Red-Robin | Page 2

Murphy had told her of the free library that was in
the town near his sister's home, where he could sit all day and read to
his heart's content.
Father Murphy (he had spent three whole days in New York) had made
her see the great buildings that were like granite giants towering over
and walling in the pigmy humanity that beat against their sides like the
rise and fall of the tide; he told her of the rush and roar of the streets
and of the trains that tore over one's head.
And he told her of the loveliness that was there in picture and music.
Moira, listening, quivering with the longing to be fine and to do fine
things, could always see it all just as though magic hands swept aside
those miles of ocean dividing that land of marvel from her Ireland.
That was why it was so simple to let her dream-mind climb up and
away westward. Her eyes, staring into the paling blue, saw beautiful

things and her thoughts revelled in delicious fancies.
That slender, gold crowned bit of a cloud--that was Destiny circling her
globe, weaving, and moulding, and shaping; Moira O'Donnell's own
humble thread was on her loom! And Destiny's face was turned
westward. Moira saw shining towers and thronged streets and fields
greener than her own. Far-off music sounded in her ears as though the
world off there just sang with gladness. And it was waiting for her--her.
She saw herself moving forward to it all with quick step and head high,
going to a beautiful goal. Sometimes that goal was a palace-place,
encircled by brilliant flowers, sometimes a farm like Father Murphy's
sister's and a husband who worked with marvelous contrivances,
sometimes a free library with all the books one could want, sometimes
a dim, vaulted space through which echoed exquisite music--
She so loved that make-believe Moira, moving forward toward glowing
things, that she cried aloud: "That's me! Me!" And of course her voice
broke the spell--the dream vanished; there was nothing left but the
fleecy cloud, the meadow lark's song, close by.
There was just time enough before her grandmother needed her, to run
down to Father Murphy's. She knew at this hour she would find him by
his wide doorstep. Fleetly, her bare feet scarcely touching the soft earth,
she covered the distance to his house. She ran up behind him and
slipped her fingers over his half-closed eyes.
He knew the familiar touch of the girl's hands. He patted them with his
own and moved aside on his bench that she might sit down with him.
"Father," she said, very low, her eyes shining. "It's my dream again."
The old priest did not chide her for idling, as her grandmother would
have done. The old priest dreamed, too.
"Tell me," she went on. "Can one go to school over there as long as one
likes? Is it too grown-up I am to learn more things from books?"
The old Father told her one could never be too old to learn from books.

He loved her craving for knowledge. Had he not taught her himself,
since she was twelve? He looked at her proudly.
"Father!" She whispered now, and the rose flush deepened in her face.
"It's Danny Lynch that comes every evening to see me."
Now Father Murphy turned squarely and regarded her with startled
eyes. This slip of a girl was the most precious colleen in his flock.
"And, Father, it's of America he talks all the time!"
The old priest shivered as though from a chill. Sensing his feeling,
Moira caught his hand quickly and held it in a close grip.
"But if I go away it's not forgetting you I'll be! Oh, who in all this
world has been a better friend to Moira O'Donnell? Who has taught
Moira but you?"
"Child--"
"Sure it's grown-up I am! See!" She sprang to her feet and stood slimly
erect. "See?"
He nodded slowly. "Yes. And your old priest had not noticed. Moira--"
he caught her arm, leaned forward and peered into her face as though to
see through it into her soul. "Moira, girl, is it courage I have taught ye?
And honor? And faith?"
Her heart was singing now over the secret she had shared with him.
Who would not have courage and faith when one was so happy? With a
lift of her shoulders, a tilt of her head, she shrugged away his
seriousness.
"If you could only see me, Father, as I am in my dream. Oh, it's
beautiful I am! And smart! And rich!"
"Not money," broke in the priest with a ring of contempt.
"Sure, no, not money! But fine things. Oh, Father," she clasped her

hands childishly. "It's fine things I want. The