“An’ it’s not all a queer drame,” she said; “I’ll hear her for meself coom next Saturday Och! what a row it will make an’ Father M‘Clane, and Teddy Muggins, and Mike Murphy get wind o’ a heretic Bible being brought to the place! But I’ll hear and judge for meself, that I will; an’ if the praste be right, small harm is there to be shure; and if he be wrong, the better for me poor sowl, and a saving o’ money.”
CHAPTER V.
PHELIM BRINGS BAD TIDINGS TO ANNORAH.
Annorah’s troubles were not ended by the unexpected encouragement received from her mother. Her brothers and sister, and Irish acquaintance generally, soon heard that she no longer went to mass or to confession; and great was the uproar among them. The unsparing rebukes of Father M‘Clane, whenever he met with any one supposed to have any influence over her, soon fanned into life not only a vehement hatred of the Protestants, but a bitter feeling of enmity toward the poor girl herself. Those who had been most cordial now either passed her in sullen silence, or openly taunted her upon her defection; and the very children in the lane hooted after her, when she made her usual weekly visit to her mother.
Annorah often found these things very hard to bear. Her quick Irish blood was up with the first insulting word; but she sought for strength from above to control it, and no outbreak of passion was suffered to mar the sweet lesson that her patience and kindness toward all was insensibly teaching.
She was getting ready for her usual Saturday evening’s visit to her mother’s cottage, when her attention was attracted by the low whistling of a familiar Irish air in the yard below. Looking out, she observed her lame brother, Phelim, making signs for her to come out. A little alarmed lest some evil had befallen her mother she hurried out to meet him.
“What is it, Phelim? What is the matther, dear?”
“Matther, do you ask? Well, the matther is, that ye’re not to coom home till ye’re sent for. Are ye not ashamed to make such a row?”
“I don’t know what you mean. Sit down, Phelim dear; you’re over weak to keep standin’ so. Does the new liniment no help ye at all? And ye must carry home the money to mother, and the tea, and the sugar, and some nice warm woollen stockings that Mrs. Lee showed me how to knit for yerself, darlin’; and Heaven grant that it’s no a bad turn o’ pain ye will get in yer bones by cooming to tell me. There’s a cranberry-pie that Mrs. Lee was to send for your own self, Phelim dear; it will relish better than our mother’s plain cooking.”