“Her father is dead,” he said.  “I am her uncle.”

Then he told me of the career of the city girl I had met on the farm and whom I had watched entering the church on Sundays.

“About the time you missed her at church,” he said, “she was married to a rich young man.  He spent his fortune in liquor and finally ended his life.  She began to drink, after his death, but was persuaded to leave the country.  She went to America.  We haven’t heard from her for a long time.”

The following Sunday I told my father we were going to church.

“Not me!” he said.

“Oh, yes,” I coaxed; “just this once with me.”

“What th’ divil’s the use whin I haave a praycher t’ m’silf.”

“I am to be the preacher at the church.”

“Och, but that’s a horse ov another colour, bedad.  Shure thin I’ll go.”

When my father saw me in a Geneva gown, his eyes were filled with tears.

The old white-haired lady who found the place in the book for him was the young lady’s mother.  Her uncle had ushered him into her pew, but they had never met each other nor did the old lady know until after church that he was my father.

He never heard a word of the sermon, but as we emerged from the church into the street he put his arms around my neck and kissing me said, “Och, boy, if God wud only take me now I’d be happy!”

He had been listening with his eyes and what he saw so filled him with joy that he was more willing to leave life than to have the emotion leave him.

Though he was very feeble, I took him to Scotland with me to visit my brothers and sisters; and there I left him.  As the hour of farewell drew near he wanted to have me alone—­all to himself.

“Ye couldn’t stay at home awhile?  Shure I’ll be goin’ in a month or two.”

“Ah, that’s impossible, father.”  He hung his head.

“D’ye believe I’ll know her whin I go?  God wudn’t shut me out from her for th’ things I’ve done—­”

“Of course he won’t.”

“He wudn’t be so d——­d niggardly, wud He?”

“Never!”

He fondled my hands as if I were a child.  The hour drew nigher.  He had so many questions to ask, but the inevitableness of the situation struck him dumb.  We were on the platform; the train was about to move out.  I made a motion; he gripped me tightly, whispering in my ear: 

“Ask God onct in a while to let me be with yer mother—­will ye, boy?”

I kissed him farewell and saw him no more.

I went on to France.

My objective point in France was the study of Millet and his work.  I wanted to interpret him to working people in New Haven.

So to Greville on La Hague I went with a camera.

Greville consists of a church and a dozen houses.  Gruchy is half a mile beyond, on the edge of the sea.

In Gruchy Millet was born; in Greville he first came into contact with incentive—­I photographed both places and spent a night and a day with M. Polidor, the old inn-keeper who was the painter’s friend.