“An’ what’s this ye’ve been doing, child? Is it me own ears that have heard o’ yer Bible-reading and railing at the praste? What’s coom to ye now? Didn’t I warn ye against their heretic ways? An’ ye’ve been and fallen into the dape pit as aisy as a blind sheep. Och! for shame, Annorah Dillon! Why do ye not spake? What can ye say for yourself?”
“Mother,” said Annorah, “how often you’ve said, when Larry O’Neale’s good luck has been tould of, that it was the larnin’, shure, that did it all! An’ when we were over the great water, you said, ‘How nice and comfortable would it be an’ we had one in the family like Larry himself, to send back the news to ould friends, when we got safe here.’ Do ye not mind, mother dear, how often you’ve said that same since? Well, now, I’ve been and learned what ye wanted so much; and first cooms the praste and makes a big fuss, and then you, mother, spake as if I had thried to anger in the room o’ plasing ye. I’m sure I’ve thried to plase you all I could.”
“So ye have, mavourneen; so ye have,” said Biddy, her voice softening as she turned to look at the chicken and other things that Annorah had brought. “It’s not yer mother, honey, that has a word to say against you; but when Father M‘Clane talks o’ yer being a heretic, it angers me. This Bible that he frets about, what is it, Norah?”
“It’s God’s truth, mother, that he has given to teach us all; and a brave book it is. Father M‘Clane has one himself; and what frets him is, that the heretics, as he calls them, can read it for themselves and find out God’s will; for only the praste has it with us.”
“Well, then, an’ the praste tells us the same, it saves us a world o’ bother, shure.”
“But if the praste is not a good man, he can tell us whatever he likes; and how do we know what is God’s Word? Now, mother, in all God’s Word there is never a bit about confessing to a praste, but a great deal about praying and confessing to God himself. But, you see, if all our people knew that same, sorra a bit o’ money would go to the praste’s pocket in comparison to what he gets now. It’s that, mother dear, that makes him so afraid we shall learn. He can’t get the money from those who can read God’s Word for themselves.”
“Are you sure it’s all thrue?” asked Biddy, her eyes wide open with astonishment.
“It is the truth of God. An’ it’s this same learning that’s got out of the holy Book that makes the difference between Protestants and Catholics. They go to the Word itself, an’ we take on hearsay whatever the praste tells us. An’ there is no word in all the Book, mother, about praying to Mary the mother of Jesus, or to any of the saints. Everybody is invited to pray straight up to God himself.”
The girl’s downright heresy, and her contempt for the mummeries of the Romish communion, troubled her mother. But what could she do? The change for the better in the child’s temper had prepared her to look favourably upon the change in her religion. She listened to Annorah’s continued account of what she had learned from the Bible with the greatest interest, feeling every moment more and more disposed to accept its teaching, and less and less disposed to blindly submit to the priest. Annorah stayed till a late hour with her mother, repeating over and over again the truths so interesting to herself, and obtaining permission at last to bring the Bible itself on her next visit. She was strictly cautioned, however, to bring it privately, lest Father M‘Clane should hear of it, and, in Biddy’s language, “kick up a scrimmage.”
There were more ideas in the old woman’s head than had ever found room there before, when, after Annorah had gone, she sat down by herself before the fire. She was both ambitious and imaginative, and long vistas of future greatness opened before her, all commencing with the wonderful fact that her child could read and write.