“Ha, ha, ha. Well, good bye, Silas. ’Member me to the folks.” “I will so. Like’s not you’ll find ’em ’raound here sum’er’s. Be good.” “Same to you y’old rascal.” The two men shook hands and passed on and then we heard the end of a conversation on the other side of the tree—a conversation that was being carried on while two walked together. “No, Mr. Edson, a woman always feels honoured and I hope we may always be friends.” Ethel looked at me and her lips parted. It was Cherry’s voice. We waited to hear Hepburn speak but he did not do so. The steps died away and Ethel rose to her feet and looked down the pathway. Cherry was walking toward the edge of the pine woods and by her side walked a young man in whom the animation of youth seemed to be temporarily arrested. He had not spoken a word in our hearing but we knew from the shape of his back that it was Jack. “Three proposals in one day,” said Ethel in awed tones. “Well, she’s worth it,” said I, and was a little astonished that Ethel did not second my assertion. “Isn’t that Pat Casey walking with a priest?” asked Ethel suddenly. “Yes, that’s Father Hogan and Rev. Mr. Hughson told me he was one of the greatest influences for good in Egerton.” “I wonder if he will stop Pat from using profanity.” “Maybe he won’t try to.” Just then Pat left the priest, touching his cap as he did so, and a moment later he saw us and hurried over with the light little step peculiar to him, lifting his shocking bad hat as he came. “Hello, Pat,” said I. “So you are considered a good enough man to walk with Father Hogan?” His eyes twinkled. “Sure it’s honoured I am by walkin’ wid him. He’s a hell of a fine man. I was just tellin’ him so. Didn’t he walk a mile out of his way yisterday to tell me he seen me ould cow I lost, roamin’ toward Maltby. First he told them to pen it up, an’ thin he come an’ told me. He’s dam sure of Heaven, that man is! No airs on him at all an’ him a friend of Archbishop Ireland.” “Well, Pat, how’s the ould scut. Did you enter her for the race?” “Sure I did not. She got at the oats last night an’ was feelin’ so fine this marnin’ that I knew’t’d be a sure t’hing if I entered her.” He winked his eye at Ethel and then he said: “An’ how’s the cherry blossom?” “Pat, you’re a poet. She’s still on the branch.” “Egorry, it’s the lucky man that picks her. A fine gerrul. None better in Ireland an’ that’s sayin’ arl there is to be said. I suppose ye’ll be go’n’ down one of those fine days now.” “Yes, we expect to go to-morrow.”