Michael O'Connor died placidly, as he had always lived. An improvident man, as the world uses the term, he undoubtedly had been, but this arose from a defect of character. He never could refuse to give when asked to do so; his failing sprang from an excess of generosity.

A clever man, brilliant in his own chosen career of journalism, opportunities to make money had not been wanting; and money had been made and spent. He had founded "The Grey Town Observer," now a valuable property, but the paper had passed into the hands of Ebenezer Brown, with Michael O'Connor as editor; for Ebenezer Brown recognised that no other man could better fill the position. But the proprietor was careful to make the utmost of his employee's lack of worldly wisdom, offering him the very lowest salary that ever an editor worked for. The consequence was that Michael O'Connor lived and died an impecunious man, whose only legacy to his children was the record of a virtuous life.

Yet no fear had troubled the man as life slowly slipped from him. He had wronged none: to the poor he had given generously; staunch to his friends, loved by his children, and always faithful to his religion, why should he have any regrets? "Father," he said to Father Healy, "I am not afraid to die, for God is good; He will provide for Kathleen and Desmond, as He has provided for me, always a child. Father, always a child, as my father told me I would be."

"Just a child," said Father Healy, as he looked at the peaceful face of the dear friend, "as innocent and helpless as a child. God will reward him for what he has done for others."

Death was very near Michael O'Connor at that moment; it hovered over his bed, waiting every moment with thin, outstretched hands to snatch him away. On his bed he lay, his face waxen in colour and emaciated, while the white hands clasped the crucifix. Yet even then one might realise that the dying man had at one time been called "handsome Mike O'Connor." In the prime of his manhood—tall, broad-shouldered, and always cheerful—no other man in the district could look anything but insignificant beside him. But many a one from among the Irish farmers knew that he came of a line always noted for beauty. Men and women, the O'Connors had rarely failed in good looks, and as rarely succeeded in keeping their money. The dying man was, after all, the inheritor of his ancestors' virtues and failings.

The candles were lighted by the bedside. Father Healy, with Kathleen and Desmond, knelt on the floor reciting the prayers for the dying. The children were crying, Kathleen impulsively and without restraint, Desmond secretively, as men are accustomed to weep. The sick man's breathing came more slowly and weakly, his lips framed an occasional act of contrition which he was too feeble to utter. When the end came, it was a gentle transition from life to death. Through it all the old clock on the bedroom mantelpiece, dark-stained, and of a quaint design, ticked on as it had done ever since Desmond could remember. Symbolic it seemed of the world, that heeds not death; but moves, always onwards, replacing each one as he dies.

They clothed him in the brown habit, and placed him in the coffin, with the crucifix on his breast. There his many friends came to pray for him—men, women, little children, among them the good nuns, to whom he had always been a benefactor. It may safely be said that Michael O'Connor had not left one enemy behind him. If his life had been something of a failure, the man's death was a complete success.

But there were the children to think of, Kathleen and Desmond, inheritors of his good looks, but of nothing beyond that. Left young in the hands of a careless, happy-go-lucky father, who had always religiously applied the text of Scripture, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," what were they to do for themselves? Desmond could draw and paint; he had the usual smattering of knowledge to be obtained in an ordinary school. Beyond these accomplishments and his father's gift for writing, the big, handsome, curly-haired fellow, half man and half boy, had nothing wherewith to fight the world.

"Writing for him, I suppose?" suggested Father Healy, as he and Dr. Marsh drove out in the doctor's gig to interview the O'Connors.

Dr. Marsh grunted, as was his way. He never had paid much attention to Desmond O'Connor. His opinion of the boy was that a battle with the world would do him nothing but good.

"Whatever he can get. If he does that well, he may begin to pick and choose," he said. "But Kathleen needs consideration."

Kathleen O'Connor was undoubtedly the doctor's favourite. She was such a sweet girl, beautiful in face, gentle in her manners. In her black dress she had looked so fragile and broken with grief on the day of her father's funeral. Vainly trying to maintain composure, yet shaken constantly by an involuntary sob, she had marvellously affected the tough old doctor, to whom female beauty appealed, although he affected to scorn it.

