ngers, that I went down
that day to the school and lost my temper with her, that I spoke against
her in my church. All the sins that have been committed are my sins; let
me bear the punishment. O my Lord Jesus Christ, do thou intercede with
thy Father and ask him to heap all the punishment on my head. Oh, dear
Lord Jesus, if I had only thought of thee when I went down to the
school, if I had remembered thy words, "Let him who is without sin cast
the first stone," I should have been spared this anguish. If I had
remembered thy words, she might have gone to Dublin and had her baby
there, and come back to the parish. O my God, the fault is mine; all the
faults that have been committed can be traced back to me, therefore I
beseech of thee, I call upon thee, to let me bear all the punishment
that she has earned by her sins, poor erring creature that she is. O my
God, do this for me; remember that I served thee well for many years
when I lived among the poor folk in the mountains. For all these years I
ask this thing of thee, that thou wilt let me bear her punishment. Is it
too much I am asking of thee, O my God, is it too much?'_

When he rose from his knees, bells seemed to be ringing in his head,
and he began to wonder if another miracle had befallen him, for it was
as if someone had laid hands on him and forced him on his knees. But to
ask the Almighty to extend his protection to him rather than to Mr.
Poole, who was a Protestant, seemed not a little gross. Father Oliver
experienced a shyness that he had never known before, and he hoped the
Almighty would not be offended at the familiarity of the language, or
the intimate nature of the request, for to ask for Nora's body as well
as her soul did not seem altogether seemly.

It was queer to think like that. Perhaps his brain was giving way. And
he pushed the plates aside; he could not eat any dinner, nor could he
take any interest in his garden.

The dahlias were over, the chrysanthemums were beginning. Never had the
country seemed so still: dead birds in the woods, and the sounds of
leaves, and the fitful December sunlight on the strands--these were his
distractions when he went out for a walk, and when he came in he often
thought it would be well if he did not live to see another day, so heavy
did the days seem, so uneventful, and in these languid autumn days the
desire to write to Nora crept nearer, until it always seemed about him
like some familiar animal.

_From