“Now, aunt, I put it to you, could any thing be purtier, or fairer spoken than that? but his white cheek flushed—he turned on me in anger, only he could not hould a black look for a minute, and he says—
“ ‘Do you take me for one of the blind priests of Rome?’
“ ‘Indeed I did, sir,’ I made answer, ‘how could I help it?’ the words came to my lips quite natural—though my heart was beating with what I can’t tell, to think of his speaking that way of the holy fathers, and he treading as hard as ever he could on their heels—and then the look of pity he threw on me!
“ ‘Poor creature, poor creature,’ he says. ‘You come, I see, of a benighted race.’ Well, I was bothered. He walked gently on, and the very sweep of his coat, from head to tail, had a priestly swing with it; and then he turned back and looked at me so gently. ‘Have you been often here?’ he says. Well, I gave him another courtesy, but not so low as the others.
“ ‘No, sir,’ I answered, (I did not ‘your reverence’ him that time,) ‘and I wont trouble you again.’
“ ‘You do not trouble me,’ he says. ‘I only wish you trod in our paths.’
“ ‘I’d rather keep to my own, sir; and then I’ll make no mistakes.’ Well, he was a quiet gentleman, for he smiled at that. And he says again, ‘I would like to question you a little;’ and he was going on only I stopt him. ‘Question Father John Joyce, if you plaze, sir; I’ll give you his address—he always answered for me, and always will, that’s my comfort.’ And the name of my own blessed priest gave me strength. ‘He always answered for me,’ I repeated, ‘and for my people; he knows what he’s about, and will scorn to mislead any poor girl—it’s too bad, so it is, to be situated this way, that I can’t tell the differ between a holy priest and a protestant minister.’ Well, that settled him, as I thought it would; and he walks right away, and the pale beautiful lady in black, that had been leaning against a pillar like a statute, takes his arm; and the stout goold laced old gentleman beckons me on, not crossly. So I says, ‘Which of the sisters is that?’ And he gave a chuckle of a laugh: ‘That’s his wife,’ he says.
“ ‘Oh! holy Moses,’ says I, ‘look at that now! his wife!’ And I thought of the candles and crosses and bowings; and all the saints he ran over; and the little boys in the little albs, and every thing so like the right—and yet the wrong; ‘his wife, and he a PRIEST! let me out of the place,’ I says, ‘for it’s a sin and a shame; neither one thing nor another; all a delusion; let me out;’ and then I stopt. ‘Maybe he’s not a priest at all!’ I inquired, looking at the stout old gentleman, ‘and if he’s not, what is he?’
“ ‘I’ll tell you, young woman,’ he answers, and he makes believe to whisper; and then it came on me like a flash of lightning, that I had got into neither the one nor the other, but into a half-way house!
“ ‘And have you none of them in Ireland?’ he inquires.