“I’ve lost more—me good name,” Kerrigan said. “I’ve stolen the handkerchief.”
“Then you’d better pray for repentance,” she advised. “I’ll give you a hint: the church is before you. Good-by, and thank you—for nothing.” Laughing, she hurried away up the steps of the church.
Kerrigan hesitatingly watched her go, then walked to a side porch and sat down.
“I’ll tak’ the hint to this extint,” he muttered, and patiently waited through the hour of service; but as the audience streamed forth at the close he returned to the main door and stood watching.
But suddenly he felt a touch on his arm and heard a voice say:
“I’ll be going home now.”
Startled, he looked down into the face of the girl. It was very demure, though flushed.
“Ah, ’tis ye thot’s repinted—of yer haard heart,” he said. “Ye’ve come back to tell me so.”
“I’ve repented of naught but my sins,” she replied, “and a hard heart is not one of them. But I’d borrow you for a little, if you have nothing better to do.”
“I’ll have nothing better to do all through purgatory, which will be hiven to me if ye’re wid me,” he replied. “And there’s another miracle.”