al. But it never occurred
to me to connect these incidents with myself, until the afternoon of the
day on which my mother got up for the first time.

She was sitting before the fire, for autumn was stealing on, and I was
bustling about her, fixing the rug about her knees and telling her if
she wanted anything she was to be sure and call her little Mally, when a
timid knock came to the door and Father Dan entered the room. I can see
his fair head and short figure still, and hear his soft Irish voice, as
he stepped forward and said:

"Now don't worry, my daughter. Above all, don't worry."

By long experience my mother knew this for a sign of the dear Father's
own perturbation, and I saw her lower lip tremble as she asked:

"Hadn't Mary better run down to the garden?"

"No! Oh no!" said Father Dan. "It is about Mary I come to speak, so our
little pet may as well remain."

Then at a signal from my mother I went over to her and stood by her
side, and she embraced my waist with a trembling arm, while the Father
took a seat by her side, and, fumbling the little silver cross on his
chain, delivered his message.

After long and anxious thought--and he might say prayer--it had been
decided that I should be sent away to a Convent. It was to be a Convent
of the Sacred Heart in Rome. He was to take me to Rome himself and see
me safely settled there. And they (meaning my father and Aunt Bridget)
had promised him--faithfully promised him--that when the holidays came
round he should be sent to bring me home again. So there was nothing to
fear, nothing to worry about, nothing to . . . to . . .

My mother listened as long as she could, and then--her beautiful white
face distorted by pain--she broke in on the Father's message with a cry
of protest.

"But she is so young! Such a child! Only seven years old! How can any
one think of sending such a little one away from home?"

Father Dan tried to pacify her. It was true I was very young, but then
the Reverend Mother was such a good woman. She would love me and care
for me as if I were her own child. And then the good nuns, God bless
their holy souls. . . .

"But Mary is all I have," cried my mother, "and if they take her away
from me I shall be broken-hearted. At such a time too! How cruel they
are! They know quite well what the doctor says. Can't they wait a little
longer?"

I could see that Father Dan was arguing against himself, for his eyes
filled as he said:

"It's hard