with head bent on his breast, scarcely
noticed the lamentations of the women, who came to their cross-doors,
and poured out a Jeremiad of lamentations that made me think my own
well-meant ministrations were but scantily appreciated.

"Wisha, God be wid you, Father, wherever you go!"

"Wisha, may your journey thry wid you. Sure 't is we'll miss you!"

"Yerra, what'll the poor do now, whin he's gone?"

"Bishop, inagh, 't is aisy for him wid his ring and his mitre, and his
grand carriage. Couldn't he let him alone?"

"Father," said a young girl, earnestly, her black hair blinding her
eyes, "may God be with you." She ran after him. "Pray for me," she
whispered. "You don't know all the good you done me." She hadn't been
very sensible.

He turned towards her.

"Yes! Nance, I'll remember you. And don't forget all that I told you."

He held out his hand. It was such an honor, such a condescension, that
she blushed scarlet: and hastily rubbing her hand in her apron, she
grasped his.

"May God Almighty bless you," she said.

But the great trial came when we were passing the school-house. It was
after three o'clock, the time for breaking up: and there at the wall
were all the little boys and the _sheilas_ with their wide eyes full of
sorrow. He passed by hastily, never looking up. His heart was with these
children. I believe the only real pleasure he ever allowed himself was
to go amongst them, teach them, amuse them, and listen to their little
songs. And now--

"Good by, Father--"

"Good by, Father--"

Then, Alice Moylan gave a big "boo-hoo!" and in a moment they were all
in tears; and I, too, began to wink, in a queer way, at the landscape.

At last, we came to the little bridge that humps itself over the trout
stream. Many a summer evening we had made this the terminus of our
evening's walk; for I was feeble enough on my limbs, though my head is
as clear as a boy's of seventeen. And here we used to lean over the
parapet, and talk of all things, politics, literature (the little we
knew of it), the old classics, college stories, tales of the mission,
etc.; and now we were to part.

"Good by, Father Tom," I said. "You know, there's always a bite and a
sup and a bed, whenever you come hither. Good by. God knows, I'm sorry
to part with you."

"Good by," he said. Not another word. I watched and waited, till I saw
the melancholy procession fade away, and until he became a speck on the
horizon. Then, with a heavy