{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_24956/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_24956","id":"gutenberg_24956","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24956","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - Other","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Children with disabilities -- Juvenile fiction","Christian life -- Juvenile fiction","Kindness -- Juvenile fiction","Nurses -- Juvenile fiction","Protestant converts -- Juvenile fiction","Temper -- Juvenile fiction"],"text":"Produced by Suzanne Shell, Sam W. and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n            LIVE TO BE USEFUL\n\n                   OR,\n\n       _THE STORY OF ANNIE LEE AND\n            HER IRISH NURSE._\n\n\n               [Decoration]\n\n\n         _THOMAS NELSON AND SONS_\n _London, Edinburgh, Dublin, and New York_\n                  _1913_\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Annorah turned, and saw the shadow of a man on the\nsloping rock.\n\n_Page 25._]\n\n\n\n\nLIVE TO BE USEFUL.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nANNIE'S PLAN.\n\n\nAnnie Lee was a cripple. Until her eighth summer she had been strong\nand well, like most other children; but then disease began to appear,\nand although she had skilful doctors and kind nurses, it was soon too\nplain that she was never to be well again.\n\nFive years of pain and weakness had been her portion at the time our\nstory commences. So accustomed had she become to her sad situation,\nthat it seemed like a delusive dream when she remembered the sportive\nhours of her earlier childhood. Like other sick children, she was far\nmore thoughtful than was quite natural at her age, and very seldom in\nher easiest moments laughed aloud. But she was not an unhappy child.\n\nAs soon as she was old enough to understand that she had a sinful\nheart and needed salvation, she had earnestly sought the Saviour of\nsinners, and had been graciously received by him, and made a lamb of\nhis flock. In the school of Christ she learned to bear pain without\nmurmuring, and to submit with cheerfulness to her lot in life. Instead\nof requiring comfort from her parents, who seemed to realize her\nmisfortune more fully than she did herself, she became their consoler,\nand rarely failed in her efforts to lighten their sorrow on her\naccount.\n\n\"It might have been so much worse, mamma,\" she said one day, when Mrs.\nLee was lamenting her condition. \"Only think of poor lame Phelim,\nBiddy Dillon's little boy.\"\n\n\"What is the matter with him?\" asked her mother.\n\n\"Have you not seen him? He is often in the back-yard when Biddy comes\nto wash in the kitchen. I've watched him often. I think it was before\nhe came to this country--but I'm not sure--that a large stone, falling\nfrom a wall, so mangled his poor limbs that one of them had to be cut\noff. I never see him limping about on his crutches while Biddy is\nwashing without thanking God for my happier fate.\"\n\n\"Why, Annie, it is not probable that he suffers one-half as much as\nyou do.\"\n\n\"As much _pain_, do you mean, mamma?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I wasn't thinking of that. They are very poor; and if he lives to be\na man, how can he earn the comforts of life? I need have no care on\nthat account.\"\n\n\"I daresay he has none. There are several trades that he might learn\nwhich require a sitting posture; he might be a shoemaker, for\ninstance. Do not fret on his account, Annie.\"\n\n\"It seems to me, mamma,\" replied Annie, with a thoughtful air, \"that\nhis only prospect for the future is to be pushed about here and there\nin the crowd, until at last he finds a refuge in the grave.\"\n\n\"What foolish fancies!\" said Mrs. Lee, rising, as a noise in the yard\nbelow attracted her to the window. \"We know nothing about the future,\nand it is not quite right to make ourselves sad about it. It is hardly\nlike your usual trust in God, to be thus imagining trouble. There's a\nlittle lame boy in the yard, who, I suppose, is Phelim; he seems happy\nenough. Hark! don't you hear him sing? He is sitting on the bench\nbehind the clothes-frame, and his mother is hanging out the clothes to\ndry. Don't you hear her laugh at what he is singing?\"\n\n\"What is it, mamma? Can you hear the words?\" asked Annie, brightening\nup, and raising herself on her elbow as she lay on her low couch.\n\n\"I hear them very well; but his Irish gibberish is as Greek to me. All\nthat I can make out is what seems to be the chorus:\n\n    \"'O Ireland, green Ireland,\n        Swate gem o' the sae!'\"\n\n\"Mamma,\" said Annie, after listening with smiling interest a while,\n\"it troubles me very often because Phelim knows nothing about our\nSaviour. He has a sister, two years older than I am, who cannot read.