In a very few days Annie was intrusted to the sole care of her young Irish nurse, who served her with the most affectionate attention. Mrs. Lee often came to sit with her suffering child, but Annorah alone performed the tender offices of the sick-room. Rough and uncouth as she was, she readily adapted herself to the services required; and no power on earth could have persuaded her that Annie could be so well taken care of by any one else.

“It naded a dale o’ contrivance, to be shure,” she said to her mother one afternoon, when, Annie being asleep, she ran home to ask after the family, “or I would be well bothered with all her pretty talk o’ books, and taching me to read and write; but she, poor darlin’, shall say whatever she plazes to me.” “An’ if she spake ill o’ the praste and the holy Church, how then, Annorah?” asked Mrs. Dillon, eying her daughter rather curiously.

“Blessed little good can we say o’ Father M‘Clane, whin we spake truth, as ye know, mother dear; and it’s not to be expected o’ her to tell lies for his sake.”

“Does she spake o’ the Catholic Church Norah?” asked her mother.

“Never at all, mother; so make yer heart aisy. She spakes to me o’ meself, and the wickedness in me heart; and when she leans so lovingly on me shoulder, and raises her clear eyes to the blue sky, or watches the bright sunset, and spakes so softly to me o’ the beauty o’ a holy life, I feel all the betther and patienter meself for hearing the good words. She says, mother dear, as how it is depravity that makes me so often angered and wrong; and how that Jesus Christ, the Son o’ God himself, died to save us and cure us o’ our sin. It would do yer own heart good, could ye hear her; and there’s nought wrong in it at all, ye see.”

Annie’s influence grew stronger and stronger, and not a day passed without some precious truth from her lips finding a place in the heart of her attendant. It was many weeks before Annorah yielded to her persuasions, and commenced learning to read. The pleasant summer days had come, and they were often abroad in the fresh air together, Annie in her low carriage, which was easily drawn by her young nurse.

Down in the valley behind Mr. Lee’s house there was an old mill, long since deserted and unused.

This was a favourite resort of Annie’s, and it was here that she taught Annorah to read, during the long summer afternoons.

At first Annorah was listless, indifferent, and often suspicious that all this attention to her education boded no good to her old religious prejudices. But she could deny Annie nothing; and after a time, as her confidence in the piety of her gentle teacher increased, she began to feel a deep interest in the truths taught.

In her anxiety to please her invalid charge, she made rapid progress in reading, and before the end of the summer could write a few plain sentences. She began to love knowledge for its own sake; and many a pleasant hour did she spend, when Annie was asleep or weary, in reading the easy lessons selected for her. But she was careful that neither her mother nor the priest should suspect her progress in learning, and as she still went regularly to “confession,” it was easy to keep her secret from them. Annie was often not a little puzzled to know how she managed to elude the vigilance of the priest.

It was a beautiful autumn afternoon, when the air was just cool enough to be refreshing, that, with Mrs. Lee’s permission, Annie and her nurse sought their favourite seat by the mill-stream. Annie had been thinking more than usual about Annorah’s progress in religious knowledge, and wondering how, with the light and wisdom she had received, she could still cling to her old superstitions. A great change had taken place in her temper, which was now usually controlled; her manners had gradually become more gentle; but the radical change of heart that Annie so longed to witness, did not yet show itself.

“Tell me, Annorah,” she said, after the usual time had been spent in reading, “does Father M‘Clane know that you can read yet?”

“Not he, indade.”

“Does he not question you?”

“Not exactly. He says I spake better English, and that shure it is because I live where it is well spoken.”

“What did you say to that?”

“I said. ‘True, your riverence.’”

“I’m afraid that is hardly the truth, Annorah. If anything has improved your language, it is your reading.” “To be shure. But is it not because I am with those who spake English well, that I’m learning to read? So it was the truth, after all.”

“Not the whole truth, Annorah.”

