People were laughing and talking nervously, keeping an anxious look-out towards the spot where the submarine had disappeared; scarcely realizing that their peril was past, and that the grey hunter would not again reveal itself, hurrying upon their track. The destroyer shot past them, seeking the enemy, with signal flags talking busily to the mail-boat. A comforting sense of security was in her wake. “Well!” said Jim. “We left England to find peace and quiet; but if this is a specimen of what Ireland means to give us——” “We’d better get back to the peaceful marshes of Flanders,” finished Wally. “I used to think when I was at home—at Billabong—that excitement would be nice,” said Norah. “But it isn’t—not a bit: or else I’ve had an overdose. At any rate, I don’t want any more as long as I live.” A little sigh came from behind her, and her father made a sudden movement, springing to the side of the priest. The old man was swaying backwards and forwards. They caught him, and laid him gently on the deck. His lips parted, and he tried to speak, but no sound came. “Go and look for a doctor,” said Mr. Linton to Wally. “Quick!” He tore at the old man’s collar, while Norah rubbed his hands desperately. It seemed the only thing she could do. A little life came into the white face, and his voice came faintly. “’Tis the finish for me—don’t worry . . . my heart.” He smiled at them. “And the doctor after telling me not to get excited.” “Don’t talk,” Norah begged. “It can’t hurt me. Don’t mind, little one.” He saw the tears in her eyes, and tightened his hand on her fingers. “’Tis a good ending. I wouldn’t ask for a better.” Wally came back, a young man in uniform, with the R.A.M.C. badge on his collar, at his heels. The doctor bent over the old priest. Presently he rose, shaking his head as he met David Linton’s eyes. “There’s nothing to be done,” he said, softly. The old man’s hearing was no less acute. “’Tis myself could have told you that,” he said. “I knew . . . next time it came. And . . . when a man’s ready . . .” His voice became almost inaudible, murmuring broken words of prayer. Behind them Jim had formed a line of soldiers, keeping off the curious crowd. Presently he spoke again. “It’s easy, dying. Only it would be easier if I’d seen it again . . . Ireland.” “We’re very near,” Norah told him, pityingly. “Near! And not to see it!” He tried to rise, helplessly. “Ah, but let me look—let me look!” David Linton’s eyes met the doctor’s. “It can’t hurt him,” whispered the doctor. “Nothing can do that now.” They lifted him, very gently. Ahead, the hills of Wicklow were green and near. The grey sky had broken, and a little shaft of sunlight stole out and lay upon the coast. It was as though Ireland smiled to welcome back her son. The dark eyes looked long and wistfully. Once he smiled at Norah; and then looked back quickly, as though to lose no instant of home. Presently his lips parted in broken words.