"No, indeed; she is a lady, and I've done some work for her, and she
would not be satisfied when she heard Moloney was ill but she must come
herself, and yesterday, not to grudge her her due, father, the doctor
said if he pulled through that I owed her his life. Well, that's proved
a mistake, anyhow, but she's after spoiling his last chance, and he's
not been the good man he was once, father."

"Yes, Mrs. Moloney, you must watch him carefully, and here I am if there
is any change. I'm sure that lady is an excellent nurse, and we mustn't
let any chance slip of keeping him alive, must we?"

She shook her head; this was only an English curate, still he must be
obeyed.

Molly was profoundly irritated by Mrs. Moloney's proceeding to make a
cup of tea for the priest, but he was grateful for it, as he had been
out at tea-time, and had come to the Moloneys' instead of eating his
dinner. He opened the window of the tiny room as far as it would go, and
read his Office by the light of the tallow candle. That finished, he sat
still and began to wonder about the lady with the olive complexion and
the strange, grey eyes.

"I felt as if I should frizzle up in the fire of her wrath," he thought
with a smile.

He took his rosary and was half through it when the door opened and
Molly came in. She shut it noiselessly, and then spoke in her usual
unmoved, impersonal voice.