I was partly aware that big letters, bearing foreign postage-stamps and
seals and coats of arms, with pictures of crosses and hearts, were
coming to our house. I was also aware that at intervals, while my mother
was in bed, there was the sound of voices, as if in eager and sometimes
heated conference, in the room below, and that my mother would raise her
pale face from her pillow and stop my chattering with "Hush!" when my
father's voice was louder and sterner than usual. But it never occurred
to me to connect these incidents with myself, until the afternoon of the
day on which my mother got up for the first time.

She was sitting before the fire, for autumn was stealing on, and I was
bustling about her, fixing the rug about her knees and telling her if
she wanted anything she was to be sure and call her little Mally, when a
timid knock came to the door and Father Dan entered the room. I can see
his fair head and short figure still, and hear his soft Irish voice, as
he stepped forward and said:

"Now don't worry, my daughter. Above all, don't worry."

By long experience my mother knew this for a sign of the dear Father's
own perturbation, and I saw her lower lip tremble as she asked:

"Hadn't Mary better run down to the garden?"

"No! Oh no!" said Father Dan. "It is about Mary I come to speak, so our
little pet may as well remain."

Then at a signal from my mother I went over to her and stood by her
side, and she embraced my waist with a trembling arm, while the Father
took a seat by her side, and, fumbling the little silver cross on his