“Now, aunty, dear, that bothered me as much as any thing, how that stout old gentleman knew I was Irish. I never told him so, and I am as well dressed as any English maid can be; you would not know me, (though I was always so nice,) I am so improved; and yet he says, ‘Have you none of them in Ireland?’ and I answered quite proudly, ‘No, sir; we’ve the rale thing there!’ and that settled him. I saw he was ashamed of himself, and of all the goings on—creeping, creeping toward our holy church, and yet purtending to talk of its blindness; yet we ought to be content, for if they’re let to go on as they’re going, it’s asy told where they’ll stop; for the time’s coming, as I heard at Moorfields, where every thing was to my satisfaction, and I found the rale priest at last, though not so fine a man as our own dear Father Joyce, the heavens be his bed! and may he and the holy saints keep sin and heart-sorrow from you, my darling aunt! you who watched over me with as much as a mother’s love. It’s the spring-time now, and I often dream of the Bohreens, and the wild-bird’s song, and then again I feel as if the whole shadow of the mountain was over me like a shroud; but it isn’t long that lasts—as the song says—
“ ‘Hope will brighten days to come,
And memory gild the past.’ ”
| [10] | Remember. |
| [11] | Sermon. |
| [12] | Silence. |
A MOTHER’S PRAYER.
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