“I met Michael when I came through the garden,” David told Betsey, “and when I let him know what had happened he seemed dreadfully upset. He just sat down on the bench and groaned out, ‘I knew that fellow would be coming here to make some mischief, but I never knew quite what it would be. And with me watching and watching for him, he slipped in just the same. I was certain just some such unlucky thing would happen, I have been feeling it this long time back.’ Poor Michael, he will probably be saying charms and repeating spells for good luck all night now.” “Did you stay long enough on the wall to—to see anything?” Betsey asked hesitatingly. “No,” he answered, “I waited minute after minute, but the Thing was so slow, and what you said had worried me too, so in the end I came away. I will have to try again.” It was very late, so that David, after some lingering and wishing that he could be of service, took his leave, Betsey walking with him as far as the gate. Here, in the moonlight they came upon Michael, sitting on a three-legged stool, his pipe in his hand and the collar of his worn coat turned up against the dews of the spring night. “It is best that I should just wait here for a while,” he explained. “I heard a step in the lane and was afraid that blackguard might be back again. Ah, what did I tell you?” For a figure had come into the moonlit open and Donald Reynolds had laid a hand on the gate. “You will not be entering here, sir,” declared Michael severely. “You have lived up, this night, to what I always thought of you, but you have had your fling and done your work and that has been enough.” Donald shrugged his shoulders. “You seem to have the place well guarded,” he responded, “and I only came back for one thing. They gave me some letters at the post office for my uncle when I was getting my own, earlier in the day. Somehow I forgot to leave them, so, when I found them in my pocket, I brought them back rather than have a delay on my conscience. I will be going away early in the morning.” He gave the letters to Elizabeth, who took them mechanically. “And—and how is my uncle now?” he asked hesitatingly; “if I had only known—if there is anything I can do—” “You were always a cruel one with your tongue, Mr. Donald,” Michael interrupted him drily, “and you should have learned by now that where words have hurt, words cannot heal. It is against the nature of things.” “I see, Michael, that you are the same stiff-necked old bigot still,” returned the other. “Do you remember how Ted and I caught you burning three feathers of the black cock’s tail on Midsummer Eve, to keep off bad luck for the year? Do you do such things still?” “To burn the whole black cock would not lift the ill luck falling on the house that shelters you,” retorted Michael hotly, “and if I do such things still it is no concern of yours. But you will not be entering this gate. Good night, sir.”