"Is there any chance at all, your reverence, of her recovery?"
She looked with a mother's wistfulness at me.
"For I do be praying to the Lord morning, noon, and night, that if it be His Blessed and Holy Will, He would take her out of suffering, or restore her to me."
I made no answer.
"You could do it, your reverence, if you liked. Sure, I don't want you to do any harm to yourself, God forbid; but you could cure her and restore her to me, if you plazed."
"I couldn't, Mrs. Moylan," I replied; "and what is more, I wouldn't now take her away from God if I could. I was as bitter as you about it; but now I see that God has His own designs upon your child, and who am I that I should thwart Him?"
"Perhaps your reverence is right," she replied; "but the mother's heart will spake up sometimes whin it ought to be silent."
I passed by my little chapel as I went home, and knelt down for a prayer. I thought the Blessed Virgin looked queer at me, as if to say:—
"Well, are you satisfied now? Who was right—you or my Son?" And I went home very humbled.