John Brennan came down the valley. The trees by the roadside were being shaken heavily by soft winds. Yet, for all the kindness of May that lingered about it, there seemed to be some shadow hanging over the evening. No look of peace or pity had struggled into the squinting windows.... Would the valley ever again put on the smile it had worn last summer? That time it had been so dearly magnified. At leaving it there had been such a crush of feeling in his breast.

He seemed to see it more clearly now. There was something that hurt him in the thought of how he was preparing for a genteel kind of life while his father remained a common sponger around the seven publichouses of Garradrimna, asking people to stand him drinks for the love of God like Anthony Shaughness. He could not forget that the valley had wrought this destruction upon Ned Brennan, and that Ned Brennan was his father.

This thought arose out of a definite cause. At the college in Ballinamult he had made the acquaintance of Father George Considine, who had already begun to exercise an influence over him. This priest was a simple, holy man, who had devoted his life usefully, remaining far away from the ways of pride. Although gombeen-men like Tommy Williams had some influence with those who controlled the college, they had no influence over him. He was in curious contrast to the system which tied him to this place. It was impossible to think that his ordination had represented a triumph to any one at all, yet he had been far ahead of his contemporaries and while yet a young man had been made principal of this college in Ballinamult. His name had gone out into the world. The satisfaction that had been denied to Master Donnellan was his. He had had a hand in the education of men whose names were now notable in many a walk of life. And yet, to see him moving about the grounds of the college in his faded coat with the frayed sleeves and shiny collar, no man would think that his name, the name of "poor Father Considine," was spoken with respect in distant places.

But Mrs. Brennan did not approve of him. On the evening of John's first day in Ballinamult, after she had made every other possible inquiry she said:

"And did you meet Father Considine?"

"I did indeed, mother; a nice man!"

"Ah, a quare ould oddity! Wouldn't you think now that he'd have a little pride in himself and dress a bit better, and he such a very learned man?"

"Maybe that's just the reason why he's not proud. The saints were not proud, mother; then why should he be?"

She always gave a deaf ear to any word of this kind from John, for her ideal was Father O'Keeffe, with his patent leather top-boots, silver-mounted whip and silk hat, riding to hounds with the Cromwellian descendants of the district.... Here was where Father Considine stood out in sharp contrast, for he was in spiritual descent from those priests who had died with the people in the Penal Days. It was men like him who had carried down the grandeur of Faith and Idealism from generation to generation. One felt that life was a small thing to him beyond the chance it gave to make it beautiful. He had written a little book of poems in honor of Mary, the Mother of God, and to feel that it had brought some comfort to many a troubled one and to know that he had been the means of shaping young men's lives towards useful ends was all that this world meant to him.

John Brennan knew very well that if he became a priest it was in the steps of Father Considine he would follow rather than in those of Father O'Keeffe. This he felt must mean the frustration of half his mother's grand desire, but, inevitable, it must be so, for it was the way his meditative mind would lead him. Thus was he troubled again.

Father Considine had spoken to him of Father O'Keeffe:

"A touch of the farmer about that man don't you think? But maybe a worthy man for all that!"

Then he had looked long into the young man's eyes and said:

"Be humble, my son, be humble, so that great things may be done unto you!"

John had pondered these words as he cycled home that evening past the rich fields. He began to think how his friend Ulick would have put all his thoughts so clearly. How he would have spoken of the rank green grass now rising high over County Meath as a growth that had sprung from the graves of men's rotted souls; of all the hate and pride that had come out of their hunger for the luscious land; of how Faith and Love and Beauty had gone forever from this golden vale to the wild places of his country, where there was a letting-in of wind and sun and sea.... It was easy to connect Father O'Keeffe's pride with the land. Remembrance of the man's appearance was sufficient. It was not so easy in the case of his mother. But, of course, John had no knowledge of how she had set her heart upon Henry Shannon's lovely farm in the days gone by.

