foot treading on the gravel, and a deep voice saying, "Here are the heifers home, but where's the little lass?"
It was her eldest brother, Asher, and she walked up to him and said quite calmly, "Oh! what a bad hasp that gate has!—it takes such a time to open and close."
Michael Sunlocks reached the harbour at the time appointed. As he crossed the quay some fishermen were lounging there with pipes between their teeth. A few of them came up to him to bid him God-speed in their queer way.
Stephen Orry was standing apart by the head of the harbour steps, and at the bottom of them his boat, a yawl, was lying moored. They got into it, and Stephen sculled out of the harbour. It was still very thick over the town, but they could see the lights of the Irish brig in the bay. Outside the pier the air was fresher, and there was something of a swell on the water.
"The fog is lifting," said Stephen Orry. "There'll be a taste of a breeze before long."
He seemed as if he had something to say, but did not know how to begin. His eye caught the light on Point of Ayre.
"When are they to build the lighthouse?" he asked.
"After the spring tides," said Michael.
They were about midway between the pier and the brig when Stephen rested his scull under his arm and drew something from one of his pockets.
"This is the money," he said, and he held out a bag toward Michael Sunlocks.
"No," said Michael, and he drew quickly back.
There was a moment's silence, and then Michael added more softly, "I mean, father, that I have enough already. Mr. Fairbrother gave me some. It was fifty pounds."
Stephen Orry turned his head aside and looked over the dark water. Then he said, "I suppose that was so that you wouldn't need to touch money same as mine."
Michael's heart smote him.
"Father," he said, "how much is it?"
"A matter of two hundred pounds," said Stephen.
"How long has it taken you to earn—to get it?"
"Fourteen years."
"And have you been saving it up for me?"
"Ay."
"To take me to Iceland?"
"Ay."
