“Look out, Mary!” called Treesa, “Van’s following you.”
“Ah, sure now the Boy-Heart can go down the hill wit’ me. I’ll hunt him home before I goes in.”
At the door of Mary’s church she “hunted him home,” and he turned as if to go, but the minute her back was turned he was behind her, and behind her he marched up the steps and up the aisle. In Mary’s pew he took his station, and at Mary’s feet he lay.
Father O’Givney came down from his pulpit after Mass, and Mary apologized.
“The Boy-O folleyed me, Father O’Givney, an’ I hunted him home, but right back he came. He sure do be liking it here, an’ a foine church it is, to be sure. He’s the great Boy—that.”
“I’ve a dog of my own at home,” said Father O’Givney. He was Irish, too, and Mary’s soft brogue was to him like the music of the Ould Sod. “Van’s behaving well, isn’t he?”
“Sure, he’s always the gentleman!” answered Mary, and Van was left, unrebuked and undisturbed.
No one will ever know how many times Van went to Mass with Mary. She kept her own counsel. But I have my suspicions that to-day Van is a full-fledged Roman Catholic, in good and regular standing; and I am sure that, if it were orthodox to admit dogs into the fold, Mary would, long ago, have had his name entered on the books.
CHAPTER VIII
THE GREAT STORM
