bons, and lace about the neck and arrums—’twas a sin, yer riverence, the gold was spint upon it.”
The priest heard Lorison catch his breath painfully and a faint smile flickered across his own clean-cut mouth.
“Well, then, Mistress Geehan,” said he, “I’ll just step upstairs and see the bit boy for a minute, and I’ll take this gentleman up with me.”
“He’s awake, thin,” said the woman. “I’ve just come down from sitting wid him the last hour, tilling him fine shtories of ould County Tyrone. ’Tis a greedy gossoon, it is, yer riverence, for me shtories.”
“Small the doubt,” said Father Rogan. “There’s no rocking would put him to slape the quicker, I’m thinking.”
Amid the woman’s shrill protest against the retort, the two men ascended the steep stairway. The priest pushed open the door of a room near its top.
“Is that you already, sister?” drawled a sweet, childish voice from the darkness.
“It’s only ould Father Denny come to see ye, darlin’; and a foine gintleman I’ve brought to make ye a gr-r-and call. And ye resaves us fast aslape in bed! Shame on yez manners!”
“Oh, Father Denny, is that you? I’m glad. And will you light the lamp, please? It’s on the table by the door. And quit talking like Mother Geehan, Father Denny.”
The priest lit the lamp, and Lorison saw a tiny, tow-
