He was trying to think of something to say that would ease her grief; but all that came to his mind seemed vapid and without much meaning. He had been thinking of her a great deal during the last few days and it hurt him to see her cry. He had never spoken to her before the day of his grandfather’s death; but he had seen her often on the street and at the church--when he went there--and he had often marvelled at the calm purity of her face. He had heard much of her in different ways; of her goodness of heart, of her gentle ways, of her deep love and veneration for the faith in which she had been reared. He had lived rough, a young man in his place could hardly help it; and he had seen, and said, and done things which would have made him hang his head had she known; but, for all, he liked, as most men do, reverence for holy things in a woman. It was Mary that broke the silence. “Mrs. McGonagle will take care of the house for you until you have time to get settled,” she said. And he looked at her blankly, not understanding. “I will stay with a friend for a while,” she continued, “for I haven’t had time to think of anything yet.” “You’re goin’ away, then?” “To be sure!” wonderingly. “This is your home now, and I can’t stay here, you know.” “That’s so,” said he. He hadn’t thought of it before; and now that he did his heart sank a little at her helplessness. She fumbled at the catch of her mourning glove; he looked at her for a long time, thinking of another--of the tall, splendid girl whom he had known best as a child and playmate. But _she_ seemed far away now; her people were his people no longer. Ah, yes that was it: Education had done much for this girl of whom he had dreamed since boyhood; but association had done more; and she seemed as far away as though she had dwelt upon a star. He could never reach her plane; and of late years he had only thought of her as one thinks of the dream-built hopes of youth. At last he said to Mary: “This house’s been your home for a good while, now; and it’ed look like drivin’ youse away, wouldn’t it?--I mean if ye went.” “I don’t know,” answered she doubtfully. “Anyway, I don’t want ye to go,” said he, with sudden courage. “Stay here--and marry me!” He looked into the pure, candid eyes and saw sweeping into them a quiet happiness that caused him to stoop and kiss her cheek. “Uncle Larry spoke of that just before he died,” she said; “and if you are sure you want me, I’ll stay.” Chapter VIII “_There’s an organ in the parlour, Just to give the house a tone, And you’re welcome every evening, At Maggie Murphy’s home._” HARRIGAN.