\nShe never went to school; and none of the family can read a word.\"\n\n\"How did you learn this?\"\n\n\"From Phelim. I speak to him sometimes when he plays under the\nwindow.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know how we can help them. If we should offer to teach\nthem, they would not be willing to learn.\"\n\n\"Are you sure of it, mamma?\"\n\n\"Not quite so sure, perhaps, as if I had tried to instruct them; but I\nknow that they regard a book as a sort of Protestant trap, made on\npurpose to catch them, soul and body. It is an evil that we cannot\nremedy.--Have you more pain than usual, my dear?\" said Mrs. Lee,\nappearing a little startled, and bending anxiously over Annie's couch\nas she observed an unusual flush on her pale cheek.\n\n\"No, mamma; but I was thinking of a plan that I have had for some\nweeks, and hoping that you would not object to it.\"\n\n\"Object! You shall have whatever you like, if it can be procured. What\nis it, Annie?\"\n\n\"Oh, dear mamma,\" said Annie, \"I do so long to do some good! I cannot\nbear to live such a useless life. Every day, when I feel the goodness\nof God and his great love to me, I long to do something for him. And I\nthink, mamma, that I have planned a way to do good without getting off\nmy sofa.\"\n\n\"You are always doing good, Annie. Do you suppose that your patience\nunder suffering is not a lesson to us in our smaller trials? There are\nmany ways in which you are a blessing to us all; so do not weary\nyourself with new schemes. If God had required active service from\nyou, he would have given you health and strength.\"\n\n\"But I can do something, mamma. Please to hear my plan. I want to tell\nyou something more about Phelim's sister. She has been Mrs. Green's\nservant, and her business was to assist in the nursery. She would have\ndone nicely, Phelim says, but for her violent temper. Last week one of\nthe children was cross and provoking, and the girl got angry and\npushed him down-stairs. He was much bruised; and, of course, she was\ndismissed at once.\"\n\n\"I should hope so. But your plan, Annie?\"\n\n\"The poor girl has no place, mamma, and, with such a dreadful temper,\nis not likely to get one soon. And they are very poor. I know that\nsince Jessie left us, you are too closely confined here with me; and\nmy plan is to have this poor girl to wait on me, and--\"\n\n\"Why, Annie, what a wild project!\" interrupted her mother. \"You must\nnot think of it. She would be throwing you out of the window, or\nbeating you to a jelly, in her first fit of ill-temper.\"\n\n\"Oh no, she won't, mamma,\" urged Annie. \"She will not be so easily\nvexed here, and no one is ever angry with me. Please to try her.\"\n\n\"Are you really in earnest, Annie?\"\n\n\"Yes; and very anxious to be indulged in my strange plan.\"\n\n\"Have you thought how awkward she will be in assisting you?\"\n\n\"I have thought of it all, over and over,\" replied Annie, \"and I\nthink she will make a good nurse for me.\"\n\nMrs. Lee hesitated a long time. She could not bear to deny Annie, and\ncould not overcome her dislike to the proposed arrangement. But\nAnnie's pleading look at length decided her.\n\n\"You wish very much to try this wild-goose plan!\" she said, resuming\nthe conversation.\n\n\"Very much, mamma,\" replied Annie.\n\n\"Well, you shall have your own way about it. It will last but a few\ndays, I am sure; and the change will interest you at any rate, poor\nthing!\" Then going to the window, she looked down into the yard, and\nsaid, \"Mrs. Dillon, come up to Miss Annie's room, will you?\"\n\nIn a minute the woman made her appearance at the door, with the suds\nstill lingering in foamy flakes upon her arms and along the folds of\nher apron.\n\n\"You have a daughter, I believe?\" said Mrs. Lee.\n\n\"Two of them, an' ye plaze, ma'am,\" replied Biddy, wiping her arms as\nshe spoke.\n\n\"Are they both at home?\"\n\n\"It's Bessie that is in service; and it's only Annorah that's at home,\nshure.\"\n\n\"What is Annorah doing?\" inquired Mrs. Lee.\n\n\"Doing?\" repeated Biddy wonderingly.\n\n\"I mean, how does she get her living?\"\n\n\"At service too, ma'am, when it is to be had. But, shure, it's a bad\ntimper she has, and will sthrike and scold whin her blood is up. An'\nshe has lost the fine, comfortable place she had with Mrs. Green, jist\nfor a thrifle of spaach.\"\n\n\"That is unfortunate.\"\n\n\"Oh, thin, ye may well say that. Anither mouth in a family like me own\nis far from convenient whin the cost of the mate and the flour is\nbeyond raach intirely.