'And then she went home again. That's my story.'
And then the old man, whose brother has fought for the king, and hasn't sent him anything, said:
'Peace is made. That's my story. Will you give me tobacco for that?'
But this being the last day, they all had tobacco--story-tellers and all.
And here is the last story: 'There was a steward one time in the employment of a gentleman; and he was a good, honourable man. And he used to make the Sunday begin at twelve o'clock on Saturday; and to ring the bell then for the workmen to go home.
'He got sick at last, and his death was drawing near; and he asked one request of his master, and that was, that after his death he would put his body on a car, but not direct it anywhere; but to let it go what way the horse would bring it.
'So the master did that; and they put the body on a car, and the carman went along with it; but he did not direct the horse, but let it go what way it liked.
'And it went on a long way; and then they came to a path that was all full of spearheads sticking up through the ground. But the horse went on; and wherever it went, the spearheads would sink away before it.
'They came at last to a house, and the horse stopped at the door; and the people of the house came out and brought in the body; and the carman went along with it, and he lay down and slept awhile.
'And when he rose up, he said he would go back to his friends. But the people of the house said: "You can go back if you like, but you will find none of your friends before you; for your sleep has lasted for seven hundred years."
'So he went back; and there was nothing but grass and bushes in the village he came from. And he knelt down and made his repentance; and he was let up to heaven for the sake of the steward that was so good, and that made the Sunday begin at noon on Saturday.'
Just where the road that runs by the bay turns northward to run by the Atlantic, a few white houses on either side turn it for a moment into a street. The grey road was not all grey yesterday, in spite of stones, and sea, and clouds, and a mist that blotted out the hills; for July had edged it with yellow rag-weed, the horses of the Sidhe, and with purple heather; and besides the tireless turf-laden donkeys, there were men in white and women in crimson flannel going towards the village. One woman sitting in a donkey-cart was chanting a song in Irish about a voyage across the sea; and when someone asked her if she was to try for a prize at the _Feis_, the Irish festival going on in the village, she only answered that she was 'lonesome after the old times.'