Just then Annorah turned, and saw the shadow of a man on the sloping rock at the left hand. Her first impulse was to cry out, but the fear of alarming Annie, and her own natural courage, prevented her; and she soon thought she could detect in the shadowy outline a resemblance to Father M‘Clane. “Och, then, the murder’s out,” she thought; “the mane creature has been listening, and faith now he shall have a pill that will settle his stomach intirely.—What were you saying, Miss Annie?” she asked aloud, turning towards Annie’s carriage.

“I said that you did not tell him the whole truth.”

“Small matter for that. It was all he asked for, and it’s better plazed he is than if it were more. He’s a lying ould thing himself, any way!”

“Why, Annorah?”

“Ye may well open yer eyes. Did he not tell me last Sunday that you, miss, with your sweet voice and comforting ways, were jist a temptation placed in me way, by the ould inimy himself?” “I, Annorah? What does he know of me?”

“Nothing at all, savin’ that ye are a saint, and he an ould—”

“Stop, stop, Annorah. We must not speak evil of any one. I hope that you were civil in your reply.”

“Civil! indade I was. I said, ‘Ye should teach your flock better than to tempt honest people.’ ‘It’s gettin’ impudent ye are,’ says he; ‘ye’ll be turnin’ heretic next. You must be seen to and taken care of,’ says he. ‘Bad luck to ye!’ says I; ‘when ye sees me two eyes light me to confession again, ye may take care o’ me and welcome.’”

“And shall you not go again?”

“Never again.” Annorah saw the shadow raise its hand threateningly. “No, indade. Where’s the use o’ telling all ye know to an ould creature like him? Doesn’t the blessed Book say that no man can come to the Father but only through Jesus Christ? An’ shure, the great Father in heaven is angered to see me kneel down before that biggest o’ scamps, when I should be praying to himself. I’ll do it no more.”

“I am glad to hear you say so, Annorah; I do so hope,” said Annie, as the affectionate tears stole down her thin cheek, “that you are beginning to learn in the school of Christ. But, my poor girl, you will meet much opposition. I am afraid that your family will join with the priest in opposing you.”

“Let them. I’ll fight them all with pleasure—more especially the praste.”

“But fighting is not the way to make them think well of the religion of Jesus. He was mild and gentle, patient under abuse and persecution; and he must be your pattern, if you desire to please God. You must pray to him, Annorah, for a new heart, so that none of these angry feelings will trouble you.”

“Is it the new heart, miss, that makes you so sweet and patient?”

“If I have any goodness, Annorah, it is because God has changed my old heart, and made it better. It is his grace that enables me to suffer without complaining; and it is his love, which I feel in my heart, that makes me calm and happy in my greatest pain.”

“Then I am sure,” said the girl earnestly, forgetting for a moment that she was overheard. “I will never rest a day at all, till I get that same done for me. But mayhap he will not be so willing to look upon me.”

“In his holy Book we read that he is no respecter of persons, and that whosoever cometh unto him he will in no wise cast out.” “Why, then, I can coom as soon as the grandest. How shall I coom?”

“I will tell you how I came to him. I studied his holy Word to learn his will, and I prayed often that he would give me his Spirit to teach me the way to him.”

“An’ did he?”

“Yes. In a little time I began to know more about myself, and to see how much I needed a Saviour; and then I saw how willing Jesus must be to save me, having died for me as well as for others; and so, in a way that I can’t explain, I was led to give myself to him, and I soon found peace in believing. He will teach you, Annorah, and lead you right, if you earnestly seek him. Look at the sunset clouds. Did you ever see such gold, and crimson, and purple before? But the sunset is not half so bright and beautiful as the true Christian’s prospects.”

Looking at the sunset reminded Annorah that it was late for her charge to be out. A very slight rustle in the bushes behind her, recalled what she had strangely forgotten, in her interest in the conversation. She took up a large stone and threw it among the bushes.

“What is there, Annorah?” asked Annie, in alarm.

“Only a sarpint, miss.” “Well, let us hasten home. Mamma will be anxious.”

After they left, the dark form of a man rose from behind the green knoll where they had been sitting, and moved slowly along the bank of the stream, down the valley. It was Father M‘Clane.