ve
the girl?"

"Faith I will, though I never thought of marriage, if it be to please
James." Seeing how heart-sick his brother was, he said, "I can't say I
like her as you like her; but if she likes me I will promise to do
right by her. James, you're going away; we may never see you again. It
is all very sad. And now you'll let me go back to bed."

"Peter, I knew you would not say no to me; I can't bear this any
longer."

"And now," said Peter, "let me go back to bed. I am catching my death."

And he ran back to his room, and left his brother and father talking by
the fire.

V

Pat thought the grey mare would take him in faster than the old red
horse; and the old man sat, his legs swinging over the shaft, wondering
what he should say to the Reverend Mother, and how she would listen to
his story; and when he came to the priest's house a great wish came
upon him to ask the priest's advice. The priest was walking up his
little lawn reading his breviary, and a great fear came on Pat Phelan,
and he thought he must ask the priest what he should do.

The priest heard the story over the little wall, and he was sorry for
the old man.

It took him a long time to tell the story, and when he was finished the
priest said:--

"But where are you going, Pat?"

"That's what I stopped to tell you, your reverence. I was thinking I
might be going to the convent to tell Catherine that Peter has come
back."

"Well it wasn't yourself that thought of doing such a thing as that,
Pat Phelan."

But at every word the priest said Pat Phelan's face grew more stubborn,
and at last he said:--

"Well, your reverence, that isn't the advice I expected from you," and
he struck the mare with the ends of the reins and let her trot up the
hill. Nor did the mare stop trotting till she had reached the top of
the hill, and Pat Phelan had never known her do such a thing before.
From the top of the hill there was a view of the bog, and Pat thought
of the many fine loads of turf he had had out of that bog, and the many
young fellows he had seen there cutting turf. "But every one is leaving
the country," the old man said to himself, and his chin dropped into
his shirt-collar, and he held the reins loosely, letting the mare trot
or walk as she liked. And he let many pass him without bidding them the
hour of the day, for he was too much overcome by his own grief to
notice anyone.

The mare trotted gleefully; soft clouds curled over the low hori