It was the favorite song of his own boyish days; and while the little maiden sang it seemed to the crime-stained man who gazed through a dim haze into her cherub face, that the voice of her dead father had gone into her voice. He listened while he could, and when the tears welled up to his eyes, with his horny hands he drew her fair head down to his heaving breast, and sobbed beneath his breath, "Ailee ven, Ailee ven." The little maiden stopped in her song to look up in bewilderment at the bony, wet face that was stooping over her. At that moment the door of the room opened, and the Bishop entered noiselessly. A moment he stood on the threshold, with a look of perplexity. Then he made a few halting steps, and said: "My eyes are not what they were, sir, and I see there is no light but the firelight; but I presume you are the good Father Dalby?" Daniel Mylrea fell to his knees at the Bishop's feet. "I come from him," he answered. "Is he not coming himself?" "He can not come. He charged me with a message to you." "You are very welcome. My niece will be home presently. Be seated, sir." Daniel Mylrea did not sit, but continued to stand before his father, with head held down. After a moment he spoke again. "Father Dalby," he said, "is dead." The Bishop sunk to his chair. "When--when--" "He died the better part of a month ago." The Bishop rose to his feet. "He was in this island but yesterday." "He bade me tell you that he had fulfilled his pledge to you and come to the island, but died by the visitation of God the same night whereon he landed here." The Bishop put one hand to his forehead. "Sir," he said, "my hearing is also failing me, for, as you see, I am an old man now, and besides, I have had trouble in my time. Perhaps, sir, I did not hear you aright?" Then Daniel Mylrea told in few words the story of the priest's accident and death, and how the man at whose house he died had made bold to take the good priest's mission upon himself. The Bishop listened with visible pain, and for a while said nothing. Then, speaking in a faltering voice, with breath that came quickly, he asked who the other man had been. "For the good man has been a blessing to us," he added, nervously. To this question there was no reply, and he asked again: "Who?" "Myself." The Bishop lifted with trembling fingers his horn-bridged spectacles to his eyes. "Your voice is strangely familiar," he said. "What is your name?" Again there was no answer. "Give me your name, sir--that I may pray of God to bless you." Still there was no answer. "Let me remember it in my prayers." Then in a breaking voice Daniel Mylrea replied: "In your prayers my poor name has never been forgotten." At that the Bishop tottered a pace backward. "Light," he said, faintly. "More light." He touched a bell on the table, and sank quietly into his chair. Daniel Mylrea fell to his knees at the Bishop's feet.