ir before. They're old enough to be more discreet," Nancy
observed to the specialist, who chatted with her whilst the two were
settling their future happiness.

"And you are a judge of human nature, too?" put in the learned man,
admiringly.

"The older we git the wiser we grow, sometimes," was Nancy's retort.

CHAPTER VIII.

_A DESERTER FROM THE MONK ROAD._

Father Doyle had just stepped from the white heat of an August day on
the Monk Road into the modest parlor of the widow McVeigh. He was
growing very stout as his years advanced upon him, and trudging through
the dust was warm exercise. But the sultriness without made the cool
interior of the tavern (for such the people still called the old place,
although Mrs. McVeigh no longer extended hospitality to the public)
more appreciable. Wild pea vines clambered over the windows, and the
ancient copings protruded outwards far enough to cast a shade, so that
the breeze which entered was freshened and sweetened with a gentle
aroma of many-colored blossoms.

Nancy McVeigh was unburdening a whole week's gossip whilst the priest
helped himself generously to the jug of buttermilk which she had
brought in from her churning.

"I have seen wonderful changes on the Monk Road in my time," he said,
reflectively, in answer to Nancy's observations concerning the summer
hotel on the Point, now filled to overflowing with people seeking
health and pleasure in its picturesque surroundings.

"One would scarcely know the place. What with grand rigs full o'
chatterin' women and children a-drivin' past the door, and the whole
Point a picture o' lawns an' pretty dresses," sighed Nancy. "But it
does me heart good to see the brown on the cheeks o' the little 'uns
after they've been here awhile."

"Doubtless you find some trade with them?" the priest surmised.

"Considerable; first in the mornin' it's someone askin' if I have fresh
eggs, then it's milk or butter or home-made bread, and so it keeps
agoin' all day long. I'm no needin' much o' their money, now that
Corney sends me my allowance once a month as regular as the sun, but
I've still quite a family to support, so I just charge 'em enough to
make them appreciate what they're gettin'. I've got Mrs. Conors an'
old Donald still on me hands, an' Katie Duncan's at an age whin she
wants a little spendin' fer ribbons and fancy things. So many foine
people about just pricks the envy o' the child, an' I wouldn't, fer the
sa