"I've the boat here for you, sir," I ventured to say, for I guessed the morning would be too late. "Leave her there, and go up to the house. You may sleep in the kitchen." What could I do? For the first time that night I knew for certain I hated his honour. My mother's dying message was nothing to him. And she, poor soul, lay in the cabin alone. Knockowen was a poor shambling sort of house. Strangers wondered why Maurice Gorman, who owned Kilgorman as well, chose to live in this place instead of the fine mansion near the lough mouth. But to the country people this was no mystery. Kilgorman had an evil name, and for twelve years, since its late master died, had stood desolate and empty-- tenanted only, so it was said, by a wandering ghost, and no place for decent Christian folk to dwell in. As I lay curled up that stormy night in his honour's kitchen, I could not help thinking of the strange lights I had seen as I rowed in by the shore. Where did they come from, and what did they mean? I shuddered, and said one prayer more as I thought of it. Then my curiosity got the better of me, and I crept to the window and looked out. The wind howled dismally, but the sky was clearing, and the moon raced in and out among the clouds. Away down across the lough I could see the dim outline of Fanad, below which was the little home where, for all I knew, my mother at that moment lay dead. And opposite it loomed out the grey bleak hill below which, even by this half light, I fancied I could detect the black outline of Kilgorman standing grimly in the moonlight. It may have been fancy, but as I looked I even thought I could see once more moving lights between the water's edge and the house, and I slunk back to my corner by the fire with a shiver. Presently, his honour came in with a candle. He had evidently been up all night, and looked haggard and anxious. "Get up," said he, "and make the boat ready." I rose to obey, when he called me back. "Come here," said he harshly. And he held the candle to my face and stared hard at me. It was a sinister, sneering face that looked into mine, and as I returned the stare my looks must have betrayed the hatred that was in my mind. "Which of Gallagher's boys are you?" he demanded. "Barry, plaze your honour." "How old are you?" "I think twelve, sir--the same as Tim." For Tim and I were twins. He looked hard at me again, and then said, "What was it your mother sent word?" "She said would your honour plaze to come quick, for she felt like dying, and wished to spake to you before." "Was that all?" "Indeed, sir, she talked queerly the night about a dead lassie, and called on your honour to save my father, if you plaze, sir." He went to a cupboard and poured himself out a glass of raw whisky and drank it. Then he beckoned to me to follow him down to the boat. CHAPTER TWO. A LOAD OF TURNIPS. Mr Gorman seated himself silently in the stern, while I shoved off, and hauled up the sail.