Later on Sister Louise bent over Mrs. Brady with gentle reassuring words.

“God knows best, you know,” she said, at the end of her little homily; “you will say ‘His will be done,’ won’t you?”

“Sure Sisther, how can I?” whispered Mrs. Brady, opening her troubled eyes; her face almost awful to look on in its grey pallor.  “How can I say ‘His will be done’ if I’m to die in the workhouse?  An’ me poor little boy comin’ as fast as he can across the say to take me out of it, an’ me breakin’ my heart prayin’ that I might live to see the day!  An’ when he comes back he’ll find the parish has me buried.  Ah, Sisther, how am I to resign meself at all?  In the name o’ God how am I to resign meself?”

The tears began to trickle down her face, and Sister Louise cried a little too for sympathy, and stroked Mrs. Brady’s hand, and coaxed, and cajoled, and soothed and preached to the very best of her ability; and at the end left her patient quiet but apparently unconvinced.

It was with some trepidation that she approached her on the morrow.  Mrs. Brady’s attitude was so unusual that she felt anxious and alarmed.  As a rule the Irish poor die calmly and peacefully, happy in their faith and resignation; but this poor woman stood on the brink of eternity with a heart full of bitterness, and a rebellious will.

Mrs. Brady’s first words, however, reassured her.

“Sisther, I’m willin’ now to say ‘His will be done.’”

“Thank God for that,” cried Sister Louise fervently.

“Aye.  Well, wait till I tell ye.  In the night when I was lying awake I took to lookin’ at St. Pathrick beyant, wid the little lamp flickerin’ an’ flickerin’ an’ shinin’ on his face, an’ I thought o’ Barney, an’ that I’d niver see him agin, an’ I burst out cryin’.  ’Oh, St Pathrick!’ says I, ’how’ll I ever be able to make up my mind to it at all?’ An’ St. Pathrick looked back at me rale wicked.  An’ ‘Oh,’ says I again, ‘God forgive me, but sure how can I help it?’ An’ there was St. Pathrick still wid the cross look on him p’intin’ to the shamrock in his hand, as much as to say ’There is but the wan God in three divine Persons an’ Him ye must obey.’  So then I took to baitin’ me breast an’ sayin’ ‘The will o’ God be done!’ an’ if ye’ll believe me, Sisther, the next time I took heart to look at St. Pathrick there he was smilin’ for all the world the moral o’ poor Barney.  So says I, ’afther that!’ Well, Sisther, the will o’ God be done!  He knows best, Sisther alanna, doesn’t He?  But,” with a weak sob, “my poor little boy’s heart ‘ill be broke out an’ out when he finds I’m afther dyin’ in the workhouse!”

“We must pray for him,” said the Sister softly; “you must pray for him and offer up the sacrifice that God asks of you, for him.  Try not to fret so much.  Barney would not like you to fret.  He would grieve terribly if he saw you like this.”

“Heth he would,” said Mrs. Brady, sobbing again.