There is no thought of conversion in the woman's mind, you must remember,—merely a hospitable desire to let her know she will be welcome anywhere.
"By the same token, Miss Monica," says she, "there's something I was near forgettin' to tell ye."
"Yes!" says Monica.
"Ye're goin' to have me uncle's wife's niece for yer own maid, miss."
"Am I? I'm glad of that," says Monica, with a native courtesy. "Is she"—with some hesitation and a faint blush—"is she pretty, [Reilly]?"
"She's the purtiest girl ye ever set eyes on," says Mrs. Reilly, with enthusiasm.
"I'm glad of that; I can't bear ugly people," says Monica.
"Faix, then, there's a bad time before ye wid the ould ladies," mutters Mrs. Reilly, sotto voce, gathering up her cloak and stepping onwards. She is a remarkably handsome woman herself, and so may safely deplore the want of beauty in her betters.
Monica, turning aside, steps on a high bank and looks down towards the village. Through the trees she can see the spire of the old cathedral rising heavenwards. Though Rossmoyne is but a village, it still can boast its cathedral, an ancient edifice, uncouth and unlovely, but yet one of the oldest places of worship in Ireland.
Most of my readers would no doubt laugh it to scorn, but we who belong to it reverence it, and point out with pride to passers by the few quaint marks and tokens that link it to a bygone age.