"I wish I had a photo of you—a right one, just as you are at this very minute. I'd hang it in your own room, and times and times in the day I'd be running upstairs to look at it. But it's all as one. I've got a photo of you here," (touching her breast) "and sometimes I can see it as plain as plain."
I could not speak after that, but I kissed her as she was going out, and she said:
"That's nice, now! Good-bye, my chree! You'll not be going home until to-morrow, it's like, so perhaps I'll be putting another sight on you. Good-bye!"
I went to the window to watch her as she walked down the drive. She was wiping her eyes, but her head was up and I thought her step was light, and I was sure her face was shining.
God bless her! The dear sweet woman! Such women as she is, and my mother was—so humble and loving, so guileless and pure, never saying an unkind word or thinking an unkind thought—are the flowers of the world that make the earth smell sweet.
When she was gone and I remembered the promise I had made to her I asked myself what was to become of me. If I could neither divorce my husband under any circumstances without breaking a sacrament of the Church, nor love Martin and be loved by him without breaking the heart of his mother, where was I?
I intended to go home the following morning; I was to meet Martin the following night. What was I to say? What was I to do?
All day long these questions haunted me and I could find no answers. But towards evening I took my troubles where I had often taken them—to Father Dan.