“‘Ere, it ain’t no use,” said Henry to him the day he got to Wady Halfa. “‘Ere, old pal, it ain’t no use. You ‘ave to take your gruel, an’ you ‘ave to take it alone. What I want to tell yer quiet and friendly, old pal, is that yer drawfted out--all the way out--for good.” “‘Sh-did ye think I wasn’t knowin’ it, me b’y?” Macnamara’s face clouded. “Did ye think I wasn’t knowin’ it? Go an’ lave me alone,” he added quickly. Henry Withers went out pondering, for he was sure it was not mere dying that fretted Macnamara. The next day the end of it all came. Henry Withers had pondered, and his mind was made up to do a certain thing. Towards evening he sat alone in the room where Macnamara lay asleep--almost his very last sleep. All at once Macnamara’s eyes opened wide. “Kitty, Kitty, me darlin’,” he murmured vaguely. Then he saw Henry Withers. “I’m dyin’,” he said, breathing heavily. “Don’t call anny one, Hinry,” he added brokenly. “Dyin’s that aisy--aisy enough, but for wan thing.” “‘Ere, speak out, Pete.” “Sure, there’s no wan but you, Withers, not a wife nor a child av me own to say, ‘Poor Peter Macnamara, he is gone.”’ “There’s one,” said Henry Withers firmly. “There’s one, old pal.” “Who’s that?” said Macnamara huskily. “Kitty.” “She’s no wife,” said Macnamara, shaking his head. “Though she’d ha’ been that, if it hadn’t been for Mary Malone.” “She’s mine, an’ she ‘as the marriage lines,” said Henry Withers. “An’ there’s a kid-wich ain’t mine--born six months after! ‘Oo says no kid won’t remark, ‘Poor Peter Macnamara, ‘ee is gone, wich’ee was my fader!”’ Macnamara trembled; the death-sweat dropped from his forehead as he raised himself up. “Kitty--a kid av mine--and she married to Hinry Withers--an’ you saved me, too!--” Macnamara’s eyes were wild. Henry Withers took his hand. “‘Ere, it’s all right, old pal,” he said cheerfully. “What’s the kid’s name?” said Macnamara. “Peter--same as yours.” The voice was scarce above a breath. “Sure, I didn’t know at all. An’ you forgive me, Hinry darlin’, you forgive me?” “I’ve nothing to forgive,” said Henry Withers. A smile lighted the blanched face of the dying man. “Give me love to the b’y--to Peter Macnamara,” he said, and fell back with a smile on his face. “I’d do it again. Wot’s a lie so long as it does good?” said Henry Withers afterwards to Holgate the engineer. “But tell ‘er--tell Kitty--no fear! I ain’t no bloomin’ fool. ‘E’s ‘appy--that’s enough. She’d cut me ‘eart out, if she knowed I’d lied that lie.” THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS I