“Come all ye sons of Erin an’ listen to my lay,
An’ I’ll tell the story av the wise man av Galway,
A credit to his country—a credit to his name,
Three provinces a-ringin’ wid the echoes av his fame.”
An old Come-all-ye.
THERE were but few at the six o’clock service, and these were so scattered about the church as to create the impression of vacancy. The priest, glittering in gold-embroidered vestments intoned the mass at the high altar; the acolytes drowsily made the responses; the worshippers followed the sacrifice with devout attention; a restless child now and then broke the silence that pervaded.
A light stole through a long, stained window, throwing shafts of crimson and purple radiance across the side altar, where stood a carven image of the Holy Virgin. A girl knelt at the altar rail, her head bowed, her hands clasped. Even the black-robed sisters, who taught in the parochial school, now and then raised their eyes to look at her, for she was so white, her attitude was so supplicating.
Larry Murphy who was very regular at church since Mary died, often glanced up from his book to look at the pleading figure; but he did not recognize her, he was too far off, or the light was too dim. It was Rosie O’Hara.
With all her pure young heart Rosie was pleading for her love. Right or wrong she had been taught to carry her griefs to her who had been born into the world to crush the serpent’s head; and with an intensity for which her mind could find no words, she prayed mutely.
The gleaming, richly-wrought vessels had been taken from the tabernacle and stood upon the pure white altar cloth; the good father bent his knee, and every head sank in adoration. Rosie, awed to the very soul at the proximity of the unveiled host, found words—the words of the angel: