‘Here is the young woman herself coming across the fields.’

He looked that way and saw a small, thin girl coming towards the stile.  She hopped over it as if she enjoyed the little jump into the road.  Father Peter called to her and engaged her in conversation; and he continued to talk to her of indifferent things, no doubt with the view to giving him an opportunity of observing her.  But they saw her with different eyes:  whereas Father Peter descried in her one that might become a mischief in the parish, he could discover no dangerous beauty in her, merely a crumpled little face that nobody would notice were it not for the eyes and forehead.  The forehead was broad and well shapen and promised an intelligence that the eyes were quick to confirm; round, gray, intelligent eyes, smiling, welcoming eyes.  Her accent caressed the ear, it was a very sweet one, only faintly Irish, and she talked easily and correctly, like one who enjoyed talking, laughing gaily, taking, he was afraid, undue pleasure in Father Peter’s rough sallies, without heeding that he was trying to entrap her into some slight indiscretion of speech that he could make use of afterwards, for he must needs justify himself to himself if he decided to dismiss her.

As he had been asked to notice her he remarked her shining brown hair.  It frizzled like a furze-bush about her tiny face, and curled over her forehead.  Her white even teeth showed prettily between her lips.  She was not without points, but notwithstanding these it could not be said that she deserved the adjective pretty; and he was already convinced that it was not good looks that prejudiced her in Father Peter’s eyes.  Nor was the excuse that her singing attracted too much attention an honest one.  What Father Peter did not like about the girl was her independent mind, which displayed itself in every gesture, in the way she hopped over the stile, and the manner with which she toyed with her parasol—­a parasol that seemed a little out of keeping with her position, it is true.  A very fine parasol it was; a blue silk parasol.  Her independence betrayed itself in her voice:  she talked to the parish priest with due respect, but her independent mind informed every sentence, even the smallest, and that was why she was going to be dismissed from her post.  It was shameful that a grave injustice should be done to a girl who was admittedly competent in the fulfilment of all her duties, and he had not tried to conceal his opinion from Father Peter during dinner and after dinner, leaving him somewhat earlier than usual, for nothing affronted him more than injustice, especially ecclesiastical injustice.

As he rode his bicycle down the lonely road to Bridget’s cottage, the thought passed through his mind that if Nora Glynn were a stupid, intelligent woman no objection would have been raised against her.  ’An independent mind is very objectionable to the ecclesiastic,’ he said to himself as he leaped off his bicycle....  ’Nora Glynn.  How well suited the name is to her.  There is a smack in the name.  Glynn, Nora Glynn,’ he repeated, and it seemed to him that the name belonged exclusively to her.