oh, I'll go down unto Belfast to see that seaport gay."--A COUNTRY POET. To him the whole conversation, the whole setting, the whole event, was unreal as ghosts are unreal, or objects on a foggy night. Here was this woman, who had been so nigh to him, and to whom he had been so much, talking of leaving him, in as matter-of-fact a manner as though she were speaking of taking a street-car. Here was the murk of a February evening in Belfast, the minute rain yellowing the street-lamps; the cable-cars rushing by brusquely and short-temperedly, a "get out of the way and be damned to you!" in their crashing, abrupt passage. She was thinking of leaving him, she was thinking of leaving him for good, all because of a strike, mind you! just for nothing more than a strike! "Well, I 'd best be going," she said. "Well--" He shifted from one foot to the other. "I think it's very foolish of you," he said. She smiled, as he looked at her, that strange secret smile of hers that meant she had drawn into herself. He knew every expression on her face--for a year now. "What is it you want me to do?" he asked for the fourth time. "Give the workers in the mill what they want. They ask only bare justice. A couple o' shillings a week! What is it to you?" "I will not." He shook his head. His great red beard shook too.