"They often heard worse from me than what I am saying to-night, God help me! 'T isn't the men I care about, nor their doings. But whin the young girls would crass the street, les' they should come near me, and the dacent mothers 'ud throw their aprons over their childres' heads, les' they should see me, ah! that was the bitter pill. And many and many a night, whin you wor in your bed, I stood down on dem rocks below, with the say calling for me, and the hungry waves around me and there was nothin' betune me and hell but that--" She fumbled in her bosom and drew out a ragged, well-worn scapular with a tiny medal attached, and kissed it. "And sure I know if I wint with 'em, I should have to curse the face of the Blessed and Holy Mary forever, and I said then, 'Never! Never!' and I faced the hard world agin." I detected the faintest odor of spirits as she spoke. "'T is hardly a good beginning, Nance, to come here straight from the public house." "'Twas only a thimbleful Mrs. Haley gave me, to give me courage to face you." "And what is it to be now? Are you going to change your life?" "Yerra, what else would bring me here to-night?" "And you are going to make up your mind to go to confession as soon as you can?" "As soon as I can? This very moment, wid God's blessing." "Well, then, I'll ask Father Letheby to step out for a moment and hear you." "If you do, then I'll lave the chapel on the spot, and maybe you won't see me agin." She pulled up her shawl, as if to depart. "What harm has Father Letheby done you? Sure every one likes him." "Maybe! But he never gave me word or look that wasn't pison since he came to the parish. I'll go to yourself." "But," I said, fearing that she had still some dread of me that might interfere with the integrity of her confession, "you know I have a bad tongue--" "Never mind," she said, "if you have. Sure they say your bark is worse than your bite."