Kilgorman | Page 7

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 the tempest, we lacked spirit to fight in earnest. Only when Tim called me "Frenchman" it was not in me to stand meekly by.
I know that when it was over, and we parted sulky and bruised each his own way, I flung myself on my face at the edge of the cliff and wished I had never been born.
How long I lay I know not.
When I looked up the day was dark with tempest. The whistle of the wind about my ears mingled with the