She then went out to see a neighbour, and I sauntered towards the back
parlour. When I came to the door I heard angry voices inside. The two
men were evidently getting on to the tax again, for I could hear them
bandying figures to and fro. I opened the door; at sight of my face the
farmer was reminded of his peaceful intentions, and asked me if I knew
where the whiskey was. I had seen him put it into the cupboard, and was
able therefore to find it and get it out, looking at the thin, grief-
struck face of the tax-gatherer. He was rather older than my friend,
and very much more feeble and worn, and of a very different type. He
was not like him, a robust, successful man, but rather one of those
whose feet find no resting-place upon the earth. I recognized one of
the children of reverie, and said, "You are doubtless of the stock of
the old O'Donnells. I know well the hole in the river where their
treasure lies buried under the guard of a serpent with many heads."
"Yes, sur," he replied, "I am the last of a line of princes."

We then fell to talking of many commonplace things, and my friend did
not once toss up his beard, but was very friendly. At last the gaunt
old tax-gatherer got up to go, and my friend said, "I hope we will have
a glass together next year." "No, no," was the answer, "I shall be dead
next year." "I too have lost sons," said the other in quite a gentle
voice. "But your sons were not like my son." And then the two men
parted, with an angry flush and bitter hearts, and had I not cast
between them some common words or other, might not have parted, but
have fallen rather into an angry discussion of the value of their dead
sons. If I had not pity for all the children of reverie I should have
let them fight it out, and would now have many a wonderful oath to
record.