“To-morrow,” said Ernest Clare, smiling down at her, “to-morrow you shall do whatever you like, but for to-day Father McClosky’s advice is the best. A good dinner is the medicine you need.” He bowed her from the room as if she had been the first lady in the land—poor Lena, who had never had the door opened for her since she was tall enough to reach the knob—and said as she passed him, “I am glad you have the care of these rooms, for I am sure you will take great pains with them; but I will try to give you as little trouble as possible.”
Lena did not reply; poor girl, her face and eyes were not in condition even to look an answer; but she went away with a heart overrunning with gratitude, and a firm determination that, while she had strength to crawl, Mr. Clare should never have cause to complain of neglect.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Kellar had seized the hearth-broom, and was busily getting rid of the relics of the catastrophe. No one offered to relieve her of the duty; the priest had seated himself, and was quietly looking on, and Ernest Clare passed through the open door into his bedroom, in order to remove from his hands the traces of his late occupation.
“Sure, it’s a pity,” began the priest, after a moment or two—
“Don’t speak to me, Father McClosky,” said the woman, half petulantly; “ain’t I calling myself worse names yet than I’ve called Lena already?”
“But calling names is no good, Mrs. Kellar; though I admit there’s a power of satisfaction in it at times.”
“That’s so, Father. That poor girl! Did not Dr. Richards say that the best hope for her health is in the regular hours and regular work here? and didn’t I take her from her father’s house to have her under my eye”—
“Well, well, we are none of us perfect,” said the priest consolingly; “but I think ye should try to remember one thing, Mrs. Kellar. It’s a great thing we are doing here for the poor, and there’s a many would like to see something of the kind prevail all through the land; but that sort of thing, Mrs. Kellar, ye may call it Communism, or Socialism, or whatever ye like, but av there isn’t self-control and loving-kindness at the bottom of it, ’twill be a hell on earth.”
“Indeed, you are right, Father, and I’ve said so already many a time,” returned Frau Kellar, with her apron to her eyes; “but it don’t tie my tongue when I once get to scolding.”
“Nothing will do that but the grace of God,” said the priest. “Av ye was a Catholic, ye’d have the Sacraments to help ye; but, sure, even as a Protestant, ye have Him who is above all Sacraments. There’s a little book I lent Miss Sally once about the Blessed Laurence. He was a poor lay brother in a monastery; but he had an abiding sense of the presence of God, even amongst his pots and kettles. Sure, he said it made no difference to him whether he was kneeling before the Blessed Sacrament, itself, or working in his kitchen—it was the monastery cook he was—for God was with him just the same. And so, av his pots boiled over, or his subordinates failed in their duty, or whatever happened, he was always at peace, and never ruffled or excited about anything.”