"Where's the Father?" she asked, for the priest was hidden by part of the wall between the two rooms. As she came up, Mark pointed to the silent figure in the chair. Ann forgot her importance in an instant, and rushed over to the inert priest.
"What is it, Father?" she cried. "What is it? Are ye sick?"
But Father Murray did not answer.
"Where is His Lordship?" she asked sharply, turning again to Mark.
"Gone."
"Gone!" Ann almost whispered the word, as if in awe of it. "What! he wouldn't eat here—again!" Her face showed an agony of rage. "The dirty—but God forgive me—he's the Bishop—I can't judge him—"
Father Murray arose, and Ann said no more.
"Hush, Ann," he cautioned, "hush." Then, turning to Mark, "Come outside, Mark."
The two passed out onto the veranda. Father Murray dropped heavily into his chair, with the weight of an old, feeble man. Mark felt that he could not break the tension, but the priest relieved it himself. His voice had a ring of pathos in it, and he addressed Mark as though he needed him and knew he could count upon him.
"My friend, have you ever read Thomas à Kempis?"