“I came to your riverence for spiritual good,” said Annorah, now coming forward and laying a fat chicken and sundry paper parcels beside her week’s wages on the little table by her mother’s side. “I came for spiritual good, and ye thried to teach me to tattle. It’s a mane trade intirely, lettin’ alone the maneness of sich as teach it.”
“Annorah!” exclaimed her mother, “do you dare to spake in that way o’ the praste himself?”
“I mean no harm, mother.”
“No harm!” repeated Father M‘Clane, turning fiercely toward her. “You won’t cheat me with words like these.”
Annorah tossed her head scornfully and sat down opposite the priest, who on his part seemed far less desirous to carry on the war since her arrival. The cottage that he occupied belonged to Mr. Lee, and judging that gentleman by his own heart, he feared that an unfavourable representation of the case to him might either increase his rent or turn him out altogether. Besides, he was not unlike blusterers, and could denounce the erring with greater ease when they stood in awe of him. That Annorah felt neither fear nor reverence for him, it was easy to see. So, smothering his wrath, he began, to the great surprise of Mrs. Dillon, to address the girl in his most coaxing tones.
“Come, come, Annorah,” he said, “let us be friends. It’s me that’s ould enough, and willing too, to be to you in place o’ yer own father, Heaven rest his sowl; but he’s gone to a better counthree than this sinful world. An’ yer own good, child, is what I think on in spaking to you of Miss Annie and the heretics generally. It’s not for meself, shure, that me prayers go up at the could midnight hour whin ye’re all sleeping in quiet. It’s not me own throubles that make me dream o’ Heaven’s wrath, but it’s me care for yer sowl, Annorah, and for the sake o’ yer gettin’ saved at last.”
“Hear that, Norah, child,” said her mother. “Who else ever fretted themselves for yer good? What would become o’ ye, an’ Father M‘Clane gave ye up entirely?
“Your riverence must stay till I draw the tae and fry a bit o’ the chicken,” added Biddy, as the priest rose to take his leave.
“No, thank you,” he replied; “I must not sit down at ease. Small rest is there for me when the wolf is in the fold, and the flock is in danger.”
He took leave quite cordially, but when he was gone, Biddy turned, with a shadow on her round face, to speak to her daughter.