“Ut is Jimmie Blaine or Ted Douglas sunk ut for him. Niver a man he let into his dure bhut they two an’ his body-servant. An’ sorra a truth cud they git out ov him. ‘Niver scowld the lad,’ he says. Bhut which lad he niver said. Sapped him dhry, and left him tu starve. Ut’s Jimmie they’re blamin’—I had the ould mother ov him down on me just now. He’s the only choild she iver had—saints help her!”
“Which does Murray think it was?”
“Sure did ye iver know Murray say what he did not want tu? He is on the thrack ov somethin’—an’ Jimmie is wan ov me own bhoys. If ut is him, I’ll break his head on him though he comes tellin’ me at the Confessional—God forgive me. And yit—if ut’s because I’ve failed somewhere in me duty———”
“That’s rot,” said Ormond promptly. “You’ve got the heart of every Roman in the district—and of half the other denominations too. You just spend yourself for them, Father———.”
“And wudn’t I du ut twice over—for ivery mother’s son ov thim?” The yearning tenderness of his face shook his voice, and Ormond’s eyes drew unthinkingly to the picture on the wall. “Aye, luve shpells bigger worrds than the four letthers ov ut’s name—how’s that bhoy ov yours that Randal shpoke tu ye about?”
“I’ve switched him on to night-duty, and he doesn’t like it. And I’ve rowed him, and he
