Kilgorman | Page 7

her afar off;
but the wanton comes and goes. Yet I am persuaded I shall presently
find her, and bring her home rejoicing to them that sent me.
"Finally, brethren, I pray you, have me often in your remembrance, and
report to me such things as concern our common welfare, for I desire
ardently to hear of you.
"Farewell, from one who loves you and counts himself your brother.
"T.B. Reed."
Alas! "the coy nymph, 'Health' by name," was never found. Within a
week or two of the despatch of this letter, he became so much worse
that he was advised by the Belfast doctors to return at once to London.
He suffered from a hopeless internal malady, which he bore with heroic
patience.
At Highgate, on 28th November 1893, he passed peacefully away.
It was given to him in his short life--for he condensed into the span of
forty-two years the literary labours of a long life--to materially add by
his charming boys' books to the happiness of the youth of his
generation. It was given to him also by his labour and research to make

a solid contribution to the learning of his time. He has enriched many
lives by his friendship, and by the example of his unceasing
thoughtfulness for the welfare of others. To all who had the inestimable
privilege of knowing Talbot Reed, there will be the remembrance of a
man "matchless for gentleness, honesty, and courage,"-- the very ideal
of a chivalrous English gentleman.
John Sime.
Highgate, London, February 1894.
CHAPTER ONE.
WANDERING LIGHTS.
It was the first time Tim and I had fallen out, and to this day I could
scarcely tell you how it arose.
We had gone out on to the headland to drive in the sheep; for the wind
was blowing up from seaward, and it was plain to tell that the night
would be a wild one. Father was away with the trawlers off Sheep
Haven, and would be ill pleased should he return to-morrow to find any
of the flock amissing. So, though mother lay sick in the cottage, with
none to tend her, Tim and I, because of the dread we had of our father's
displeasure, left her and went out to seek the sheep before the storm
broke.
It was no light task, for the dog was lame, and the wind carried back
our shouts into our very teeth. The flock had straggled far and wide in
search of the scanty grass, and neither Tim nor I had our hearts in the
work.
Presently Tim took a stone to dislodge one stubborn ewe, where it hid
beside a rock, and, as luck would have it, struck not her but my cheek,
which received a sharp cut.
"Faith, and you'll make a fine soldier when you're grown," said I, in a
temper, "if that's the best you can shoot."

Tim often said he would be a soldier when he came to be a man, and
was touchy on the point.
"Shoot, is it?" said he, picking up another stone; "you blackguard, stand
where ye are and I'll show yez."
And he let fly and struck me again on the self-same place; and I confess
I admired his skill more than his brotherly love.
I picked up the stone and flung it back. But the wind took it so that it
struck not Tim but the ewe. Whereat Tim laughed loudly and called me
a French spalpeen. That was more than I could bear.
"I'll fight you for that," said I, flinging my cap on the ground and
stamping a foot on it.
"Come on wid ye," retorted Tim, giving his buckle a hitch.
And there, on the lonely, wind-swept cliff, we two brothers stood up to
one another. Con, the dog, limped between us with a whine.
"You might tie the dog to the gate till we're done, Barry," said Tim.
"You're right, Tim," said I; "I will."
It took no long time, but 'twas long enough to cool my blood, and when
I returned to Tim I had less stomach for the fight than before.
"Was it 'Frenchman' you said?" asked I, hoping he might say no.
"Troth and I did," said he.
But it seemed to me he too was less fiery than when he spoke last.
So we fought. And I know not how it went. We were a fair match.
What I lacked in strength I made up for in quickness, and if Tim hit me
hard I hit him often.
But it was a miserable business, and our hearts were sorer than our

bodies. For we loved one another as we loved our own lives. And on a
day like this, when mother lay dying at home, and father was out with
the trawlers in