\"\n\n\"Well, Biddy, Miss Annie wants some one to wait on her in the place of\nJessie, who has gone. She has taken a fancy to try your girl. When can\nshe come?\"\n\n\"Coom! Why, this very hour, an' ye like. A blessin' on yer swate, pale\nface!\" said Biddy, looking pityingly towards Annie.\n\n\"She must be gentler here,\" said Mrs. Lee; \"she must govern her\ntemper. Miss Annie must not be excited and made worse by your girl's\nfits of ill-humour.\"\n\n\"Leave her to me, mamma,\" said Annie. \"I think, Mrs. Dillon, that\nthere will be no trouble. What did you say is her name?\"\n\n\"Annorah, an' ye plaze, miss.\"\n\n\"Annorah? Very well. When shall she come, mamma?\"\n\n\"Not until Monday, I think,\" replied Mrs. Lee. Then turning to Mrs.\nDillon, she added, \"You may send her on Monday.\"\n\n\"An' she gets a mad streak along o' that pritty crathur,\" said Mrs.\nBiddy, as she went down-stairs, \"she desarves the warm bating she'll\nget from her own mother at home.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nANNORAH'S FIRST APPEARANCE IN THE SICK-ROOM.\n\n\nMonday came, and Annorah came too. It was with a doubting heart and a\ntroubled look that Mrs. Lee introduced her into her daughter's\nchamber. It would be difficult to find a plainer-looking or a more\nawkward girl.\n\nMrs. Lee looked at the monstrous foot in its heavy shoe, and at the\nthick, freckled hands, that seemed incapable of the gentle services\nthat Annie's helplessness required, and wondered at her own folly in\nindulging the singular caprice of her daughter. But a single look at\nAnnie assured her that she, at least, felt no misgivings. Still, she\ndid not like to leave them by themselves until she had tested the new\nattendant's ability.\n\n\"Annorah,\" she said, \"what sort of work can you do? I'm afraid you\nare not used to such services as Miss Annie will require.\"\n\n\"I can do most anything, ma'am,\" answered the girl resolutely.\n\n\"Indeed! Well, let me see how you would manage to place Annie on the\nbed when she is tired of the sofa.\"\n\nThe words were scarcely out of her mouth before Annorah had lifted the\nfrail form of the invalid in her arms and deposited her in the middle\nof the bed. Annie burst into such a laugh as she had not indulged in\nfor a year.\n\n\"I think you may be satisfied, mamma,\" she said; \"I never was moved\neasier.\"\n\nMrs. Lee began to think better of Annie's plan, and joined quite\ncordially in her daughter's mirth.\n\n\"And if she were too tired to rest in any position, what would you\ndo?\"\n\n\"Carry her to the windows, or out in the air, for a change.--Will ye\nplaze to thry it, Miss Annie?\"\n\n\"Not now, Annorah.\" Then looking towards her mother, she said, \"Mamma,\nyou may be easy; Annorah and I shall get on famously together.\"\n\nThus assured, Mrs. Lee left them, and went down-stairs with a better\nopinion of the rough Irish girl than she had thought it possible to\nentertain an hour previous.\n\nLeft by themselves, the two girls began to form an acquaintance with\neach other. Two persons more unlike could not have been brought\ntogether. Annorah was evidently much interested in her young charge,\nand felt the most unbounded sympathy in her sufferings. Annie spoke\nfirst.\n\n\"Please draw my couch nearer the window, Annorah. That will do. Now,\nsit down on this low stool, and tell me how long it is since you left\nIreland.\"\n\n\"It's two years, miss, coom April.\"\n\n\"So lately? Then you remember all about the old country?\"\n\n\"Remember! An' it's me that'll niver forget that same. The beautiful\ncounthree it is!\"\n\n\"Pleasanter than this, do you think?\"\n\n\"A thousand times. There is no place in the world like it; the dear\nould counthree!\"\n\n\"Why, then, did you leave it, Annorah?\"\n\n\"Bad luck we had, miss; and a worse luck intirely here, the mane town\nthat this is.\"\n\n\"Tell me all about it.\"\n\n\"What for? That ye, too, may laugh like the rest, and call us the\nmane, dirty set of Irish vagabonds?\" asked the girl, her small eyes\nkindling with a sense of imaginary insult.\n\n\"No, no, Annorah. You don't think I would say such things, do you? But\nyou need not tell me a word if you had rather not. I only thought it\nwould make me forget my pain for a little time; and, besides, I love\ndearly to hear about Ireland, or any place where I have never been,\"\nsaid Annie, with a tone of voice so calm and earnest that the girl\ncould not doubt her sincerity.