When Mrs. Kinsella had departed she sat cowering over the fire without heeding her unfinished cup of tea.  The priest’s words just quoted had touched her in a vulnerable point.  True for his reverence.  It wasn’t living much longer they’d be over there, and when they came to die it would be a lonesome sort of thing to have a strange priest coming to see them instead of their own Father Taylor, who had been their friend, guide, and adviser for more than forty years!  Mrs. Brophy’s heart misgave her; his reverence would be apt to think bad of their going off that way, and him so good to them.  Then Mrs. Kinsella’s remarks rankled in her memory—­“an ould pot” that Mrs. Larry would despise in her elegant kitchen; the cool scrutiny with which she had surveyed all poor Mary’s treasured belongings was hard to be borne.  The dresser; like enough there would not be room for the dresser in the boat—­Mary had no notion as to the size of the vessel that was to convey her and her belongings to America—­and what about the bed then?  The bed, a valuable heirloom which had stood in its own particular corner of the cabin for nearly a century, which had been Mary’s mother’s bed, the pride and joy of Mary’s heart, and the envy of the neighbours.  What in the world was to be done with this priceless treasure?  Good-natured as she was she felt that she could not bring herself to allow it to become the property of Mrs. Kinsella or any of the neighbours.  Who would respect it as she did?  At the bare thought of heedless “gossoons” or “slips of girls” tumbling in and out of the receptacle which she herself had always approached so reverently, Mary shivered.

“Cock them up, indeed!” she murmured wrathfully.

Then an idea struck her, an idea which became a fixed resolution when presently Father Taylor’s kindly face nodded at her over the half-door.  She would offer his reverence the bed; it would be honoured by such a rise in the world as a transfer to the priest’s house; and at the same time Mary felt that this precious legacy would in some measure repay her good pastor for his long and affectionate care.  She had hardly patience to listen to Father Taylor’s greeting, or to answer his good-natured rallying queries anent their unexpected good fortune.  When she did speak it was rather in a tone of lamentation than of rejoicing:—­

“Aye, indeed, yer reverence, it’s what we nayther of us looked for, an’ it’s a terrible change altogether.  I’m wondering what in the world I’ll do wid my bits o’ things—­my little sticks o’ furniture, ye know, sir.  Biddy Kinsella was up here a little while ago lookin’ out for me pot—­it’s an elegant pot, an’ I’m loth to part with it—­but she says Bill tould her there’s no such thing as a pot to be seen out there.  So I’ll have to lave it with her.  But the bed, Father Taylor, it’s the bed that’s throublin’ me the most.  It’s a beautiful bed, your reverence.”

The priest glanced towards that valuable article of furniture, and responded heartily and admiringly:—­