"Aw, lave it to me to know Mastha--I mean--_him_" "I must go in, Davy. Good-night to you, and thank you--Good-night, and--" the plaintive tenderness of her voice broke down to a sob. "Oh, what can it all mean?" she exclaimed more vehemently. Davy turned away. The low moan of the sea came up through the dark night. V It happened that after service the next morning the Bishop and Thorkell walked out of the chapel side by side. "We are old men now, Gilcrist," said Thorkell, "and should be good friends together." "That is so," the Bishop answered. "We've both lost a son, and can feel for each other." The Bishop made no reply. "We're childless men, in fact." "There's Mona, God bless her!" the Bishop said, very softly. "True, true," said Thorkell, and there was silence for a moment. "It was partly her fault when she left me--partly, I say;--don't you think so, Gilcrist?" said Thorkell, nervously. "She's a dear, sweet soul," the Bishop said. "It's true." They stepped on a few paces, and passed by the spot whereon the two fishermen laid down their dread burden from the Mooragh seven years before. Then Thorkell spoke again and in a feverish voice. "D'ye know, Gilcrist, I sometimes awake in the night crying 'Ewan! Ewan!'" The Bishop did not answer, and Thorkell, in another tone, asked when the Irish priest was to reach Michael. "He may be here to-morrow," the Bishop said. Thorkell shuddered. "It must be that God is revenging himself upon us with this fearful scourge." "It dishonors God to say so," the Bishop replied. "He is calling upon us to repent." There was another pause, and then Thorkell asked what a man should do to set things right in this world if perchance he had taken a little more in usury than was fair and honest. "Give back whatever was more than justice," said the Bishop promptly. "But that is often impossible, Gilcrist." "If he has robbed the widow, and she is dead, let him repay the fatherless." "It is impossible--I tell you, Gilcrist, it is impossible--impossible." As they were entering the house Thorkell asked if there was truth in the rumor that the wells had been charmed. "To believe such stories is to be drawn off from a trust in God and a dependence on his good providence," said the Bishop. "But I must say, brother, that strange things are known to happen. Now I myself have witnessed extraordinary fulfilments." "Superstition is a forsaking of God, whom we have most need to fly to in trouble and distress," the Bishop answered. "True--very true--I loathe it; but still it's a sort of religion, isn't it, Gilcrist?" "So the wise man says--as the ape is a sort of a man." VI