One evening when he seemed to be quiet and in pain, and was taking, Kenny noticed, the medicine that marked vague periods of crisis, Adam said pensively that he had not meant to impugn the Gaelic folk lore. He liked it. It reflected the warm, poetic soul of a people. Brandy, alas, always made him quarrelsome and undependable of mood. When the rain came again and he had to have a fire, they would have more tales of the Dark Rose Kenny loved. Ireland, the Dark Rose! The name was like her history. Yes, folk lore went with the crackle of a log and the mournful music of rain upon a roof. He could have his brandy later. The rain came with its lonely patter and Kenny told him tales of Ireland, delighted at the sympathetic quiet of his mood. Unbrandied, the evenings, after all, might become endurable. "You see," Adam said once a little sadly, "without the brandy--" Kenny nodded his approval. When the clock struck nine he was in splendid fettle, brogue and all. "For Ireland's harpers," he was boasting with a reckless air of pride, "were better than any harpers in the world." "Liars?" asked Adam blankly. Kenny found his occasional pretense of deafness trying in the extreme. "Harpers!" he repeated in a loud voice. "And you heard me before." Adam nodded. "What do you mean," demanded Kenny suspiciously, "that you did hear me or you didn't?" "I did," said Adam suavely. "Both times. Go on with the story." Somewhat nettled, Kenny obeyed. Conscious, the minute he began, of a muffled whistle, he glanced sharply at his host and found his glance returned with a guileless air of inquiry. "Adam," he said, "are you whistling?" "My dear Kenny!" protested Adam. "It's the wind. I hear it myself." Somewhat suspicious, for he fancied now he read in the invalid's alertness a feline readiness to pounce, Kenny returned to the tale of the harper who proved the right of Ireland to lead the world. This time the insolent whistle, louder and a shade defiant, convinced him that his listener's mood had changed. Adam was resenting his guest's insistence upon the merits of his race by whistling "Yankee Doodle." Kenny stopped and smiled, and the whistle rang out fiercely. "A good old Irish tune, that, Adam," he said languidly. "It's 'All the way to Galway!' Funny how it came to be known as Yankee Doodle." In a fury of exasperation Adam propelled himself in his wheel-chair the length of the room and back. "You damned bragging Irishman!" he hissed. "I think you lie. You're Irish and you hate to be outdone. But I'll look it up."