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“Then, to my mind, our sand has pretty well run, and we and our brave old ship are doomed,” exclaimed Ned Faintheart, putting his hands in his pockets, with a deep sigh.

“Thou’rt old,” young Faintheart cried, “thou’rt old, And there’s many a league to go; And still thou seekest the pot of gold At the farther end of the bow.”

"Oh," murmured Faintheart from the lower hall, and sat down on the bottom step.

"Never despair, Bartle," said Connor; "you know the ould proverb,'a faintheart;' however, settin' the purty crature aside, whoever she is, I think if we divided ourselves—you to that side, an' me to this—we'd get this hay lapped in half the time; or do you take which side you plase."

Fate had been against him, the inevitable "what must be," which, in the end, crushes alike Faintheart or Strongheart.