Then there were the human pensioners, men and women of any belief, who came periodically for food. They worshipped Molly Healy. But her kingdom was over the ragamuffins and rapscallions of the town, with whom she stood on the friendliest terms.
"Sure, I am reforming the imps," she was accustomed to say.
But it was a notorious fact that her young proteges rarely developed into moral perfection.
Such was the presbytery of Grey Town and its inmates in the days of which I am writing.
Father Healy was eating a perfunctory dinner in the dining-room, Mrs. Gorman and Dan wrangled in the kitchen, but Molly sat in the playground of the school, with Tim O'Neill, the culprit, facing her, and a circle of grinning children's faces as a background.
Tim had the face of a cherub, if we can conceive a cherub with an habitual grime on his countenance. Curly yellow hair, innocent blue eyes, for ever twinkling, a dimple in each cheek; add to these a dilapidated suit of clothes, and a sorely battered hat, and you have Tim O'Neill, the scourge of Grey Town.
"You will confess now, Tim O'Neill," said Molly Healy, with an assumed severity.
"It's to the Father I'll be confessing," replied the boy.
"No, Tim; it's to me. The Father is too gentle, and you know it. Didn't I see you with my own eyes?"
"Where's the need of me telling you, then?" asked the unabashed Tim, careful the while to keep beyond the reach of her hands.