A queer stitch came in Shane's heart--a song his father made! And following the stitch came a surge of pride. Those songs of his father! The light minor he had heard, and the others--the surge of _An Oig-bhean Ruaddh_, the Pretty Red Maiden: "_Se, do bheatha is an tir seo"_.... A welcome before you into this country, O sea-gull more lovely than the queen, than the woman of the West, whom Naesi, son of Usnach, held in the harbor. I could destroy all Ireland, as far as the Southern sea, but in the end I would be destroyed myself, when my eyes would alight on the white swan with the golden crown.... Or the despairing cry of his poem _Ig Cathair nan g Ceo_: "In the City of the Fogs"--he meant London-- "_A athair nan gras tabhair spas o'n eag domh_--O Father of the Graces, give me a little respite from death. Let the ax not yet strike my forehead, the way a goat or a pig or a sheep is slain, until I make my humility and my last repentance." Shane wished to God he had known his father, that the man had been spared a little until he could have loved him.... He had the only picture of him left.... Great throat and pale, liquor-harried face, burning eyes, and black tossing hair.... The bald-headed bankers might shake their heads and say: He was no good ... he was a rake ... he drank ... his relations with women were not reputable.... And old maids purse their thin-blooded lips.... But when the little money of the bankers was scattered through the world, and even their little chapels had forgotten them, and the stiff bones of old maids were crumbling into an unnecessary dust, his father's songs would be sung in Ireland, in Man, in the Scottish Highlands, in the battered Hebrides. So long as sweet Gaelic was spoken and men's hearts surged with feeling, there would be a song of his father's to translate the effervescence into words of cadenced beauty.... He had an irreverent vision of God smiling and talking comfortably to his father while the bald-headed bankers cooled their fat heels and glared at one another outside the picket-gates of heaven.... The world had gained something with the last Gaelic bard.... And he had found out, too, that his other uncle, Robin More, had a great importance in a certain circle. In Dublin he met an old professor, a Jesuit priest, who seemed intensely excited that a nephew of Robin More Campbell's should be present. "Do you know, by any chance, what your uncle was working on when he died?" "I'm afraid I do not, sir." "You know his manuscripts." "Just casually, sentimentally." "You don't know much about your uncle's work, then?" "Not very much." "Did you know," the old priest said--and his urbanity disappeared; there was pique in his tones--"that your uncle was the man who definitely decided for us that the Highlanders of Scotland migrated from Ireland to Scotland? Did you know that?" "No, sir, I did not." "I don't suppose," the old man was sarcastic, "that seems important to you."