of my mother's spirit once more. My head began to move sadly to and fro and the old well-remembered smile came on my face. But she did not want to come.
"Why do you do it, Tina? Why do you do it?" she said in reproach. "You know it's not right—You know it's not right."
"I didn't do it, mother," I said. "I don't know why they made you come again. I don't want you to come."
And then, from somewhere in space, I heard, in my father's voice, a duet they had once sung together in the first days of their married life.
And then my mother's voice went happily to meet it in answer and I listened to the two in silence and heard them meet and once more I was alone.
Alone and rather desolate I found myself in my new rooms and sitting by a clumsily put together fire in the grate, which, somehow, I could not persuade to burn.
I heard the voice which, of all others, had been the most gentle—I felt it belonged to a Roman Catholic priest. Never once, through all my raging resentment and the furious epithets I threw sometimes at this church, sometimes at that, never once had it met me with anything but gentleness and patience and a feeling of peace that brought me help.
"Are you there, little girl?"
"Yes, Father, I'm here," I said with the old custom of my childhood at a convent school.
"Are you all right then?"
"Not yet. I can't get my fire to burn and my furniture is all upside down—but I don't feel lonely. Patrick is here and all the others—too many of the others, but just now they're quiet."
"Remember I am always there within call, and this is the time I'll come. Try not to talk—Try not to answer them."
He never stayed long but was always anxious for my well-being.
