"I see how it is, Emon, and you are very proud. However, the truth is, the pound was sent to me anonymously for you from a friend."
"She might as well have signed her name in full," said Emon, sadly, "for any loss that I can be at upon the subject--or perhaps you yourself, Father Farrell."
"Well, I was at no loss, I confess. But you were to know nothing about it, Emon; only you were so sharp. [{100}] There is no fear that your intellects have been injured by the blow, at all events. It was meant kindly, Emon, and I think you ought to take it--here."
"You think so, Father Farrell?"
"I do; indeed I do, Emon."
"Give it me, then," he said, taking it; and before Father Farrell's face he pressed it to his lips. He then got a pen and ink, and wrote something upon it. It was nothing but the date; he wanted no memorandum of anything else respecting it. But he would hardly have written even that, had he intended to make use of it.
The priest stood up to leave. He knew more than he chose to tell Emon-a-knock. But there was an amicable smile upon his lips as he held out his hand to bid him goodby.
Oh, the suspicion of a heart that loves!
"Father Farrell," he said, still holding the priest's hand, "is this the note, the very note, the identical note, she sent me?"
"Yes, Emon; I would not deceive you about it. It is the very note; which, I fear," he added, "is not likely to be of much use to you."