tions; and he’s throubling me to begin wid the Chronicles of Ciaran of Clonmacnoise, Cormac McCullenan, and Cusan O’Lochain, the gr-r-reat Irish histhorians.” The boy was evidently accustomed to the priest’s Celtic pleasantries. A little, appreciative grin was all the attention the insinuation of pedantry received.
Lorison, to have saved his life could not have put to the child one of those vital questions that were wildly beating about, unanswered, in his own brain. The little fellow was very like Norah; he had the same shining hair and candid eyes.
“Oh, Father Denny,” cried the boy, suddenly, “I forgot to tell you! Sister is not going away at night any more! She told me so when she kissed me good-night as she was leaving. And she said she was so happy, and then she cried. Wasn’t that queer? But I’m glad; aren’t you?”
