Charred Wood | Page 8

"Don't be sorry, Father," she answered, as he opened the door to let her
go into the house ahead of him. "Sure, God was good to me, and to
John and to the childer. Sure, I had him for thirty year, and he died
right. I'm happy to do God's will."
She passed into the house. The priest looked over to where Mark was
standing hat in hand.
"Don't go, Mr. Griffin, unless you really have to. I'll be away only a
few minutes."
Mark sat down again and thought. The priest had said nothing about the
lady of the tree, and Mark really wanted him to mention her; but Father
Murray had given him something else that made him thoughtful and
brought back memories. Mark did not have long to wait, for the door
opened in five minutes and the priest came out alone.
"Mrs. O'Leary came to arrange for the funeral herself--brave, wasn't
it?" he said. "I left her with Ann, my housekeeper, a good soul whose
specialty is one in which the Irish excel--sympathy. Ann keeps it in
stock and, though she is eternally drawing on it, the stock never
diminishes. Mrs. O'Leary's troubles are even now growing less."

"Sympathy and loyalty," said Mark, "are chief virtues of the Irish I
knew at home."
"Ann has both," said Father Murray, hunting for his pipe. "But the
latter to an embarrassing degree. She would even run the parish if she
could, to see that it was run to save me labor. Ann has been a priest's
housekeeper for twenty-five years. She has condoled with hundreds;
she loves the poor but has no patience with shams. We have a chronic
sick man here who is her particular bête noir. And, as for organists, she
would cheerfully drown them all. But Mrs. O'Leary is safe with Ann."
"Poor woman!" said Mark.
"That reminds me," said Father Murray. "I had a convert priest here a
little while ago. His Bishop had sent him for his initial 'breaking in' to
one of the poorest parishes in a great city. I questioned a little the
advisability of doing that; so, after six months, when I met the
priest--who, by the way, had been a fashionable minister like myself--I
asked him rather anxiously how he liked his people. 'Charming people,'
he answered, 'charming. Charming women, too--Mrs. O'Rourke, Mrs.
Sweeney, Mrs. Thomasefski--' 'You speak of them,' I said, 'as if they
were society ladies.' 'Better--better still,' he answered. 'They're the real
thing--fewer faults, more faith, more devotion.' I tell you, Mr. Griffin, I
never before met people such as these."
"Mrs. O'Leary seems to have her pastor's philosophy," ventured the
visitor.
"Philosophy! That would seem a compliment indeed to Mrs. O'Leary.
She wouldn't understand it, but she would recognize it as something
fine. It isn't philosophy, though," he added, slowly; "rather, it's
something bigger. It's real religion."
"She needs it!"
"So do we all need it. I never knew how much until I was so old that I
had to weep for the barren years that might have bloomed." The priest
sighed as he hunted for his pipe.

The discussion ended for, to Mark's amazement, who should come up
the walk, veiled indeed, yet unmistakable, but the lady of the tree? Both
the priest and his visitor stood up. Mark reached for his hat and gloves.
"Pardon me," said the lady, "for disturbing you, Monsignore."
Father Murray laughed and put up his hand. "Now, then--please,
please."
"Well, Father, then. I like it better, anyway. I heard that poor man is
dead. Can I do anything?"
"I think you can," said Father Murray. "Will you step in?"
"No, Father; let me sit here." She looked at Mark, who stood waiting to
make his adieux. There was no mistaking the look, and the priest
understood at once. Plainly astonished, he introduced Mark. The lady
bowed and smiled. As she sat down, she raised her veil. Mark gazed
timidly into her face. Though she was seemingly unconscious of the
gaze, yet a flush crept up under the fair skin, and the low voice faltered
for an instant as she addressed him.
"I am a stranger here, like yourself, I fancy, Mr. Griffin," she ventured,
"but I have to thank you for a service."
Mark was scarcely listening. He was wondering if, underneath the
drooping brim of her hat, amongst the curling tendrils of golden-brown
hair, there might not be a hint of red to show under the sunlight. He
was thinking, too, how pretty was the name, Ruth Atheson. It was
English enough to make him think of her under certain trees in a certain
old park of boyhood's days.
"Do you know each other?" Father Murray was evidently still more
astonished.
"Not exactly," she said; "but Mr. Griffin has