"I didn't mean to impute anything to your character," he said, mildly, "but if you can't see that this place is frightfully dirty, I suppose I can't prove it. Look at that!"
He pointed to a grewsome heap of cinders, half-burnt papers, brown ashes, etc., that choked up the grate.
"Yerra. Glory be to God!" said Mrs. Darcy, appealing to an imaginary audience, "he calls the sweepings of the altar, and the clane ashes, dirt. Yerra, what next?"
"This next," he said, determinedly; "come here." He took her out and pointed to the altar cloth. It was wrinkled and grimy, God forgive me! and there were stars of all sizes and colors darkening it.
"Isn't that a disgrace to the Church?" he said, sternly.
"I see no disgrace in it," said Mrs. Darcy. "It was washed and made up last Christmas, and is as clane to-day as the day it came from the mangle."
"Do you call that clean?" he shouted, pointing to the drippings of the candles.
"Yerra, what harm is that," said she, "a bit of blessed wax that fell from the candles? Sure, 't is of that they make the Agnus Deis."
"You're perfectly incorrigible," he said. "I'll report the whole wretched business to the parish priest, and let him deal with you."
