“Sure, I’ve me full share of pride in proper things,” she said, “and no O’Mahony of them all held his family higher in his mind than I do. And me blood lapes to every word you say about that same. But would _you_--Agnes O’Mahony as ye were born--would you be asking me to have pride in the O’Dalys? And that ’s what ’t is intinded to make of the convint now. For my part, I’d be for saying: ‘L’ave the convint doy now wid the last of the ladies of our own family rather than keep it alive at the expinse of giving it to the O’Dalys.’” Mother Agnes shook her head. “I’ve me carnal feelings no less than you,” she said, “and me family pride to subdue. But even if the victory of humility were denied me, what c’u’d we do? For the moment, I’ll put this holy house to wan side. What can _you_ do? How can you stand up forninst Cormac O’Daly’s determination? Remimber, widout him ye’re but a homeless gerrel, Katie.” “And whose fault is that, Mother Agnes?” asked Kate, with swift glance and tone. “Will ye be telling me ’t was The O’Mahony’s? Did he l’ave me widout a four-penny bit, depindent on others, or was it that others stole me money and desaved me, and to-day are keeping me out of me own? Tell me that, Mother Agnes.” The nun’s ivory-tinted face flushed for an instant, then took on a deeper pallor. Her gaze, lifted momentarily toward Kate, strayed beyond her to vacancy. She rose to her full height and made a forward step, then stood, fumbling confusedly at her beads, and with trembling, half-opened lips. “’T is not in me power,” she stammered, slowly and with difficulty. “There--there _was_ something--I’ve not thought of it for so long--I’m forgetting strangely--” She broke off abruptly, threw up her withered hands in a gesture of despair, and then, never looking at the girl, turned and with bowed head left the room. Kate still stood staring in mingled amazement and apprehension at the arched casement through which Mother Agnes had vanished, when the oak door was pushed open again, and Sister Blanaid, a smaller and younger woman, yet bent and half-palsied under the weight of years, showed herself in the aperture. She bore in her arms, shoving the door aside with it as she feebly advanced, a square wooden box, dust-begrimed and covered in part with reddish cow-skin. “Take it away!” she mumbled. “’T is the mother-supayrior’s desire you should take it from here. ’T is an evil day that’s on us! Go fling this haythen box into the bay and thin pray for yourself and for her, who’s taken that grief for ye she’s at death’s door!” The door closed again, and Kate found herself mechanically bearing this box in her arms and making her way out through the darkened hallways to the outer air. Only when she stood on the steps of the porch, and set down her burden to adjust her hat, did she recognize it. Then, with a murmuring cry of delight, she stooped and snatched it up again. It was the _cathach_ which The O’Mahony had given her to keep.