"It might kill him to wake him now," murmured Molly.

"Yes, that is just the difficulty." The young man was speaking more to
himself than to her.

"Difficulty!" thought Molly with scorn. "Fiddlesticks!"

The silence was unbroken for some moments. The fresh autumn air blew
into the room. A sandy coloured cat came from under the bed, looked at
them, and then rubbed her arched back against the unsteady leg of the
only table, which was laden with bottles and basins, finally retired
into a further corner, and upset and broke one of the pink candles that
belonged to the neighbour.

But Mrs. Moloney never took her eyes off the priest's pale face.

"I'll wait until he wakes," he said to her, "but is there anywhere else
I could go? It's not good to crowd up this room."

"That's intended to remove me," thought Molly, "but it won't succeed."

Mrs. Moloney moved into the little back room, and pulled forward a
chair. When the priest was seated she shut the door behind her and
whispered to him--

"Father, you'll not let his soul slip through your fingers, will you,
father dear? Just because of the poor lady who knows no better!"

"Who is she? She is not like the district visitors I've seen about in
the parish."