of softness in her composition,
anything of the tenderness of a woman about her, Feemy would have
made a confidant of her, and her present sufferings would have been
immeasurably decreased; but Mary was such an iron creature--so loud,
so hard, so equable in her temper, so impenetrable, that Feemy could
not bring herself to tell her tale of woe, which otherwise she would
have been tempted to disclose. She had, therefore, the additional
labour of keeping her secret from Mary's prying eyes, and Mary was
nearly as acute as Mrs. McKeon.

About noon, on Monday, Feemy was horror-struck at being told by Katty
that Father John was at the back door asking for her.

"Oh, Katty, tell him to wait awhile; say I'm ill, can't you--do,
dear!"

"Why, Miss, I towld him as how you war up, and betther, thank God,
since you war home."

It was clearly necessary that she should see the priest; but she
insisted on his not being shown in till she had dressed herself; and
she again submitted herself to those agonies which she trusted, for
a time, would hide her disgrace, which at last must become known to
all. When this was done, she seated herself on the sofa, and plucked
up all her courage to go through the painful conversation which she
knew she was to endure. She did not rise as he entered, but remained
on the sofa with the hectic tint on her face almost suffused into a
blush, and her hands clasping the calico covering of the cushion, as
if from that she could get more strength for endurance.

Father John shook hands with her as he seated himself by her; the
tears came into his eyes as he observed the sad change which so short
a time had made in her. The flesh had fallen from her face, and the
skin now hung loose upon her cheek and jaw bones, falling in towards
the mouth, giving her that lean and care-worn look which misery so
soon produces. Her healthy colour, too, had all fled; part of her
face was of a dull leaden paleness, and though there was a bright
colour round her eyes, it gave her no appearance of health. She
looked ten years older than when he had seen her last. No wonder Mrs.
McKeon pitied her so deeply; she appeared even more pitiable than
her brother, who was awaiting his doubtful fate in gaol--though with
nervous anxiety, still with unflinching courage.

"I am glad to hear you're better, Feemy. Mrs. McKeon thinks you a
great deal better."

"Thank ye, Father John; I believe I'm well enough now."

"That's well, then;