Then at a signal from my mother I went over to her and stood by her side, and she embraced my waist with a trembling arm, while the Father took a seat by her side, and, fumbling the little silver cross on his chain, delivered his message.

After long and anxious thought—­and he might say prayer—­it had been decided that I should be sent away to a Convent.  It was to be a Convent of the Sacred Heart in Rome.  He was to take me to Rome himself and see me safely settled there.  And they (meaning my father and Aunt Bridget) had promised him—­faithfully promised him—­that when the holidays came round he should be sent to bring me home again.  So there was nothing to fear, nothing to worry about, nothing to . . . to . . .

My mother listened as long as she could, and then—­her beautiful white face distorted by pain—­she broke in on the Father’s message with a cry of protest.

“But she is so young!  Such a child!  Only seven years old!  How can any one think of sending such a little one away from home?”

Father Dan tried to pacify her.  It was true I was very young, but then the Reverend Mother was such a good woman.  She would love me and care for me as if I were her own child.  And then the good nuns, God bless their holy souls. . . .

“But Mary is all I have,” cried my mother, “and if they take her away from me I shall be broken-hearted.  At such a time too!  How cruel they are!  They know quite well what the doctor says.  Can’t they wait a little longer?”

I could see that Father Dan was arguing against himself, for his eyes filled as he said: 

“It’s hard, I know it’s hard for you, my daughter.  But perhaps it’s best for the child that she should go away from home—­perhaps it’s all God’s blessed and holy will.  Remember there’s a certain person here who isn’t kind to our little innocent, and is making her a cause of trouble.  Not that I think she is actuated by evil intentions. . . .”

“But she is, she is,” cried my mother, who was growing more and more excited.

“Then all the more reason why Mary should go to the convent—­for a time at all events.”

My mother began to waver, and she said: 

“Let her be sent to a Convent in the island then.”

“I thought of that, but there isn’t one,” said Father Dan.

“Then . . . then . . . then take her to the Presbytery,” said my mother.  “Dear, dear Father,” she pleaded, “let her live with you, and have somebody to teach her, and then she can come to see me every day, or twice a week, or even once a week—­I am not unreasonable.”

“It would be beautiful,” said Father Dan, reaching over to touch my arm.  “To have our little Mary in my dull old house would be like having the sun there always.  But there are reasons why a young girl should not be brought up in the home of a priest, so it is better that our little precious should go to Rome.”

My mother was breaking down and Father Dan followed up his advantage.