I opened my eyes. Could I believe them? It was Father Moylan. I put my arms round his neck, and kissed him a score of times.
“Father, dear; sure it must be the Blessed Virgin herself sent you to console me for the loss of her daughter, my Aileen, my love.”
“My consolation would be of little aid; but as an unworthy servant of the church I may be the channel of communicating the consolation that doth avail. May the Mother of Sorrows, whose heart was pierced by the sight of her son’s death, heal thy wound. I knew not Aileen was dead.”
“Did Father McGoran not tell you?”
“Like everybody else in this wretched place his hands are too full to permit of speech that can be dispensed with. A lad called on me at Quebec to tell me of how you had been left behind and besought me to help you and your wife.”
“His name, father?”
“Michael Fagan.”
“The grateful soul; the boy I stopped the mate from lashing.”
“He it was, for he told me all and of what you had been to the sick on the voyage. I intended coming anyway to see what I could do for our poor country people, but when I knew of my pupil being here in distress, I went to the bishop to ask to be sent at once.”
“And how did you find me?”