recommended to me by an abbe there; yet I am not wholly happy about her.
When her trouble comes to her"--Charley's needle slipped and pierced his
finger to the bone--"when her father goes, as he must, I fear, there will
be no familiar face; she will hear no familiar voice."

"Faith, there you are wrong, my dear Cure" answered the Seigneur;
"there'll be a face yonder she likes very well indeed, and a voice she's
fond of too."

Charley's back was on them at that moment, of which he was glad, for his
face was haggard with anxiety, and it seemed hours before the Cure said:
"Whom do you mean, Maurice?" and hours before the Seigneur replied:
"Mrs. Flynn, of course. I'm sending her tomorrow."

Mrs. Flynn had gone, and Charley had, in one sense, been made no happier
by that, for it seemed to him that Rosalie would rather that strangers'
eyes were on her than the inquisitively friendly eye of Mary Flynn.

Weeks had grown into months, and no news came--none save that which the
Cure let fall, or was brought by the irresponsible Notary, who heard all
gossip. Only the Cure's scant news were authentic, however, and Charley
never saw the good priest but he had a secret hope of hearing him say
that Rosalie was coming back. Yet when she came back, what would, or
could, he do? There was always the crime for which he or Billy must be
punished. Concerning this crime his heart was growing harder--for
Rosalie's sake. But there was Kathleen--and Rosalie was now in the
city where she lived, and they might meet! There was one solution--
if Kathleen should die! It sickened him that he could think of that with
a sense of relief, almost of hope. If Kathleen should die, then he would
be free to marry Rosalie--into what? He still could only marry her into