too as they gaze down and smile upon the touching scene. Reverently look at
her as she reclines there with the motherlight in her eyes, that longing hunger
for baby fingers (a pretty sight it is to see), in the first bloom of her new
motherhood, breathing a silent prayer of thanksgiving to One above, the
Universal Husband. And as her loving eyes behold her babe she wishes only
one blessing more, to have her dear Doady there with her to share her joy, to
lay in his arms that mite of God’s clay, the fruit of their lawful embraces. He is
older now (you and I may whisper it) and a trifle stooped in the shoulders yet
in the whirligig of years a grave dignity has come to the conscientious second
accountant of the Ulster bank, College Green branch. O Doady, loved one of
old, faithful lifemate now, it may never be again, that faroff time of the roses!
With the old shake of her pretty head she recalls those days. God, how
beautiful now across the mist of years! But their children are grouped in her
imagination about the bedside, hers and his, Charley, Mary Alice, Frederick
Albert (if he had lived), Mamy, Budgy (Victoria Frances), Tom, Violet
Constance Louisa, darling little Bobsy (called after our famous hero of the
South African war, lord Bobs of Waterford and Candahar) and now this last
pledge of their union, a Purefoy if ever there was one, with the true Purefoy
nose. Young hopeful will be christened Mortimer Edward after the influential
third cousin of Mr Purefoy in the Treasury Remembrancer’s office, Dublin
Castle. And so time wags on : but father Cronion has dealt lightly here. No,
let no sigh break from that bosom, dear gentle Mina. And Doady, knock the
ashes from your pipe, the seasoned briar you still fancy when the curfew rings
for you (may it be the distant day!) and dout the light whereby you read in the
Sacred Book for the oil too has run low and so with a tranquil heart to bed, to
rest. He knows and will call in His own good time. You too have fought the
good fight and played loyally your man’s part. Sir, to you my hand. Well
done, thou good and faithful servant!
There are sins or (let us call them as the world calls them) evil memories which are hidden away by man in the darkest places of the heart but they abide there and wait. He may suffer their memory to grow dim, let them be as though they had not been and all but persuade himself that they were not or at least were otherwise. Yet a chance word will call them forth suddenly and they will rise up to confront him in the most various circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while timbrel and harp soothe his senses or amid the cool silver tranquillity of the evening or at the feast at midnight when he is now filled with wine. Not to insult over him will the vision come as over one that lies