Hitherto his thoughts of his future condition had been bound up with consideration of his mother, but now there had come this realization of his father. It was not without its sadness to think that his father had been a stranger to him always and that he should now behold him stumbling down to old age amid the degradation of Garradrimna. He felt curiously desirous of doing something for him. But the heavy constraint between them still existed as always. He was unequal to the task of plucking up courage to speak to him. This evening, too, as he tried, after his accustomed fashion, in a vacant moment to catch a glimpse of his own future, he acutely felt the impossibility of seeing himself as a monument of pride.... Always there would arise before his mind a broken column in the middle of the valley.

And he was lonely. He had not seen Ulick Shannon or Rebecca since he had begun to cycle daily to Ballinamult. Often, in some of the vacant stretches of thought which came to him as he hurried along, he pictured the two of them meeting during some of those long, sweet evenings and being kind to one another. Despite sudden flashes of a different regard that would come sweeping his thoughts of all kinds, he loved these two and was glad that they were fond of one another. It now seemed surprising that he had ever thought so deeply of Rebecca Kerr, and wished to meet her upon the road and look longingly into her eyes. All this while going on to be a priest seemed far from him now that he had begun to be influenced by Father Considine.

He had to pass the house of Sergeant McGoldrick by the way he was going, and it seemed an action altogether outside him that he had gone into an adjacent field and gazed for quite a long time up at her window.... He was all confusion when he noticed the child of the McGoldricks observing him.... He drifted away, his cheeks hot and a little sense of shame dimming his eyes.... He took to the road again and at once saw Ulick Shannon coming towards him. The old, insinuating smile which had so often been used upon his weak points, was spread over the face of his friend.

"And at last you have succeeded in coming to see her thus far?"

The words seemed to fall out of Ulick's oblique smile.

"She?" he said in surprise.

"Oh, I thought it was that you had intentions of becoming my rival!"

John laughed now, for this was the old Ulick come back again. He went on laughing as if at a good joke, and the two students went together down the road.

"Don't let me delay you!" John said abruptly.

"Oh, you're not preventing me in any way at all."

"But Rebecca?"

"Even the austerities of Ballinamult have not made you forget Rebecca?"

"Hardly—I shouldn't like to think that I had been the cause of keeping you from her even for a short while."

There came between them now one of those long spells of silence which seemed essential parts of their friendship.

"You're in a queer mood this evening?" John said at last.

"I suppose I am, and that there's no use in trying to hide it.... D'ye know what it is, Brennan? We two seem to have changed a great deal since last summer. I simply can't look at things in the same light-hearted way. I suppose I went too far, and that I must be paying for it now. But there are just a few things I have done for which I am sorry—I'm sorry about this affair with Rebecca Kerr."

John was listening with quiet attention to the remarks which Ulick was letting fall from him disjointedly.

"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry that I should ever have come here to meet her, for somehow it has brought me to this state of mind and not to any happiness at all. I'm doubtful, too, if it has brought any happiness to her."

"That's strange," said John, "and I thought you two were very happy in your friendship."

"Happiness!" jerked out the other in a full, strong sneer. "That's a funny word now, and a funny thing. Do you think that we deserve happiness any more than those we see working around us in the valley? Not at all! Rather less do we deserve. Just think of them giving their blood and sweat so crudely in mortal combat with the fields! And what does it avail them in the end? What do they get out of it but the satisfaction of a few unkind thoughts and a few low lies? In the mean living of their own lives they represent futile expeditions in quest of joy. Yet what brings the greatest joy it is possible for them to experience? Why, the fact that another's hope of happiness has been finally desolated. If any great disaster should suddenly come upon one or other of the three of us, upon you or me or Rebecca Kerr, they would see more glory in the fulfilment of their spite than in the harvest promise of their fields. And yet I here assert that these deserve to be happy. They labor in the hard way it was ordained that man should labor at Adam's fall, and they attend to their religion. They pray for happiness, and this is the happiness that comes to them. Some must be defeated and driven down from the hills of their dreams so that the other ones, the deserving and the pious, may be given material for their reward of joy. That, Brennan, is the only happiness that ever descends upon the people of the valley. It may be said that they get their reward in this life."

