_Michael._ He made out 'twas as good as insulting him making such a small payment, and the money that's on us to be so heavy. "If you don't wish to sign that note," says he, "you needn't. It don't matter at all to me one way or the other, for before the next Quarter Sessions 'tis Andy Driscoll, the process-server, will be marching up to your door." So what could I do but sign? Why, 'twas how he turned on me in a red passion. "And isn't it a scandal, Michael Harte," says he, "for the like o' you, with your name on them books there for a hundred and fifty pounds, and you with only the grass of nine or ten cows, to be making your son a priest? The like of it," says he, "was never heard of before." _Mrs. Harte._ What business was it of his, I'd like to know? Jealous of us! There's no fear any of his sons will ever be anything much! _Michael._ I was thinking it might do Maurice some harm with the Bishop if it came out on the papers that we were up before the judge for a civil bill. _Mrs. Harte._ ... 'Tisn't once or twice I told you that I had my heart set on hearing Maurice say the marriage words over his own brother. _Maurice_ comes home for the summer vacation, looking pale and emaciated. His mother ascribes his condition to the bad city air and hard study at school. But _Maurice_ suffers from a different cause. His is a mental struggle: the maddening struggle of doubt, the realization that he has lost his faith, that he has no vocation, and that he must give up his divinity studies. He knows how fanatically bent his people are on having him ordained, and he is tortured by the grief his decision will cause his parents. His heart is breaking as he at last determines to inform them. He reasons and pleads with his parents and implores them not to drive him back to college. But they cannot understand. They remain deaf to his arguments; pitifully they beg him not to fail them, not to disappoint the hope of a lifetime. When it all proves of no avail, they finally disclose to _Maurice_ their gnawing secret: the farm has been mortgaged and many debts incurred for the sake of enabling him to attain to the priesthood. _Michael._ Maurice, would you break our hearts? _Maurice._ Father, would you have your son live a life of sacrilege? Would you, Father? Would you? _Mrs. Harte._ That's only foolish talk. Aren't you every bit as good as the next? _Maurice._ I may be, but I haven't a vocation.... My mind is finally made up.