“Blue is the emblem of hope, and for that reason the Orange system has adopted it as illustrative of our faith,” said Mr. Lucre.
He had scarcely uttered the words, when Father Roche entered the sick apartment. High and haughty was the bow he received from Mr. Lucre; whilst Father M'Cabe seemed somewhat surprised at the presence of the reverend gentlemen. The latter looked mildly about him, wiped the moisture from his pale forehead and said—
“Mrs. Beatty, will you indulge me with a chair? On my return home I lost not a moment in coming here; but the walk I have had is a pretty long one, the greater part of it being up-hill.”
“Well,” replied Mrs. Beatty, “I'm not the woman to think one thing and speak another. To be sure, I'd rather he would die a True Blue than a Papish; but since he will die one, I'd rather have you at his side than e'er a priest in the kingdom. If there is a Christian among them, you are one—you are—so, Bob dear, since you're bent on it, I won't disturb you.”
“Bring your chair near me,” said Bob; “where is your hand, my dear sir? Give Me your hand.” Poor Bob caught Father Roche's hand in his, and pressed it honestly and warmly.
“Bob,” said Mr. Lucre, “I don't understand this; in what creed are you disposed to die?”
“You see, sir,” said M'Cabe, “that he won't die in yours at any rate.”
“You will not die in my creed!” repeated the parson, astonished.
“No,” said Bob; “I will not.”
“You will then die in mine, of course?” said Mr. M'Cabe.