"I am past eighty years old, my darling," he answered. "God knows I have not been fit to learn of the best of men, else I might now be one of the wisest of mankind. I have lived in the great days of France, but I tell you plain, I have lived in none that are fuller of the seeds of greatness than these. I live now in my sons, and our Irish veins are full of soldier’s blood. ’T is Tir-nan-Og here,—the country of the young. My boys have their mother’s energy, thank God! As for me, my little school is more alive than I. There is always a bright child in every flock, for whose furthering a man may well spend himself. ’T is a long look back; the light of life shone bright with me in its beginning, but the oil in the old lamp is burning low. My forbears were all short-lived, but the rest of their brief days are added to the length of mine." "’T is not every man has made so many others fit to take their part in life," said Mary. "Think of your own sons, master!" "Ay, my sons," said the old man, pleased to the heart, "and they have their mother’s beauty and energy to couple with their sad old father’s gift of dreams. The princes of Beare and Bantry are cousins to the Banshee, and she whispers me many things. I sometimes fear that my son John, the general, has too much prudence. The Whisperer and Prudence are not of kin." There was a new silence then; and when Master Sullivan spoke again, it was with a sharp, questioning look in his eyes. "What said your little admiral at parting? I heard that he was fretted with the poor outfitting of his ship, and sailed away with scant thanks to the authorities. Prudence cannot deal with such a man as that. What of our boy Roger? How fares the poor mother since she lost him out of her sight? ’T was anxious news they brought me of his going; when my first pride had blazed down, you might have seen an old man’s tears." Mary looked up; she flushed and made as if she would speak, but remained silent. "You ’ll never make soldier or sailor of him, boy or man; the Lord meant him for a country gentleman," said the master warningly; and at this moment all Mary’s hopes of reassurance fell to the ground. "My son John is a soldier born," he continued coldly; "he could tell you where the troops were placed in every battle, from old Troy down to the siege of Louisburg." Mary began to speak, and again something ailed her throat. She turned and looked toward the fireside, where the old housemother was knitting now, and humming a strange old Irish tune to herself; she had left them to themselves as much as if she were miles away. "Incipit vita nova," said the master under his breath, and went on as if he were unobservant of Mary’s startled look.