his wheel-chair listening to wind and rain, sleet and snow, the rustle
of summer trees and the wind of autumn. It was a melancholy thought
and true.

Smoothly hospitable, the invalid poured brandy for himself and his
guest and chatted with an air of courtesy. Kenny found himself in
quieter mood. Reminiscence crackled in the wood-fire. Nights in the
studio by the embers of a log many a Gaelic tale had glowed and
sparkled in his soft, delightful brogue for the ears of men who loved
his tales of folk lore and loved the teller.

Ah, Ireland, dark rosaleen of myths and mirth and melancholy. The
thought of it all made him tender and sad.

Well, he would give this lonely man by the fire an hour of unalloyed
delight. He would tell him tales of Ireland when brehons made the laws
and bards and harpers roved the green hills. Kenny made his
opportunity and began. He told a tale of Choulain, the mountain smith
who forged armor for the Ultonians. He told a lighter tale of three
sisters whom he called Fair, Brown and Trembling. With the brogue
strong upon him he told how Finn McCoul had stolen the clothes of a
bathing queen and he told in stirring phrase the exploits of Ireland's
mighty hero, Cuchullin.

He had never had a better listener. Adam Craig fixed his piercing eyes
inscrutably upon the teller's face, drank glass after glass of brandy,
and remained polite, intent and silent. Kenny, with his heart in the
telling, went on to the tale of Conoclach and the first harp.
Conoclach, he said, hating Cull, her husband, had run away from him
toward the sea. There upon the sand lay the skeleton of a whale and