\n\n\"Do you, in truth? Why, thin, it's me that'll talk till I hoarse\nmeself dumb for yer good. It was the famine, miss, that came first,\nand stole the bit o' food that was saved. The praties were rotten in\nthe field; and the poor pigs starved that should have helped us out\nwi' the rint. Och, but it was a sore time o' grief whin sorra a\nmouthful were left for the bit childer and the ould people who were\nweak before wi' ould age! In the worst time o' all, whin the need was\nthe sorest, our Bessie got into disgrace, and came home from service\nwi' niver a penny to help herself or us. There was nought to do and\nnought to eat at all. The neighbours were faint wi' the hoonger; and\nso, before the worst came, we left all that was dear and came here.\"\n\n\"How many of you came, Annorah?\"\n\n\"Nine, miss, if we consider our uncles and cousins. We did not come\naltogether; brother John, who is dead, and uncle Mike, came first. And\na fine chance to work they got directly, miss; and then they sent\nmoney to pay the old folk's passage. Our hearts gathered coorage and\nstrength at once, miss, and we thought, shure, the great throubles\nwere over. But the next vessel brought the bad news for us, and we\nforgot the glimmer of hope we had; for it was our own father dear who\nwas dead o' the cholera.\"\n\n\"Poor Annorah!\" exclaimed Annie pityingly.\n\n\"Poor indade! But soon came the money for the rest; and much as we\nfeared the deep wathers, the hoonger still pressed on us, and the\nsickness was every day striking down the stoutest, and so we all left\nIreland but Bessie.\"\n\n\"Did you like the passage across from Ireland?\"\n\n\"No, indade.\"\n\n\"Were you sea-sick?\"\n\n\"No, miss. But we came in the steerage; and a crowded, dirthy place it\nwas. The dirt was not so bad, for in the ould counthree it ofttimes\ngets the betther o' us; but the men were either drunk or ill-nathured,\nand the women quarrelled, and the young ones were aye cross or sick;\nand a bad time they made of it all.\"\n\n\"Did you come directly here?\"\n\n\"No; we stayed where we landed for seven weeks, till we got word to\nour cousin.\"\n\n\"And since you have been here, Annorah, what have you been doing? Have\nyou been to school?\"\n\n\"No; the praste forbade.\"\n\n\"Poor thing! Then you cannot read?\"\n\n\"How should I know reading, I'd like to know? Who would teach me that\nsame?\"\n\n\"Many good people would like to do it, if you would like to learn.\"\n\n\"I'm ower knowin' for that, miss,\" replied Annorah, with a glance\nwhich betrayed that she was rather suspicious of Annie's good\nintentions. \"It's a mighty pity that readin' was contrived at all, for\nit's the books that makes the black heretics o' us. 'Let alone the\nbooks and the readin',' said Father M'Clane to me last evening, 'and\nconfess to me faithfully all that ye hear in the grand Protestant\nfamily, an' all will go well wi' ye, Annorah,' says he, 'now and for\nevermore.'\"\n\nAnnie laughed pleasantly. \"And so you are to play the spy and the\ntattler; and however kindly we may treat you, you are to report all\nour sayings and doings to the priest? I don't believe, Annorah, that\nyou can be mean enough for that, if you try. I thought the Irish\npeople were too generous to act so low a part.\"\n\n\"An' so we are, shure. Sorra a bit will the praste get from me about\nyou here.\"\n\n\"If he were a good man, a noble, honourable man,\" said Annie, \"do you\nthink he would ask you--\"\n\n\"He's the praste!\" interrupted Annorah, her eyes flashing; \"the\npraste, is Father M'Clane. An' ye mind to spake well o' him, it's\nnought I've to say; an' the tongue is a heretic's that would spake ill\no' him, and he laving the ould counthree to stay for our good in this\nhaythen land. An' the books an' the readin' were for the like o' us,\nwould he not be the first to bid us welcome to the same? Och, it's a\ngood man and a holy is Father M'Clane, say what ye will, miss.\"\n\n\"I have not called him otherwise,\" said Annie, much amused by the\nIrish girl's warmth. \"I only asked you, or tried to ask you, if he\nwould be likely to require you to tattle and to be a tell-tale, if he\nwere so good as you describe him?\"\n\n\"It were jist putting before me eyes the maneness of the man. Is that\nnothing at all, and he a praste?\"\n\n\"Well, well, Annorah, we will say no more about him now. I am tired,\nand must rest. You won't mind being still a while?\"\n\n\"Poor little thing!\" said Annorah; \"ye're pale as a lily. Is there a\ndhrap o' anything ye would like, and then slape a bit?\"\n\n\"I will try to sleep.\"\n\n\"But ye cannot kape still. The pain is shure too great. Let me carry\nyou about a little.\"\n\n\"No, no; it would tire you,\" said Annie, who in her spasm of pain\nreally longed for so novel a method of changing her position.\n\n\"At least, let me thry it for once,\" urged the girl, whose Irish\nsympathies were powerfully awakened by her young mistress's evident\nsuffering; \"jist for once, darlin'.