"Blessed be the saints!" she murmured. "It's me own boy!"
She drew her hand out of his grasp to stroke his arm and the folds of his cassock. He sat down by her on the bed, and she fell back upon the dingy pillow, breaking into hysterical tears. She caught one of his hands and carried it to her lips, kissing it in a sort of rapture.
"My own baby," she chuckled. "My Master Maurice so big and fine! I always said you'd be taller than Master John."
The allusion to his half-brother, dead nearly a dozen years, seemed to carry him back into a past so remote that he could hardly remember it. He smiled at Norah's enthusiasm, more moved by it than he cared to show.
"I've had time to grow big since you deserted us, Norah."
A look of terror came into her face.
"It wasn't my fault," she gasped, sobbing between her words. "Don't believe it against me, me darling. I never went to hurt old Miss Hannah in me life, and the saints knows how she died."
"I never laid any blame on you," he answered. "I knew you wouldn't hurt a fly."
She broke into painful, hysterical laughter.
"No more I wouldn't. To think it's me own baby boy that I've carried in me arms, and him a priest!"