"
"Bolt the doors, and pile on plenty of wood to keep ye warm," said
Dannie as he turned away.
Just for a minute Mary stared out into the storm. Then a gust of
wind nearly swept her from her feet, and she pushed the door shut,
and slid the heavy bolt into place. For a little while she leaned
and listened to the storm outside. She was a clean, neat, beautiful
Irish woman. Her eyes were wide and blue, her cheeks pink, and her
hair black and softly curling about her face and neck. The room in
which she stood was neat as its keeper. The walls were whitewashed,
and covered with prints, pictures, and some small tanned skins.
Dried grasses and flowers filled the vases on the mantle. The floor
was neatly carpeted with a striped rag carpet, and in the big open
fireplace a wood fire roared. In an opposite corner stood a modern
cooking stove, the pipe passing through a hole in the wall, and a
door led into a sleeping room beyond.
As her eyes swept the room they rested finally on a framed
lithograph of the Virgin, with the Infant in her arms. Slowly Mary
advanced, her gaze fast on the serene pictured face of the mother
clasping her child. Before it she stood staring. Suddenly her
breast began to heave, and the big tears brimmed from her eyes and
slid down her cheeks.
"Since you look so wise, why don't you tell me why?" she demanded.
"Oh, if you have any mercy, tell me why!"
Then before the steady look in the calm eyes, she hastily made the
sign of the cross, and slipping to the floor, she laid her head on
a chair, and sobbed aloud.
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