"Why, you silly man," she replied, "the honor is for the kittens!"

Uncle Gilbert met them at the door. "Your father is sleeping--getting along fine," he explained. "Now then, young man, did you kiss the Blarney Stone?"

"Why--no--I--"

"You didn't! You missed the greatest opportunity in your life."

"Oh, no, I didn't." replied Chester. "Far from it."

Lucy, rosy red, fled past her teasing uncle into the house.

CHAPTER IX.

A warm, gentle rain was falling. No regrets or complaints were heard at Kildare Villa, for, as Uncle Gilbert said, the farmers needed it, he and his people were comfortably housed, and the excursionists--meaning Chester and Lucy--would do well to remain quiet for a day.

The minister had so far recovered that he walked unaided into the large living room, where a fire in the grate shed a genial warmth. Chester and Lucy were already there, she at the piano and he singing softly. At sight of her father, Lucy ran to him, helped him to a seat, then kissed him good morning.

"How much better you are!" she said.

"Yes; I am glad I am nearly myself again--thanks to Aunt Sarah," he said, as that good woman entered the room with pillows and footrest for the invalid, who was made quite comfortable. Then the aunt delivered him to the care of the two young people, with an admonition against drafts and loud noises.

"All right, daddy; now what can we do for you?" asked Lucy.

"You were singing--when I came in. * * * Sing the song again."

"But loud noises, you know."

"Sing--softly," he replied.

The two went back to the piano. Lucy played and both sang in well modulated, subdued voices,

"Jesus, I my cross have taken All to leave and follow Thee; Naked, poor, despised, forsaken, Thou, from hence my all shall be.

Perish every fond ambition, All I've sought, or hoped, or known, Yet how rich is my condition, God and heaven are still my own."

They sang the three stanzas. The two voices blended beautifully. The father asked them to sing the song again, which they did. Then they sang others, some of which were not familiar to the listener.

"Oh, how lovely was the morning, Brightly beamed the sun above."

"What was that last song?" inquired the father.

The two singers looked at each other as if they had been caught in some forbidden act.

"Why"--hesitated Lucy, "that's a Sunday School song."

"A 'Mormon' song?"

"Yes."

"Sing--it again," he said as he lay back on his pillows, closed his eyes and listened.

"Do you know any more--'Mormon' songs?"

Lucy, of course, did not know many. Chester managed "O, my Father," and one or two more. Then Lucy closed the piano and went back to her father, where she stood smoothing gently his gray hair. Thus they talked and read and sang a little more, while the rain fell gently without.

"This is a beautiful country," said Chester, looking out of the window.

"I do not blame people who have money, desiring to live here." Lucy came to the window also, and they stood looking out on the rain-washed green.

The father lay still in his chair, and presently he went to sleep.

Chester and Lucy then retired to a corner, and carried on their conversation in low tones. Faint noises from other parts of the house came to them. From without, only the occasional shrill whistle of a locomotive disturbed the silence. The fire burned low in the grate.

Suddenly, the father awoke with a start. "I tell you he is my son," he said aloud. "I am his father, and I ought to father him--my heart goes out--my son--"

"What is it, father?" cried Lucy, running to him, and putting her arm around his shoulders.

The father looked about, fully awakened.

"I was only dreaming," he explained. "Did I talk in my sleep?"

Just then Uncle Gilbert came in. He announced that tomorrow he would of necessity have to leave for Liverpool. It would be a short trip only; he would be back in two or three days, during which all of them should continue to make themselves comfortable.

"George, here, is getting along famously," he declared. "A few more days of absolute rest, and you'll be all right, eh, brother?"

"I think so."

Aunt Sarah now announced luncheon, and they all filed out of the room.

That evening the two brothers were alone. "I want to talk to you," the visitor had said; and his brother was willing that he should. Evidently, something weighed heavily on his mind, some imaginary trouble, brought on by his weakened physical condition.

"Now, what is it, brother," said Gilbert as they sat comfortably in their room.

"You know that in my younger days I had a little trouble"--began the minister, now speaking quite freely.

"I don't recall what you mean."

"When I was studying for the ministry--a woman, you--"

"O, yes; I remember; but what of it? That's past and forgotten long ago."

"Past, but not forgotten. I have tried to forget, the Lord knows, by long years of service in the ministry. I hope the Lord has forgiven--but I forgotten, Oh, no."

"Look here, brother, you are over-sensitive just now because of your physical condition. You have nothing to worry over. That little youthful indiscretion--"

"But there was a child, Gilbert, a boy."

"Well, what of it?"