For the first time Biddy had that day absented herself from the Catholic chapel. Annorah had lately added to her Scripture reading, “Kirwan’s Letters to Archbishop Hughes.” She read it to her mother whenever a spare hour enabled her to run home. Biddy had been greatly interested in the appeals and arguments of her talented countryman, and deeply impressed by his life-like delineation of the follies and superstitions of the Romish ritual.
“It’s rasonable he is intirely,” she said, “and a bright son o’ the ould counthree, blessin’s on it! It’s him who spakes well o’ the poor ruined crathers, and praises us all for the natural generous-sowled people we are. He knows us intirely, Norah dear. Shure he’s a wonderful man and a bould, let alone the thrue son o’ ould Ireland, for doing the beautiful thing. Read us one more letther, mavourneen, before ye are off, and lave the book here. Mayhap Phelim will spell out a morsel or so when the Sabbath even is coom.”
“You will not go to confession to-morrow, dear mother?” said Annorah.
“Not I,” replied Biddy firmly.
“It goes to my heart, mother, that the money we earn so hardly, and which should be kept to comfort your old age, should go for nothing, or worse.”
“I will do it no more. Make yer heart aisy, honey. Never a penny o’ mine will the praste hould in his hand again.”
“He will visit you, mother.”
“An’ what o’ that? Let him coom. He is welcome an’ he minds his own business, and only dhraps in for a bit o’ gossip; but an’ he interferes in me private consarns, it’s soon he’ll find himself relaved o’ all throuble on account o’ us.”
Annorah saw that there was no reason now to fear that her mother would be overawed by the priest; but she still lingered anxiously. Her mother saw the shade on her face, and asked,—
“What is it, Norah? Are you in throuble?”