"The girl is beautiful," he said, "and it's a dangerous gift with weakness."

"The O'Connors always were beautiful," replied Father Healy. "Michael's father was the finest man in Ireland. They were born to be kings, and spent their money as if they had been emperors, while the money lasted. The boy is as grand as the girl, and I am fearful for him."

"Oh, there is good and bad in the boy, as there is in every man of us."

He and the priest were sworn friends and allies, although they argued on every question that ever arose local or general—the doctor because he liked it, and Father Healy to humour a friend. At the gate of "Avoca," as Michael O'Connor had called his house, the doctor reined his horse in, and the two men scanned the dilapidated gate and unpainted fence, part of the general decay of what had been a pleasant villa and garden in the good days.

"It's like poor Michael," sighed the priest. "He only troubled himself about one thing, his soul. Well! that's saved, please God."

"Hem!" grunted the doctor, "that won't help Kathleen."

"It's a consolation to her, and always will be. To have had a good father is of as much value as a fortune," replied the priest.

"From your point of view, perhaps. There is only one thing you people value—the soul. The poor body may look after itself, and often gets more kicks than ha'pence."

The priest smiled significantly.

"You flatter us," he said.

"Rubbish!" replied the doctor. "Why don't you look after yourself; aren't you of more value than the people you are killing yourself for?"

Father Healy laughed, for he was a stout, rubicund man.

"I wonder whether you or I look the better nourished," he asked, surveying the doctor's attenuated form.

"Some day you will drop down dead," replied the other.

"Death comes to all sooner or later," said his companion.

"Avoca" had at one time been a fine property; now over everything lay the mark of decay. A broad drive, covered with grass and weed; the remains of beds, where thistles and docks were destroying the flowers and lawns, knee-deep in the over-growth.

"And mortgaged for more than its value," sighed the priest.

"Do you approve of this?" asked Dr. Marsh, with a comprehensive wave of the hand.

"I do not. But better this than order and iniquity. I would like the property neat, tidy and unencumbered, with a fortune in the bank for Kathleen. But," Father Healy added with a sigh, "one can't have everything exactly as he wishes."

"It is the fault of your system," growled the doctor; "you are too strong on Eternity."

"I could not be too strong on that. But I always preach prudence and thrift."

"Bah! The presbytery is a sanctuary for all the loafers in Grey Town."

"You had better discuss that with Molly. She is almsgiver at the presbytery. But she tells me," the priest continued, with a twinkle in his eye, "that she doles out the food and money prudently, and lectures once a week on the virtues of total abstinence and hard work."

Even the doctor could not refrain from a dry chuckle at this aspect of Molly Healy's almsgiving.

"Then the lectures are as fruitless as your sermons," he said. "If Michael O'Connor had copied Joe Sheahan——."

"Ah, there you are! Didn't I teach Joe worldly prudence myself?" cried the priest, hastily. "I am proud of Joe, a good honest man, for all his money."

They drew up in front of the house, and Desmond came running down the steps to take the doctor's horse. He was a big, bright-faced fellow, though he still bore the marks of the recent sorrow in the black band on his arm.

"Let me take the mare to the stable," he said.

Priest and doctor slowly descended from the gig and entered the house side by side, noting that here, too, were signs of decay and of neglect.

Kathleen emerged from the dining-room to greet them. In her face she still bore traces of recent tears, for she was a woman, and grief was not so easily forgotten by her as by her brother.

"Mr. Brown is waiting for you in the dining-room," she said, after the first greetings.

"Ebenezer Brown?" said the doctor, as if to turn back. "What brings him here?"

"Just the same errand as yours," cried a harsh voice from the dining-room. "To mourn over the man you killed."

A dry cackle followed the speech. But no one heeded what Ebenezer Brown said, so notorious was he in the town for a love of money and a bitter tongue. The doctor accepted the speech as a challenge, and entered the room defiantly, while Father Healy followed him.

"You didn't expect to find me here," said the old man, who sat in an armchair, a thin, stooped figure, with a pallid face and white hair.

"We did not," replied the priest.

