The priest
was walking up his little lawn reading his breviary, and a great
fear came on Pat Phelan, and he thought he must ask the priest
what he should do.
The priest heard the story over the little wall, and he was sorry
for the old man.
It took him a long time to tell the story, and when he was
finished the priest said:--
"But where are you going, Pat?"
"That's what I stopped to tell you, your reverence. I was thinking
I might be going to the convent to tell Catherine that Peter has
come back."
"Well it wasn't yourself that thought of doing such a thing as
that, Pat Phelan."
But at every word the priest said Pat Phelan's face grew more
stubborn, and at last he said:--
"Well, your reverence, that isn't the advice I expected from you,"
and he struck the mare with the ends of the reins and let her trot
up the hill. Nor did the mare stop trotting till she had reached
the top of the hill, and Pat Phelan had never known her do such a
thing before. From the top of the hill there was a view of the
bog, and Pat thought of the many fine loads of turf he had had out
of that bog, and the many young fellows he had seen there cutting
turf. "But every one is leaving the country," the old man said to
himself, and his chin dropped into his shirt-collar, and he held
the reins loosely, letting the mare trot or walk as she liked. And
he let many pass him without bidding them the hour of the day, for
he was too much overcome by his own grief to notice anyone.
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