Ulick was in one of those moods of eloquence which always came to him after a visit to Garradrimna, and when a very torrent of words might be expected to pour forth from him. John Brennan merely lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise and said nothing as the other went on:

"Happiness indeed. What have I ever done to deserve happiness? I have not worked like a horse, I have not prayed?"

"I was not thinking of any broad generalizations of happiness. I was only thinking of happiness in your relation to Rebecca Kerr."

Ulick now gave a sudden turn to the conversation:

"Where were you wandering to the night?" he inquired of John Brennan.

"Oh, nowhere in particular—just down the road."

"Well, it seems strange that you should have come this way, past the house of Sergeant McGoldrick."

It appeared as if Ulick had glimpsed the tender spot upon which John Brennan's thoughts were working and struck it with the sharp point of his words. John did not reply, but it could be seen that his cheeks were blushing even in the gloom that had come towards them down the road.

"I hope you will be very kind to her, John, when I am gone from here. She's very nice, and this is the drear, lonely place for her to be. I expect to be going away pretty soon."

It seemed extraordinary that this thing should be happening now.... He began to remember how he had longed for Rebecca last summer, and how his poor yearning had been reduced to nothing by the favor with which she looked upon his friend. And later how he had turned away out of the full goodness of his own heart and returned again through power of a fateful accident to his early purpose. And now how the good influence of Father Considine had just come into his life to lead him finally into the way for which he had been intended by his mother from the beginning.

He did not yet fully realize that this quiet and casual meeting which had been effected because Ulick Shannon had accidentally come around this way from Garradrimna represented the little moment which stood for the turning-point of his life. But it had certainly moved into being along definite lines of dramatic significance.

Presently Ulick mounted a stile which gave upon a path leading up through the fields of his uncle Myles and to the lonely house among the trees. Then it was true that he was not seeing Rebecca to-night.... A great gladness seemed to have rushed in upon John Brennan because he had become aware of this thing. And further, Ulick Shannon was going away from the valley and Rebecca remaining here to be lonely. But he, who had once so dearly longed for her company, would be coming and going from the valley daily, and summer was upon them again.... Ulick must have bade him a "Good-night!" that he had not heard, for already he could see him disappearing into the sea of white mist which would seem to have rolled into the valley from the eternity of the silent places.... He was left here now upon this lonely, quiet shore while his mind had turned into a tumbling sea.

When at last he roused himself and went into the kitchen he saw that his mother had already settled herself to the task of reading a religious paper to his father.... The elder man was sitting there so woebegone by the few wet sods that were the fire. He was not very drunk this evening, and the usual wild glint in his eyes was replaced by the look of one who is having thoughts of final dissolution.... John experienced a little shudder with the thought that he did not possess any desire to speak to his father now.

But his mother had broken in with a question:

"Was that Ulick Shannon was with you outside just now?"

"Yes, mother, it was."

"He went home very early, didn't he?"

"I suppose it is rather early for him to go home."

"I think 'tis very seldom he bees with Rebecca Kerr now, whatever's the reason, whatever's the reason."

It was her repetition and emphasis of the final words which brought about the outburst.

Ned Brennan suddenly flamed up and snarled out:

"Look ye here, Nan Byrne, that's no kind of talk to be giving out to your grand, fine, educated young fellow of a son, and he be going on to be a priest. That's the quare, suggestive kind of talk. But sure 'tis very like you, Nan Byrne. 'Tis very like you!"

Mrs. Brennan had just been on the point of beginning to read the religious paper, and, with the thought of all her reading surging in upon her in one crushing moment, she felt the cutting rebuff most keenly and showed her confusion. She made no reply as John went up to the room where his books were.... Long after, as he tried to recall forgotten, peaceful thoughts, he could hear his father speaking out of the heat of anger in the kitchen below.