"He is a most singular character—a noble one, warped by circumstances," continued the priest, thoughtfully. "A visionary, a dreamer. Poor Niall! he was a fine lad when I knew him first."
"You knew him when he was young, then?" I inquired.
"Yes, I knew him well. An ardent enthusiastic boy, brave and hopeful and devout. Now—but we need not discuss that. It is as well, perhaps, that the child should be withdrawn from his influence before she is older; though, mind you, his influence over her has hitherto been for the best."
"So I have every reason to think," I assented; "but, as you say, Father, growing older, the girl will require different surroundings."
After that we talked over our plans for the best part of an hour; and the old priest showed me his simple treasures—a crucifix of rarest ivory, so exquisitely carved that I could not refrain from expressing my admiration again and again. This, with a picture or two of rare merit, had come from Rome; and reminded Father Owen, as he said, of seminary days, of walks on the Campagna in the wonderful glow of an Italian sunset, of visits to churches and art galleries. He showed me, too, his books.
"They have supplied to me," he observed, "the place of companionship and of travel. I can travel in their pages around the civilized world; and I love them as so many old friends. In the long nights of winter I have sat here, listening to the mountain storm while I read, or the streams rushing upon their way when the frost set them free."
As he talked thus there was the sound of hasty, rushing feet in the hall, and Winifred burst into the room.