"It's hard, I know it's hard for you, my daughter. But perhaps it's best
for the child that she should go away from home--perhaps it's all God's
blessed and holy will. Remember there's a certain person here who isn't
kind to our little innocent, and is making her a cause of trouble. Not
that I think she is actuated by evil intentions. . . ."

"But she is, she is," cried my mother, who was growing more and more
excited.

"Then all the more reason why Mary should go to the convent--for a time
at all events."

My mother began to waver, and she said:

"Let her be sent to a Convent in the island then."

"I thought of that, but there isn't one," said Father Dan.

"Then . . . then . . . then take her to the Presbytery," said my mother.
"Dear, dear Father," she pleaded, "let her live with you, and have
somebody to teach her, and then she can come to see me every day, or
twice a week, or even once a week--I am not unreasonable."

"It would be beautiful," said Father Dan, reaching over to touch my arm.
"To have our little Mary in my dull old house would be like having the
sun there always. But there are reasons why a young girl should not be
brought up in the home of a priest, so it is better that our little
precious should go to Rome."

My mother was breaking down and Father Dan followed up his advantage.