money to pay for a barrel of beer, James Bryden, who had money, sent
him a barrel, so that Margaret might get her dance. She told him that
they sometimes crossed over into another parish where the priest was
not so averse to dancing, and James wondered. And next morning at Mass
he wondered at their simple fervour. Some of them held their hands
above their heads as they prayed, and all this was very new and very
old to James Bryden. But the obedience of these people to their priest
surprised him. When he was a lad they had not been so obedient, or he
had forgotten their obedience; and he listened in mixed anger and
wonderment to the priest who was scolding his parishioners, speaking to
them by name, saying that he had heard there was dancing going on in
their homes. Worse than that, he said he had seen boys and girls
loitering about the roads, and the talk that went on was of one
kind--love. He said that newspapers containing love-stories were
finding their way into the people's houses, stories about love, in
which there was nothing elevating or ennobling. The people listened,
accepting the priest's opinion without question. And their submission
was pathetic. It was the submission of a primitive people clinging to
religious authority, and Bryden contrasted the weakness and
incompetence of the people about him with the modern restlessness and
cold energy of the people he had left behind him.

One evening, as they were dancing, a knock came to the door, and the
piper stopped playing, and the dancers whispered:--

"Some one has told on us; it is the priest."

And the awe-stricken villagers crowded round the cottage fire, afraid
to open the door. But the priest said that if they did not open the
door he would put his shoulder to it and force it open. Bryden went
towards the door, saying he would allow no one to threaten him, priest
or no priest, but Margaret caught his arm and told him that if he said
anything to the priest, the priest would speak against them from the
altar, and they would be shunned by the neighbours. It was Mike Scully
who went to the door and let the priest in, and he came in saying they
were dancing their souls into hell.

"I've heard of your goings on," he said--"of your beer-drinking and
dancing. I will not have it in my parish. If you want that sort of
thing you had better go to America."

"If that is intended for me, sir, I will go back to-morrow. Margaret
can follow."

"It isn't the dancing,