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 "God won't be hard on the masther. No, no, God'll never be hard on a good heart because it keeps company with a bad head."

"It'll be Bill, poor chap, that'll have to stand for it when the big days comes," said Davy Cain.

"No, not that anyway. Still, for sure, it's every herring must hang by his own gill. Aw, yes, man," said Tommy Tear.

"Poor Masher Christian," said Quilleash, "I remember him since he was a baby in his mother's arms—and a fine lady, too. And when he grew up it was, 'How are you, Billy Quilleash?' And when he came straight from Oxford College, and all the larning at him, and the fine English tongue, and all to that, it was, 'And how are you to-day, Billy?' 'I'm middlin' to-day, Masther Christian.' Aw, yes, yes, a tender heart at him anyhow, and no pride at all, at all."

The old man's memories were not thrilling to narrate, but they brought the tears to his eyes, and he brushed them away with his sleeve.

They were now drifting past Peel, two miles from the coast. It was Christmas–eve. Old Quilleash thought of this, and they talked of Christmas–eves gone by, and of what happy days there had been. This was too tender a chord, and they were soon silent once more. Then, while the waters lay cold and clear and still, and the sun was sinking in the west, there came floating to them from the land through the breathless air the sound of church-bells. It was the last drop in their cup. The rude men could bear up no longer. More than one dropped his head on to his knees and sobbed aloud.