The doctor murmured something about vultures and the dead.

"Eh?" asked the old man, feigning a convenient deafness, "I might expect you and the priest; the one generally prepares the way for the other."

"I am expecting it will be a difficult meeting," murmured the priest.

Dr. Marsh, however, made no reply to the remark. He was awaiting a convenient time to lunge at his enemy, and he sat down opposite Ebenezer Brown, regarding him critically. After a moment's pause, he asked:

"Are your affairs in order, Brown?"

"Mind your own business, sub-dividing men into small allotments," snapped the other.

"I should arrange everything if I were you. Your money won't buy you a passport," said the doctor. "Increase your subscription to the hospital from threepence to sixpence, and lower your rents to twice what they should be, before it is too late. Your time will come before long."

"You won't get a penny of my money, living or dead," replied Ebenezer Brown.

"That shows you have a little wisdom remaining, for I would poison you, and believe I was performing an act of public utility."

"Let us get to business," cried the priest, anxious to terminate the wrangle. "Dr. Marsh and I am here to discuss what is to be done with Michael O'Connor's children."

"I am here to help the children," said Ebenezer. "Not with money," he added hastily, "but with sound advice."

"The only thing you ever gave away," commented the doctor.

"Eh? Yes; it is more valuable than money," said Ebenezer, relapsing into deafness. "Now, Desmond there will have to work. He has been idle too long."

To this remark Kathleen replied hastily:

"My father thought——."

"You must speak up if you expect me to hear, young lady," growled Ebenezer. "Your father was improvident."

"A noble and generous man," replied the doctor, hotly.

"No doubt you think so. He lined your pockets, I believe."

Dr. Marsh could stand this no longer. He rose, pale with fury, but Father Healy gently pushed him back into his seat.

"Don't be paying attention to the old man," he said.

The two older men glared at one another across the table; the doctor growled out "Miser," Ebenezer muttered "Quack." But, fortunately, Desmond O'Connor entered the room at that moment, and distracted the attention of the company.

"Well, Desmond," cried Ebenezer Brown, "I need an office-boy; how would you like the billet?"

Desmond paused in the door, his face flushing crimson. He was 18, and to be termed an office-boy sounded like an insult. Father Healy, noting his shame and anger, went to the boy and placed a hand kindly on his shoulder.

"Take the rungs one by one if you would be at the top, Desmond," he said.

"He will be a long time getting there," sneered Ebenezer Brown.

Father Healy offered no reply. He had not come to quarrel, and where was the use? But Dr. Marsh answered quickly:

"You may sneer now, Ebenezer Brown—it is easy to do that—but the day will come when you will be asking Father Healy to help you, for he is as certain to be saved as you to be lost."

This defence came as a surprise to everyone present, perhaps most of all to the priest. The doctor was accustomed to scold and taunt him; this unexpected championship almost took his breath away. Ebenezer Brown was too greatly annoyed even to retort, but he glanced vindictively at the doctor.

"And now for Kathleen. Mrs. Quirk would like to have her at Layton as a companion and friend," said the priest.

"Friend!" grunted the doctor. "Quirk was a grocer."

"And where is the harm in that?" asked Father Healy, "if he were honest?"

"Honest?" commented Ebenezer Brown. "There never was an honest grocer; they all put sand in their sugar, and sell their second-rate goods as the best quality. I know them."

"Set a thief to catch a thief," cried the doctor. "How did you make your money?"

"Honestly! Not as you did, by poisoning your rich patients after they have left you a legacy," replied Ebenezer Brown.

"Honestly! You caught poor Harris drunk, and swindled him out of his land," retorted Dr. Marsh.

"Peace! Peace!" sighed Father Healy, attempting to take the doctor away by force.

"And you murdered Mat Devlin, as you've murdered a host of others," cried Ebenezer Brown.

Dr. Marsh broke from his friend's arm and went round the table where Ebenezer Brown sat. Shaking his fist in the old man's face, he cried:

"If I had one per cent. of your sins on my shoulders, I would never sleep again. I am tempted to give you the little blow that would be the end of you; but I don't like to rob you of your small hope of repentance."