to lay a hand on any of them. He stood in despair, trembling from head to foot. He realized that what he would do he must do quickly.

The morning had swift wings—it was flying away. Some one would be out for the cows ere long and his last chance would be gone. He dropped the can and ran to the farm-house. There was a stack-yard in the rear. He entered and took a rope from a stack. It was a long rope—too long for his use, but he did not want to destroy its usefulness. He dragged it through the hedge after him. This time with care and caution he got near enough to throw the rope over the horns of a cow. Leading her to a fence he tied her to it and began again. It came slowly. His strength was almost gone. He went from one side to the other—now at one tit, now at another. From his haunches he went to his knees and from that position he stretched out his legs and sat flat on the grass. He no sooner had a good position than the cow would change hers. She trampled on his legs and swerved from side to side, but he held on. It was a life and death struggle. The little milk at the bottom of the can gave him strength and courage. As he literally pulled it out of her his strength increased. When the can was half full he turned the cow loose and made for the gap in the hedge. Within a yard of it he heard the loud report of a gun and the can dropped to the ground. The ball had plowed through both lugs of the can disconnecting the wire handle. Not much of the milk was lost. He picked up the can and started down the road as fast as his legs could take him. He had only gone a hundred yards when a man stepped out into the road and leveled a gun at him.

"Another yard an' I'll blow yer brains out!" the man said.

"Is this yer milk?" Jamie asked.

"Aye, an' well ye know it's m' milk!"

Jamie put the can down on the road and stood silent. The farmer delivered himself of a volume of profane abuse. Jamie did not reply. He stood with his head bowed and to all appearances in a mood of penitence.

When the man finished his threats and abuse he stooped to pick up the can. Before his hand touched it Jamie sprang at him with the ferocity of a panther. There was a life and death tussle for a few seconds and both men went down on the road—Jamie on top. Sitting on the man's chest he took a wrist in each hand and pinned him to the ground.

"Ye think I'm a thief," he said to the man as he looked at him with eyes that burned like live coals. "I'm not, I'm an honest maan, but I haave a chile dying wi' hunger—now it's your life or his, by —— an' ye'll decide!"

"I think yer a liar as well as a thief," the man said, "but if we can prove what ye say I'm yer friend."

"Will ye go with me?"

"Aye."

"D'ye mane it?"

"Aye, I do!"

"I'll carry th' gun."

"Ye may, there's nothin' in it."

"There's enough in th' butt t' batther a maan's brains out."

Jamie seized the gun and the can and the man got up.

They walked down the road in silence, each watching the other out of the corners of his eyes.

"D'ye believe in God?" Jamie asked abruptly. The farmer hesitated before answering.

"Why d'ye ask?"

"I'd like t' see a maan in these times that believed wi' his heart insted ov his mouth!"

"Wud he let other people milk his cows?" asked the man, sneeringly.

"He mightn't haave cows t' milk," Jamie said. "But he'd be kind and not a glutton!"

They arrived at the house. The man went in first. He stopped near the door and Jamie instinctively and in fear shot past him. What he saw dazed him. "Ah, God!" he exclaimed. "She's dead!"

Anna lay on her back on the floor and the boy was asleep by the hearth with his head in the ashes. The neighbors were alarmed and came to assist. The farmer felt Anna's pulse. It was feebly fluttering.

"She's not dead," he said. "Get some cold wather quickly!" They dashed the water in her face and brought her back to consciousness. When she looked around she said:

"Who's this kind man come in to help, Jamie?"

"He's a farmer," Jamie said, "an' he's brot ye a pint ov nice fresh milk!" The man had filled a cup with milk and put it to Anna's lips. She refused. "He's dying," she said, pointing to the boy, who lay limp on the lap of a neighbor. The child was drowsy and listless. They gave him the cup of milk. He had scarcely enough strength to drink. Anna drank what was left, which was very little.

"God bless you!" Anna said as she held out her hand to the farmer.

"God save you kindly," he answered as he took her hand and bowed his head.

"I've a wife an' wains myself," he continued, "but we're not s' bad off on a farm." Turning to Jamie he said: "Yer a Protestant!"

"Aye."

"An' I'm a Fenian, but we're in t' face ov bigger things!"

He extended his hand. Jamie clasped it, the men looked into each other's faces and understood.

That night in the dusk, the Fenian farmer brought a sack of potatoes and a quart of fresh milk and the spark of life was prolonged.

CHAPTER III

REHEARSING FOR THE SHOW

amine not only carried off a million of the living, but it claimed also the unborn. Anna's second child was born a few months after the siege was broken, but the child had been starved in its mother's womb and lived only three months. There was no wake. Wakes are for older people. There were no candles to burn, no extra sheet to put over the old dresser, and no clock to stop at the moment of death.

The little wasted thing lay in its undressed pine coffin on the table and the neighbors came in and had a look. Custom said it should be kept the allotted time and the tyrant was obeyed. A dozen of those to whom a wake was a means of change and recreation came late and planted themselves for the night.

"Ye didn't haave a hard time wi' th' second, did ye, Anna?" asked Mrs. Mulholland.

"No," Anna said quietly.

"Th' hard times play'd th' divil wi' it before it was born, I'll be bound," said a second.

A third averred that the child was "the very spit out of its father's mouth." Ghost stories, stories of the famine, of hard luck, of hunger, of pain and the thousand and one aspects of social and personal sorrow had the changes rung on them.

Anna sat in the corner. She had to listen, she had to answer when directly addressed and the prevailing idea of politeness made her the center of every story and the object of every moral!

The refreshments were all distributed and diplomatically the mourners were informed that there was nothing more; nevertheless they stayed on and on. Nerve-racked and unstrung, Anna staggered to her feet and took Jamie to the door.

"I'll go mad, dear, if I have to stand it all night!"

They dared not be discourteous. A reputation for heartlessness would have followed Anna to the grave if she had gone to bed while the dead child lay there.

Withero had been at old William Farren's wake and was going home when he saw Anna and Jamie at the door. They explained the situation.

"Take a dandther down toward th' church," he said, "an' then come back."

Willie entered the house in an apparently breathless condition.

"Yer takin' it