“You have been away,” she said softly. “For a few days,” he answered.
“Far?”
“At Vadrome Mountain.”
“You have missed these last days of the Passion Play,” she said, a shadow in her eyes.
“I was present to-day,” he answered.
She turned away her head quickly, for the look in his eyes told her more than any words could have done, and Mrs. Flynn said:
“‘Tis a day for everlastin’ mimory, sir. For the part she played this day, the darlin’, only such as she could play! ‘Tis the innocent takin’ the shame o’ the guilty, and the tears do be comin’ to me eyes. ‘Tis not ould Widdy Flynn’s eyes alone that’s wet this day, but hearts do be weepin’ for the love o’ God.”
Rosalie suddenly opened the door, and, without another look at Charley, entered the house.
“‘Tis one in a million!” said Mrs. Flynn, in a confidential tone, for she had a fixed idea that Rosalie loved Charley and that he loved her, and that the only thing that stood in the way of their marriage was religion. From the first Charley had conquered Mrs. Flynn. That he was a tailor was a pity and a shame, but love was love, and the man had a head on him and a heart in him; and love was love! So Mrs. Flynn said:
“‘Tis one that a man that’s a man should do annything for, was it havin’ the heart cut out uv him, or givin’ the last drop uv his blood. Shure, for such as her, murder, or false witness, or givin’ up the last wish or thought a man hugged to his boosom, would be as aisy as aisy.”