The priest had been a true prophet and a good doctor, and perhaps it was well for all parties concerned that the dispensary M.D. had been dispensed with. Emon now recovered his strength every day more and more. The wound in his head had completely healed. There was scarcely a mark left of where it had been, unless you blew his beautiful soft hair aside, when a slight hard ridge was just perceptible. Father Farrell had procured him a permanent job of some weeks, at rather an increase of wages from what was "going" at the time, for the spring business was now over and work was slack. But a gentleman who had recently purchased a small property in that part of the country, and intended to reside, had commenced alterations in the laying-out of the grounds about his "mansion;" and meeting Father Farrell one day, asked him if he could recommend a smart, handy man for a tolerably long job. There would be a good deal of "skinning" and cutting of sods, {101} levelling hillocks, and filling up hollows, and wheeling of clay. For the latter portion of the work, the man should have help. What he wanted was a tasty, handy fellow, who would understand quickly what was required as it was explained to him. Father Farrell, as the gentleman said all this, thought that he must have actually had Emon-a-knock in his mind's eye. He was the very man on every account, and the priest at once recommended him. This job would soon make up for all the time poor Emon had lost with his broken head. And for his intelligence and taste Father Farrell had gone bail. Thus it was that Emon after all had not broken the pound-note, but, in spite of the priest, had hoarded it as a trophy of Winny's love.