I'll be no more wid wimin, white or red--that hell-cat that spoilt me
life an' killed me child, or--"

A sob clutched him in the throat.

"You had a child, then?" asked Pierre gently.

"An angel she was, wid hair like the sun, an' 'd melt the heart av an
iron god: none like her above or below. But the mother, ah, the mother of
her! One day whin she'd said a sharp word, wid another from me, an' the
child clinging to her dress, she turned quick and struck it, meanin' to
anger me. Not so hard the blow was, but it sent the darlin's head agin'
the chimney-stone, and that was the end av it. For she took to her bed,
an' agin' the crowin' o' the cock wan midnight, she gives a little cry
an' snatched at me beard. 'Daddy,' says she, 'daddy, it hurts!' An' thin
she floats away, wid a stitch av pain at her lips."

Macavoy sat down now, his fingers fumbling in his beard. Pierre was
uncomfortable. He could hear of battle, murder, and sudden death
unmoved--it seemed to him in the game; but the tragedy of a child, a mere
counter yet in the play of life--that was different. He slid a hand over
the table, and caught Macavoy's arm. "Poor little waif!" he said.

Macavoy gave the hand a grasp that turned Pierre sick, and asked: "Had ye
iver a child av y'r own, Pierre-iver wan at all?"

"Never," said Pierre dreamily, "and I've travelled far. A child--a
child--is a wonderful thing. . . . Poor little waif!"

They both sat silent for a moment. Pierre was about to rise, but Macavoy