When they had left the inn, and were almost in sight of the cottage, Michael suddenly asked Cyril if he had ever seen Mr. O'Brien. 'Thomas O'Brien,' he added quickly.
'You mean my uncle?' returned Cyril curtly. 'No; I have never seen him.'
'Then I should like to tell you something about him. Of all the men I have ever known, Thomas O'Brien is the one I have most honoured. I have always had the greatest respect for him—for his honesty, integrity, and child-like simplicity. In spite of his want of culture, he is the gentleman his Creator intended him to be. Let me tell you, Blake, that you may be proud to call such a man your uncle.' And with these words Michael unlatched the little gate, and waited for them to follow him.
They were not unperceived. Long before they reached the porch the cottage door was open, and Thomas O'Brien's genial face and strong, thick-set figure blocked up the doorway.
Michael was about to speak, when, to his surprise, Cyril lifted his hat, and then extended his hand to the old man.
'I believe you are my uncle, sir,' he said quietly. 'There can be no need of an introduction: I am Cyril, and this is my brother Kester.'
A soft, misty look came into Thomas O'Brien's honest eyes.
'Ay, my lad, I am thinking I know you both, though I have never set eyes on you before. You are kindly welcome, young gentlemen, for your own and for your father's sake.' And here he gave them a hearty grasp of the hand. 'The Captain is always welcome, as he knows. He and me have been friends for half a score of years—eh, Captain?'
'Good God! are those my boys, Tom?'
The interruption was so sudden and unexpected that they all started, and Cyril turned pale. Something familiar in the voice seemed to thrill him, like an echo from a far-off time. He turned round quickly. A tall man, with closely-cropped hair and a gray moustache, was standing behind him, and regarding him with dark, melancholy eyes.