Mrs. Moloney opened the door as wide as possible, and the priest came in.  Miss Dexter looked at him in amazement; how, and where had she seen him before?

He went straight to the bed and looked at the man in silence, while Molly looked at him.  He was about middle height, with very dark hair and eyes, a small, well-formed head, and a very good forehead.  It was not until he turned to Mrs. Moloney that Molly understood why she had fancied that she had seen him before.  She was sure now that she had seen his photograph, but, although she was certain of having seen it, she could not remember when or where she had done so.

“Can’t you open the window, Mrs. Moloney?”

“It’s the only place to make into an altar, father?”

“Oh, never mind that yet; I will manage.”

Molly stepped forward; whatever he was going to do, it should not be done without a protest.

“The doctor’s orders are that he is not to be disturbed.”

The priest did not seem aware of the exceedingly unpleasant expression on Molly’s countenance.

“It would be a great mistake to wake him, of course,” he said; and then, “Do you suppose he will sleep for long?”

“I haven’t the faintest notion”; the uttermost degree of scorn was conveyed in those few words.

Mrs. Moloney suppressed a sob.

“He’s not been to the Sacraments for three years,” she murmured.

The priest leant over the bed and looked intently at the dying man.

Mrs. Moloney opened the window and put the crucifix and candlesticks in a corner on the dirty floor.

“It might kill him to wake him now,” murmured Molly.

“Yes, that is just the difficulty.”  The young man was speaking more to himself than to her.

“Difficulty!” thought Molly with scorn.  “Fiddlesticks!”

The silence was unbroken for some moments.  The fresh autumn air blew into the room.  A sandy coloured cat came from under the bed, looked at them, and then rubbed her arched back against the unsteady leg of the only table, which was laden with bottles and basins, finally retired into a further corner, and upset and broke one of the pink candles that belonged to the neighbour.

But Mrs. Moloney never took her eyes off the priest’s pale face.

“I’ll wait until he wakes,” he said to her, “but is there anywhere else I could go?  It’s not good to crowd up this room.”

“That’s intended to remove me,” thought Molly, “but it won’t succeed.”

Mrs. Moloney moved into the little back room, and pulled forward a chair.  When the priest was seated she shut the door behind her and whispered to him—­

“Father, you’ll not let his soul slip through your fingers, will you, father dear?  Just because of the poor lady who knows no better!”

“Who is she?  She is not like the district visitors I’ve seen about in the parish.”

“No, indeed; she is a lady, and I’ve done some work for her, and she would not be satisfied when she heard Moloney was ill but she must come herself, and yesterday, not to grudge her her due, father, the doctor said if he pulled through that I owed her his life.  Well, that’s proved a mistake, anyhow, but she’s after spoiling his last chance, and he’s not been the good man he was once, father.”