"Of what then?" he cried cheerily, still playing.

"It is of that raising and of the dancing, I'll be bound you."

"Wrong, mother," replied the little man exultant. "Sure you're wrong.
Listen to this. What is it now?"

"Nonsense," cried the woman, "how do I know?"

"But listen, Elsie, darlin'," he cried, dropping into his Irish brogue.
"Don't you mind--" and on he played for a few minutes. "Now you mind,
don't you?"

"Of course, I mind, 'The Lass o' Gowrie.' But what of it?" she cried,
heroically struggling to maintain her stern appearance.

But even as she spoke her face, so amazing in its power of swiftly
changing expression, took on a softer look.

"Ah, there you are," cried the little man in triumph, "now I know you
remember. And it's twenty-four years to-morrow, Elsie, darlin', since--"
He suddenly dropped his violin on some meal bags at his side and sprang
toward her.

"Go away with you." She closed the door quickly behind her. "Whisht now!
Be quate now, I'm sayin'. You're just as foolish as ever you were."

"Foolish? No mother, not foolish, but wise yon time, although it's
foolish enough I've been often since. And," he added with a sigh,
"it's not much luck I've brought you, except for the boys. They'll do,