acred thing. The live-long day he followed her, visiting in turn each
shrine and holy spot; and ever, as he was ready to speak to her, some
fear that, by a word, he might dispel the dream of bliss he revelled in,
stopped him, and he was silent.

[Illustration: 074]

It was as the evening drew near, and the Pilgrims were turning towards
the lake, beside which, at a small thorn-tree, the last "station" of all
was performed, that an old beggar, whose importunity suffered none to
escape, blocked up the path, and prevented Mary from proceeding until
she had given him something. All her money had been long since bestowed;
and she said so, hurriedly, and endeavoured to move forward.

"Let Owen Connor, behyind you, give it, acushla! He's rich now, and can
well afford it," said the cripple.

She turned around at the words; the action was involuntary, and their
eyes met. There are glances which reveal the whole secret of a lifetime;
there are looks which dwell in the heart longer and deeper than words.
Their eyes met for merely a few seconds; and while in _her_ face
offended pride was depicted, poor Owen's sorrow-struck and broken aspect
spoke of long suffering and grief so powerfully, that, ere she turned
away, her heart had half forgiven him.

"You wrong me hardly, Mary," said he, in a low, broken voice, as the
train moved on. "The Lord, he knows my heart this blessed day! _Pater
noster, qui es in colis?_'" added he, louder, as he perceived that his
immediate follower had ceased his prayers to listen to him. "He knows
that I'd rather live and die the poorest--'Beneficat tuum nomen!'" cried
he, louder. And then, turning abruptly, said:

"Av it's plazing to you, sir, don't be trampin' on my heels. I can't
mind my devotions, an' one so near me.

"It's not so unconvaynient, maybe, when they're afore you," muttered
the old fellow, with a grin of sly malice. And though Owen overheard the
taunt, he felt no inclination to notice it.

"Four long years I've loved ye, Mary Joyce; and the sorra more
encouragement I ever got nor the smile ye used to give me. And if ye
take _that_ from me, now--Are ye listening to me, Mary? do ye hear me,
asthore?--Bad scran to ye, ye ould varmint! why won't ye keep behind?
How is a man to save his sowl, an' you making him blasphame every
minit?"

"I was only listenin' to that elegant prayer ye were saying," said the
old fellow, drily.

"'Tis betther you'd mind your own, then," said Owen, fiercel