Holy Mother. I will fast—any penance you may lay upon me—only let me but ask of God mine own desire, mine own heart’s will.”
“And what is thy service, and thy fasts, and thy prayers, to the conquest of thine own self? Nay, child, it is all the penance I can lay upon thee. The conquering of thine own heart is thy best service.”
“But I cannot will to go to this strange land. Never again to see mine own dear land!”
“Even so, if God so wills. Never again to see thy land.”
“My father, thou surely dost not know how dear—”
“Do I not know?” There was a vibrating cadence in the priest’s voice, like one awakening the chords of a slumbering harp. “Years ago, I knelt down and kissed the sod of my Irish Leinster, and never again will I see that land that holds my heart, and its longing makes every hour so keen a sacrifice. And thou, child, must learn thy lesson of self-sacrifice. Take the cross in thy hand, thy faith in thy heart, and go forth to the stranger land and share the great gift of Christ’s love; and thine own sorrow will give thy message such strength as comes to the children of St. Patrick when they spread his tidings afar. Go now and conquer thine own heart, that, like a true child of Erin, thou mayest conquer the world to Christ.”
And tearfully, but with a strengthening peace in her soul, Maidoch went back to sit beside her father.
