The priest immediately went over to the Bennet place, and called the husband aside before mentioning his errand. He had long waited for some chance to secure an advantage over his thriftless neighbor, and now that it had come he drove it home with all the solemnity and earnestness that he could command. Bennet listened with eyes staring at the earth, and the veins throbbing in his bared neck, until the talk had reached a point where he must promise.
"Father Doyle," he began, thickly, "I have been a sad failure since the day ye married me to Mary O'Neil, and Nancy McVeigh's tavern has been a curse to me an' mine; but, if ye will do this fer me, I'll swear never to touch a drop again."
"Say nothing against Mistress McVeigh. You owe her more than you think," Father Doyle interjected sharply.
"Perhaps," admitted Bennet, grudgingly.
"It's a compact, then," the priest observed, smiling away the wrinkles of severity, and they clasped hands over it.
That afternoon a covered rig passed by the tavern while the hostess was serving the wants of a few who had stepped in.
"It's Jim Bennet, takin' his wife to the hospital. Poor thing, she'll find a deal more comfort there than in her own home!" Nancy explained, in answer to the exclamations of curiosity.
"It's a wonder he doesn't stop for a drink," one of the bystanders remarked. But Nancy did not heed it, for she was thinking of two children playing in the road when she had a husband to shoulder the heavier duties of life.