young
man was saying, he was thinking of Biddy; he hardly thought of anything
else but her now; she was absorbing the mind of his entire parish, she
interrupted the Mass, he could not go into his church without being
accosted by this absurd old woman, and this young man, a highly
cultivated young man, who had just come from Italy, and who took the
highest interest in architecture, would not be able to see his church
in peace. As soon as they entered it they would be accosted by this old
woman; she would follow them about asking them to look at her window,
telling them her visions, which might or might not be true. She had a
knack of hiding herself--he often came upon her suddenly behind the
pillars, and sometimes he found her in the confessional. As soon as he
crossed the threshold he began to look for her, and not finding her in
any likely place, his fears subsided, and he called the young man's
attention to the altar that had been specially designed for his church.
And the young man had begun to tell the priest of the altars he had
seen that Spring in Italy, when suddenly he uttered a cry, he had
suddenly felt a hand upon his shoulder.

"Your honour will be well rewarded if you will come to my window. Now
why should I tell you a lie, your reverence?"

She threw herself at the priest's feet and besought him to believe that
the saints had been with her, and that every word she was speaking was
the truth.

"Biddy, if you don't go away at once I will not allow you inside the
church to-morrow."

The young man looked at the priest, surprised at his sternness, and the
priest said:--

"She has become a great trial to us at Kilmore. Come aside and I will
tell you about her."

And when the priest had told the young man about the window the young
man asked if Biddy would have to be sent away.

"I hope not, for if she were separated from her window she would
certainly die. It came out of her savings, out of the money she made
out of chickens."

"And what has become of the chickens?"

"She has forgotten all about them; they wandered away or died. She has
been evicted, and she lives now in an out-house. She lives on the bits
of bread and the potatoes the neighbours give her. The things of this
world are no longer realities to her. Her realities are what she sees
and hears in that window. She told me last night the saints were
singing about her. I don't like to encourage her to talk, but if you
would like to hear her--