contracted during a mysterious absence of six years. Christian had just returned home, and Mylrea Balladhoo, stern on the outside, tender at the core, loving his son as the one thing left to him to love, had forgiven everything—disgrace, ingratitude, and impoverishment—and taken back the prodigal without a word.
And, in truth, there was something so winsome in the young fellow's reckless, devil-may-care indifference that he got at the right side of people's affections in spite of themselves. Only those who come close to this type of character can recognise the rift of weakness or wilfulness, or it may be of selfishness, that runs through the fair vein of so much good-nature. And if Mylrea Balladhoo saw nothing, who then should complain?
Now, Kerruish Kinvig was just as fond of Christian as anybody else, but that was no just cause and impediment why he should hold his peace as to the young man's manifold weaknesses. So it was—
"Look here, Balladhoo. I've something to say about that fine son of yours, and it's middling strange too."
"Drop it, Kerruish," muttered Mylrea.
"So I will, but it's into your ear I'll drop it. Do you know he's hanging round one of my net-makers—eh?"
"You're fond of a spell at the joking, Kerruish, but in a general way, you know, a man doesn't like to look like a fool. You've got too much fun in you, Kerruish; that's your fault, and I've always said so."
There was a twinkle in the old man's eye, but it went off like summer lightning. "Who is she?" he asked, in another tone.
"Mona Cregeen they're calling her," said Kinvig.
