When Molly and Sheila Pat had gone to bed, the others sat around the fire and talked. Jim came down from the curtain rod, sat on the hearth-rug, and gazed into the fire. Occasionally he glanced up with his bright little eyes from one to another. He obviously took part in the conversation. Nell began to feel that she had known Ted for years and years. She discovered that he had no near relations except his father and the aunt and cousins she had seen. Filling the gaps he left, she made out that his father was absorbed in the game of speculation; that he was always going to and fro between London and New York on business; that Ted often did not even know his address. When Ted departed, Denis went with him to the corner. Coming back alone, he lifted his beautiful voice in "The Wearing o’ the Green," and, oblivious of the heads thrust from windows, strolled slowly towards his gate. Whereupon Miss Kezia was wroth on three counts: his being so absurd as to have gone to the corner; his going with no coat or hat on; and his singing in that disgraceful manner at that time of night in the streets. Poor Denis! He had been used to sing always when he felt inclined at Kilbrannan. Nell had often listened with delight to his voice as it rang and echoed amongst their beloved hills. She had often joined in, too. All his excuse now was—"It’s such a glorious moonlight night!" And he went up unabashed to Nell. She was standing staring thoughtfully into the fire. "Denis," she said slowly, "all he could find to say good about his father was that he ’gives him a jolly good allowance!’" "Yes, poor beggar." Silence. "Denis, he seemed to enjoy it all so!" "Yes." Longer pause. Then, tragically:— "Denis, he—_doesn’t hang out a Christmas stocking_!" *CHAPTER XVI* "Oh, Denis!" said Nell. "What have you been up to now?"