The execution was set for the seventh of May. On the evening of the sixth, while walking down the single street of the village Bourke came face to face with the new priest of the district. “Tim Connor!” he exclaimed, forgetting for the moment, in the sudden retrospect which this man’s face unrolled, the horror that held him. “Well, it’s me, sure enough, Garan, and I’ve been hunting for you these two days. I heard you were here, but faith, I’ve been busy!—not to say I’ve been away for two weeks.” “How long have you been here?” “Six months, come June, it is since I left old Ireland; and I’m wanting to tell you that the creek we used to wade in is as tempting to the boys as ever, and that the bog you pulled me out of has moved on a mile and more. Twenty times I’ve been for going across the country to call on you and have a good grip of the hand, and to bless you again for letting me live to do good work; but I was caught in a net here—But what’s the matter—Are you ill?—Oh, sure! sure! This terrible business! I remember! Poor young thing!” He laid his arm about the shoulders of the other man and guided him to his house. There, in his bare little study, he brewed an Irish toddy, and the two men drank without a spoken toast to the old times when they had punched each other’s head, fought each other’s battles, and shared each other’s joys, two affectionate rollicking mischievous Irish lads. The priest spoke finally. “Nothing else is talked of here in the village,” he said; “but you don’t hear a word of it mentioned over at the house.” “What house?” “Peele Manor, to be sure.” “Do you go there?” “Occasionally—to dine; or to talk with Miss Mairs. We are amiable friends, although she doesn’t confess to me.” Bourke raised his head slowly. Something seemed to swirl through his heavy heart. “Is Honora Mairs a Catholic?” he asked. “She is indeed, and, like all converts, full to the brim and running over.” Bourke leaned forward, his hand clinching about his chin, his elbow pressing his knee with such force that his arm vibrated. He had been raised a Catholic—he knew its grip. His mind was trained to grasp opportunities on the moment, to work with the nervous yet mathematical rapidity of electric currents. And like all great lawyers he was a great actor. “Tim,” he said meditatively, “I’m feeling terribly bad over that poor girl I couldn’t save.” “Sure and I should think you would, Garan. My heart’s breaking for her myself.” “Did you read the trial, Tim?” “No, faith, I didn’t. I’ve been too busy with these godless folk. Sure they get away from us priests when they get into America. It’s only one more drop to hell.” “You’re right, Tim, you’re right. You always saw things at a glance. But I’ve got a great work for you to do,—a great work for you and for the Church.” “You have, Garan? You have? Out with it, my boy.”