Muriel looked at him contritely. “But don’t you see—” she began.
“Oh, I see fast enough,” he responded. “Let’s get at what you want the other way round. To begin with, you want the young man never to [Pg 224]have committed the forgery, and then you want to run through the whole gamut till they live happily ever after. And all the time you’re wishing it, and wanting me to pray for it, you’re telling yourself it can’t be. Isn’t that so?” His twinkling old eyes belied the half-severity of his words.
“Oh, but,” said Muriel, “it’s—it’s such a lot to ask.”
Father O’Sullivan leaned forward and tapped the forefinger of his right hand in the palm of his left.
“Faith, my child, is not asking God for bushels and setting out a pint measure to catch them in. It’s a good old saying, but not my own, more’s the pity of it. Now, do you want me to say this Mass for you with the intention we’ve arranged?”
“Yes,” said Muriel firmly.
“And you’ll come to it, and believe that it will be answered, whether in your way or God’s you leave to Him?” he asked gravely.
“Yes,” said Muriel again.
Father O’Sullivan nodded his head approvingly. “To-morrow morning at eight o’clock I’ll be [Pg 225]saying it then,” he said, “and you’ll be praying too.” He leaned back in his chair.
“Of course,” ventured Muriel, “it’s rather a complicated thing to put into words.”