She threw upon the table an immense mass of bloom she had gathered on the banks of the Dargle; then rushed over to her beloved Father Owen, crying:
"O Father Owen, Father Owen! she wants to take me away with her to America, and it will break my heart—I know it will!"
The tears streamed down her cheeks, and she never noticed me in this wild outburst of grief.
"My child, my child," said Father Owen, "do you hear that robin singing outside there? And you, to whom God has given reason, are crying! The little robin sings in the sunshine and is calm in the storm."
"I can't help it, Father—I can't help it! The robin has no heart, but just feathers over his little bones."
Father Owen laughed, and even the girl smiled through her tears.
"Let me see sunshine again on your face," the priest said, "and hear the song on your lips. If you are going to America there's no misfortune in that—is there?"
"No misfortune to leave everything I love and go away with a stranger?"
"Not so great a stranger, Winifred," I ventured, reproachfully. "I thought we were to be friends."
The girl started at sound of my voice and blushed rosy red.