“It is, indeed, a wonderful bed.”

“Sure there isn’t its like in the place,” resumed Mary.  “It was me mother’s bed, so it was—­she looked very well when she was laid out on it,” she added thoughtfully.  “Very well, indeed, she looked!  I always thought that Dan an’ meself ’ud be waked in that bed, too.  Well, well, the Lord knows best, doesn’t he, yer reverence?  But I’d think very bad of lettin’ that bed out o’ this to go anywhere on’y to yer reverence’s house.”

“Bless me!” cried Father Taylor, unable to restrain a surprised laugh; but he quickly composed his features.

“Aye, indeed, yer reverence, I’d be proud if ye’d let me make ye a present of it,” said poor old Mary, trying to straighten her little bent back, and peering at him with anxious eyes.  “Sure it’s altogether too proud Dan an’ meself ‘ud be, an’ ye wouldn’t believe the beautiful nights’ rests we do be gettin’ out o’ that bed.”

“I’m quite sure you do,” responded the priest warmly; “but upon my word, Mary, do you know I’m afraid the Bishop mightn’t like it.”

Mrs. Brophy was appalled at the magnitude of the idea.  Father Taylor continued in a very solemn voice, but with a twinkle in his eye:—­

“You see, Mary, we poor priests are not allowed luxuries, and if his lordship were to arrive unexpectedly and walk into my room and see that grand bed in the corner he might think it very queer.”

“Would he now?” said Mary, in awestruck tones.

“You wouldn’t like to get me into trouble, Mary, I’m sure,” pursued Father Taylor.  “The Bishop might think I was getting beyond myself altogether.”

Mrs. Brophy heaved a deep sigh; she was depressed, but magnanimous.  It would ill become her, she observed, to be gettin’ his reverence into trouble, and who’d think his lordship was that wicked?  Holy man!  She would say no more; and Father Taylor was devoutly thankful for her forbearance.  He would have done anything rather than hurt her feelings, but the mere sight of that ancient, venerable, and much-begrimed four-poster made him shudder; while he scarcely ventured to contemplate the attitude likely to be assumed by his housekeeper—­of whom he stood in some little awe—­if the question were mooted of adding this piece of furniture to her well-polished and carefully-dusted stock.

Wishing to change the subject, he remarked that Mary’s beautiful cup of tea had been scarcely tasted.  “Why, I thought every drop was precious,” he added, laughing; “but I suppose you will not be counting the grains now as you used to do.”

“I don’t seem to fancy it this mornin’ the way I used to do sometimes,” responded Mrs. Brophy plaintively.

“Ah,” said the priest, half-sadly, “you will have plenty of everything over there, Mary, but I doubt if you will relish anything as much as what you and Dan used to buy out of the price of your chickens.  Nothing is so sweet as what we earn for ourselves, woman dear.  I fancy the potatoes grown in your little bit of ground, and boiled in your own black pot, taste sweeter, somehow, than all the fine dinners that Mrs. Larry will be giving you.”