wan's Letters to Archbishop Hughes." She read it to her mother
whenever a spare hour enabled her to run home. Biddy had been greatly
interested in the appeals and arguments of her talented countryman,
and deeply impressed by his life-like delineation of the follies and
superstitions of the Romish ritual.

"It's rasonable he is intirely," she said, "and a bright son o' the
ould counthree, blessin's on it! It's him who spakes well o' the poor
ruined crathers, and praises us all for the natural generous-sowled
people we are. He knows us intirely, Norah dear. Shure he's a
wonderful man and a bould, let alone the thrue son o' ould Ireland,
for doing the beautiful thing. Read us one more letther, mavourneen,
before ye are off, and lave the book here. Mayhap Phelim will spell
out a morsel or so when the Sabbath even is coom."

"You will not go to confession to-morrow, dear mother?" said Annorah.

"Not I," replied Biddy firmly.

"It goes to my heart, mother, that the money we earn so hardly, and
which should be kept to comfort your old age, should go for nothing,
or worse."

"I will do it no more. Make yer heart aisy, honey. Never a penny o'
mine will the praste hould in his hand again."

"He will visit you, mother."

"An' what o' that? Let him coom. He is welcome an' he minds his own
business, and only dhraps in for a bit o' gossip; but an' he
interferes in me private consarns, it's soon he'll find himself
relaved o' all throuble on account o' us."

Annorah saw that there was no reason now to fear that her mother would
be overawed by the priest; but she still lingered anxiously. Her
mother saw the shade on her face, and asked,--

"What is it, Norah? Are you in throuble?"

"Do not quarrel with him, mother," replied the daughter.

"Let him be dacent, and it's ceevil treatment he'll get; but no man
shall browbeat me on me own floor," said Biddy, in a tone which
declared the firmness of her purpose.

It was on the night succeeding this conversation, that Father M'Clane
visited the cottage. As he approached the house he paused at the
unusual sound of a voice reading. It was Phelim imperfectly spelling
out to his mother and a few of the neighbours one of the letters of
Kirwan. The priest, who was not remarkably well versed in the books of
the day, did not know the work, but supposed that it was the Bible to
which they were so profoundly listening. His face grew as dark as the
night shades around him.

"I've caught y