black heart ye have," said the priest, whose courage was
hardly equal to his anger, and whose valour speedily cooled before
resolute opposition. "It's blacker than ink ye are, Biddy Dillon,
with the wicked heresy."

Like most Irish women, Biddy was well skilled in the art of scolding,
and among her neighbours was considered rather more expert in the
business than themselves. When angry, abusive epithets seemed to fall
as naturally from her tongue as expressions of endearment when she was
pleased.

"A black heart, did ye say?" she cried, rising and facing the priest,
who involuntarily retired a step from her; "the same to yerself! An'
ye were bathed in Lough Ennel, and rinsed in the Shannon at Athlone,
it would not half clane out the vile tricks ye are so perfect in. A
black heart has Biddy Dillon? An' ye were ducked and soaked over night
in the Liffey mud at Dublin, ye were claner than now? A black heart?
An' yerself an ould penshioner, idle and mane, stirrin' up a scrimmage
in an honest woman's house, and repeating yer haythenish nonsense, an'
ye able and sthrong to take hould o' the heaviest end o' the work! Are
ye not ashamed? What are ye good for?"

"The saints preserve us! what a tongue the woman has!" exclaimed
Father M'Clane, making a futile effort to smile, as he turned his
face, now pale as death, toward the company. "But I have no time to
stay longer. I warn ye all, my friends, to kape away from this
accursed house, and to turn a deaf ear to all that is said to ye here.
Your souls are in peril. Ye are almost caught in the snare. Ye should
run for yer lives before ye perish entirely. I shall remember you,
Biddy Dillon."

"In course ye will. An' ye show yerself here again, barrin' as a
peaceable frind or ould acquaintance, ye'll find yerself remimbered
too, honey."

There was a silence of some minutes after the priest left the house.
It was broken by the most timid of the party.

"Afther all, Biddy, my heart misgives me. Of what use are all the
prayers on the beads, the Hail Marys, and the penance, the fasting
from meat on Fridays, or even the blessed salt o' our baptism, if we
anger the praste, and he refuse to give us the holy oil at the last?
What will become o' us then?"

"What can a wicked ould praste do to help us? It's God alone can
strengthen us then. I wouldn't give a penny for the oil. It's a
betther way, darlin', that God has provided for us. It's a brave story
that Phelim is waiting to read