of Clonmacnoise, Corurac McCullenan and Cuan O’Lochain, the gr-r-reat Irish histhorians.” The boy was evidently accustomed to the priest’s Celtic pleasantries. A little, appreciative grin was all the attention the insinuaion of pedantry received.
Lorison, to have saved his life, could not have put to the child one of those vital questions that were wildly beating about, unanswered, in his own brain. The little fellow was very like Norah; he had the same shining hair and candid eyes.
“Oh, Father Denny,” cried the boy, suddenly, “I forgot to tell you! Sister is not going away at night anymore! She told me so when she kissed me good night as she was leaving. And she said she was so happy, and then she cried. Wasn’t that queer? But I’m glad; aren’t you?”
“Yes, lad. And now, ye omadhaun, go to sleep, and say good night; we must be going.”
“Which shall I do first, Father Denny?”
“Faith, he’s caught me again! Wait till I get the sassenach into the annals of Tageruach, the hagiographer; I’ll give him enough of the Irish idiom to make him more respectful.”
The light was out, and the small, brave voice bidding them good night from the dark room. They groped downstairs, and tore away from the garrulity of Mother Geehan.
Again the priest steered them through the dim ways, but this time in another direction. His conductor was
