The Irishman lay on his back where I had left him, still snoring tempestuously. As a rule he was a light sleeper, but this time I had to shake him again and again before he understood that it was morning. I opened the side-door, and sure enough, the day had begun. The clouds had cleared away. The sky was still ashen gray overhead, but the light from the horizon, added to the whiteness of the unaccustomed snow, rendered it quite easy to see one’s way about inside. I went to the oat-bin. Hurley, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, regarded me and my task with curiosity. “An’ is it a stovepipe for a measure ye have?” he asked. “No; it’s one of Jee Hagadorn’s boots,” I replied. “I’m filling ’em so’t they’ll swell when they’re dryin’.” He slid down off the hay as if some one had pushed him. “What’s that ye say? Haggydorn? _Ould_ Haggydorn?” he demanded. I nodded assent. “Yes, he’s inside with Abner,” I explained. “An’ he’s got on Abner’s stockin’s, an’ it looks like he’s goin’ to stay to breakfast.” Hurley opened his mouth in sheer surprise and gazed at me with hanging jaw and round eyes. “’Tis the fever that’s on ye,” he said, at last. “Ye’re wandherin’ in yer mind!” “You just go in and see for yourself,” I replied, and Hurley promptly took me at my word. He came back presently, turning the corner of the stanchions in a depressed and rambling way, quite at variance with his accustomed swinging gait. He hung his head, too, and shook it over and over again perplexedly. “Abner ‘n’ me ’ll be bringin’ in the stove,” he said.”’Tis not fit for you to go out wid that sickness on ye.” “Well, anyway,” I retorted, “you see I wasn’t wanderin’ much in my mind.” Hurley shook his head again. “Well, then,” he began, lapsing into deep brogue and speaking rapidly, “I’ve meself seen the woman wid the head of a horse on her in the lake forninst the Three Castles, an’ me sister’s first man, sure he broke down the ditch round-about the Danes’ fort on Dunkelly, an’ a foine grand young man, small for his strength an’ wid a red cap on his head, flew out an’ wint up in the sky, an’ whin he related it up comes Father Forrest to him in the potaties, an’ says he, ‘I do be suprised wid you, O’Driscoll, for to be relatin’ such loies.’ ‘I’ll take me Bible oat’ on ’em!’” says he. “‘Tis your imagination!’ says the priest. ‘No imagination at all!’ says O’Driscoll; ‘sure, I saw it wid dese two eyes, as plain as I’m lookin’ at your riverence, an’ a far grander sight it was too!’ An’ me own mother, faith, manny’s the toime I’ve seen her makin’ up dhrops for the yellow sicknest wid woodlice, an’ sayin’ Hail Marys over ’em, an’ thim same_ ‘_ud cure annything from sore teeth to a wooden leg for moiles round. But, saints help me! I never seen the loikes o’ _this!_ Haggydorn is it? _Ould_ Haggydorn! _Huh!’_” Then the Irishman, still with a dejected air, started off across the yards through the snow to the cow-barns, mumbling to himself as he went.