“’T is little a child like you drames of the rale throubles of me,” she murmured. “Whin ye’re older, ye’ll bless the good day that gave ye this holy refuge, and saved ye from thim all. Oh, Katie, darlin’, when I see you standing be me side in your habit--’t is mesilf had it made be the Miss Maguires in Skibbereen, the same that sews the vestmints for the bishop himself--I can lay me down, and say me _nunc dimittis_ wid a thankful heart!” Kate sighed deeply and turned away. It was the trusting sweetness of affection with which old Mother Agnes had enveloped her ever since the promise to take vows had been wrung from her reluctant tongue that rose most effectually always to restrain her from reconsidering that promise. It was clear enough that the venerable O’Mahony nuns found in the speedy prospect of her joining them the one great controlling joy of their lives. Thinking upon this now, it was natural enough for her to say: “Can thim O’Daly girls rade and write, I wonder?” “Oh, they’ve had schooling, all of them. ’T is not what you had here, be anny manes, but ’t will do.” “Just think, Mother Agnes,” Kate burst forth, “what it ‘ll be like to be shut with such craytures as thim afther--afther you l’ave us!” “They’re very humble,” said the nun, hesitatingly. “’T is more of that same spirit I’d fain be seeing in yourself, Katie! And in that they’ve small enough resimblance to Cormac O’Daly, who’s raked ’em up from the highways and byways to make their profession here. And oh--tell me now--old Ellen that brings the milk mintioned to Sister Blanaid that O’Daly was gone somewhere, and that there was talk about it.” “Talk, is it!” exclaimed Kate, whose introspective mood had driven this subject from her mind, but who now spoke with eagerness. “That’s the word for it, ‘talk.’ ’T is me mother, for pure want of something to say, that putt the notion into Sergeant O’Flaherty’s thick skull, and, w’u’d ye belave it, they’ve brought more poliss to the town, and they’re worriting the loives out of the people wid questions and suspicions. I’m told they’ve even gone out to the bog and arrested some of thim poor wretches of O’Driscolls that Cormac putt out of their cottages last winter. The idea of it!” “Where there’s so much smoke there’s some bit of fire,” said the older woman. “Where _is_ O’Daly?” The girl shrugged her shoulders. “’T is not my affair!” she said, curtly. “I know where he’d be, if I’d my will.” “Katie,” chanted the nun, in tender reproof, “what spirit d’ye call that for a woman who’s within four-an’-twinty hours of making her profession! Pray for yourself, child, that these worldly feelings may be taken from ye!” “Mother Agnes,” said the girl, “if I’m to pretind to love Cormac O’Daly, thin, wance for all, ’t is no use!”