miserable sheep, rescued from death by the roadside to live in an
asthmatic condition of semi-invalidism.

Then there were the human pensioners, men and women of any belief, who
came periodically for food. They worshipped Molly Healy. But her kingdom
was over the ragamuffins and rapscallions of the town, with whom she
stood on the friendliest terms.

"Sure, I am reforming the imps," she was accustomed to say.

But it was a notorious fact that her young proteges rarely developed
into moral perfection.

Such was the presbytery of Grey Town and its inmates in the days of
which I am writing.

Father Healy was eating a perfunctory dinner in the dining-room, Mrs.
Gorman and Dan wrangled in the kitchen, but Molly sat in the playground
of the school, with Tim O'Neill, the culprit, facing her, and a circle
of grinning children's faces as a background.

Tim had the face of a cherub, if we can conceive a cherub with an
habitual grime on his countenance. Curly yellow hair, innocent blue
eyes, for ever twinkling, a dimple in each cheek; add to these a
dilapidated suit of clothes, and a sorely battered hat, and you have Tim
O'Neill, the scourge of Grey Town.

"You will confess now, Tim O'Neill," said Molly Healy, with an assumed
severity.

"It's to the Father I'll be confessing," replied the boy.

"No, Tim; it's to me. The Father is too gentle, and you know it. Didn't
I see you with my own eyes?"

"Where's the need of me telling you, then?" asked the unabashed Tim,
careful the while to keep beyond the reach of her hands.

At this retort the audience giggled. They admired the audacity of Tim,
although most of them were model children. For, as his distracted mother
often said, in excuse of her own leniency, "Tim has such a way with
him. You couldn't help but smile, even when he is at his wickedest."

"I saw you stealing the apples," cried Molly, disregarding his
rejoinder. "Do you know that it's a big sin to steal the priest's
apples? It's"--she hesitated for a moment, anxious to leave a lasting
impression--"it's sacrilege."

The corners of Tim's mouth dropped, and his face became grave.

"Is it, miss?" he asked soberly.

"Now, listen to me, Tim, and I will teach you logic. Of course you know
what logic is?"

"Is it a pain here?" asked Tim, pointing to the region below his
waistcoat, the twinkle returning to his eye. Molly sternly repressed a
tendency to giggle.

"No, logic is the art of reasoning," she replied,