Father Murphy (he had spent three whole days in New York) had made her see the great buildings that were like granite giants towering over and walling in the pigmy humanity that beat against their sides like the rise and fall of the tide; he told her of the rush and roar of the streets and of the trains that tore over one's head. And he told her of the loveliness that was there in picture and music. Moira, listening, quivering with the longing to be fine and to do fine things, could always see it all just as though magic hands swept aside those miles of ocean dividing that land of marvel from her Ireland. That was why it was so simple to let her dream-mind climb up and away westward. Her eyes, staring into the paling blue, saw beautiful things and her thoughts revelled in delicious fancies. That slender, gold crowned bit of a cloud--_that_ was Destiny circling her globe, weaving, and moulding, and shaping; Moira O'Donnell's own humble thread was on her loom! And Destiny's face was turned westward. Moira saw shining towers and thronged streets and fields greener than her own. Far-off music sounded in her ears as though the world off there just sang with gladness. And it was waiting for her--her. She saw herself moving forward to it all with quick step and head high, going to a beautiful goal. Sometimes that goal was a palace-place, encircled by brilliant flowers, sometimes a farm like Father Murphy's sister's and a husband who worked with marvelous contrivances, sometimes a free library with all the books one could want, sometimes a dim, vaulted space through which echoed exquisite music-- She so loved that make-believe Moira, moving forward toward glowing things, that she cried aloud: "That's me! _Me!_" And of course her voice broke the spell--the dream vanished; there was nothing left but the fleecy cloud, the meadow lark's song, close by. There was just time enough before her grandmother needed her, to run down to Father Murphy's. She knew at this hour she would find him by his wide doorstep. Fleetly, her bare feet scarcely touching the soft earth, she covered the distance to his house. She ran up behind him and slipped her fingers over his half-closed eyes. He knew the familiar touch of the girl's hands. He patted them with his own and moved aside on his bench that she might sit down with him. "Father," she said, very low, her eyes shining. "It's my dream again." The old priest did not chide her for idling, as her grandmother would have done. The old priest dreamed, too. "Tell me," she went on. "Can one go to school over there as long as one likes? Is it too grown-up I am to learn more things from books?" The old Father told her one could never be too old to learn from books. He loved her craving for knowledge. Had he not taught her himself, since she was twelve? He looked at her proudly. "Father!" She whispered now, and the rose flush deepened in her face. "It's Danny Lynch that comes every evening to see me."