\"\n\nAnnie offered no further resistance, and, as Annorah bore her light\nform carefully up and down the room, experienced a feeling of relief\nthat inspired her with warm gratitude toward her uncouth attendant.\n\n\"Ye're light as down, honey,\" said Annorah, as she met Annie's\nanxious, inquiring look.\n\nSatisfied at last that she was really no heavy burden, the weary\ninvalid soon dropped asleep, with her head on the Irish girl's\nshoulder. Mrs. Lee opened the door and looked in.\n\n\"Whist!\" said Annorah, in a low, impatient whisper. \"Kape quiet, will\nye, and let the poor lamb slape!\"\n\nMrs. Lee hardly knew whether to be amused or provoked as she, the\nmistress of the house, obeyed Annorah's imperative gesture, and\nwithdrew softly from the apartment.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nANNORAH LEARNS TO READ.\n\n\nIn a very few days Annie was intrusted to the sole care of her young\nIrish nurse, who served her with the most affectionate attention. Mrs.\nLee often came to sit with her suffering child, but Annorah alone\nperformed the tender offices of the sick-room. Rough and uncouth as\nshe was, she readily adapted herself to the services required; and no\npower on earth could have persuaded her that Annie could be so well\ntaken care of by any one else.\n\n\"It naded a dale o' contrivance, to be shure,\" she said to her mother\none afternoon, when, Annie being asleep, she ran home to ask after the\nfamily, \"or I would be well bothered with all her pretty talk o'\nbooks, and taching me to read and write; but she, poor darlin', shall\nsay whatever she plazes to me.\"\n\n\"An' if she spake ill o' the praste and the holy Church, how then,\nAnnorah?\" asked Mrs. Dillon, eying her daughter rather curiously.\n\n\"Blessed little good can _we_ say o' Father M'Clane, whin we spake\ntruth, as ye know, mother dear; and it's not to be expected o' her to\ntell lies for his sake.\"\n\n\"Does she spake o' the Catholic Church Norah?\" asked her mother.\n\n\"Never at all, mother; so make yer heart aisy. She spakes to me o'\nmeself, and the wickedness in me heart; and when she leans so lovingly\non me shoulder, and raises her clear eyes to the blue sky, or watches\nthe bright sunset, and spakes so softly to me o' the beauty o' a holy\nlife, I feel all the betther and patienter meself for hearing the good\nwords. She says, mother dear, as how it is depravity that makes me so\noften angered and wrong; and how that Jesus Christ, the Son o' God\nhimself, died to save us and cure us o' our sin. It would do yer own\nheart good, could ye hear her; and there's nought wrong in it at all,\nye see.\"\n\nAnnie's influence grew stronger and stronger, and not a day passed\nwithout some precious truth from her lips finding a place in the heart\nof her attendant. It was many weeks before Annorah yielded to her\npersuasions, and commenced learning to read. The pleasant summer days\nhad come, and they were often abroad in the fresh air together, Annie\nin her low carriage, which was easily drawn by her young nurse.\n\nDown in the valley behind Mr. Lee's house there was an old mill, long\nsince deserted and unused.\n\nThis was a favourite resort of Annie's, and it was here that she\ntaught Annorah to read, during the long summer afternoons.\n\nAt first Annorah was listless, indifferent, and often suspicious that\nall this attention to her education boded no good to her old religious\nprejudices. But she could deny Annie nothing; and after a time, as her\nconfidence in the piety of her gentle teacher increased, she began to\nfeel a deep interest in the truths taught.\n\nIn her anxiety to please her invalid charge, she made rapid progress\nin reading, and before the end of the summer could write a few plain\nsentences. She began to love knowledge for its own sake; and many a\npleasant hour did she spend, when Annie was asleep or weary, in\nreading the easy lessons selected for her. But she was careful that\nneither her mother nor the priest should suspect her progress in\nlearning, and as she still went regularly to \"confession,\" it was easy\nto keep her secret from them. Annie was often not a little puzzled to\nknow how she managed to elude the vigilance of the priest.\n\nIt was a beautiful autumn afternoon, when the air was just cool enough\nto be refreshing, that, with Mrs. Lee's permission, Annie and her\nnurse sought their favourite seat by the mill-stream. Annie had been\nthinking more than usual about Annorah's progress in religious\nknowledge, and wondering how, with the light and wisdom she had\nreceived, she could still cling to her old superstitions. A great\nchange had taken place in her temper, which was now usually\ncontrolled; her manners had gradually become more gentle; but the\nradical change of heart that Annie so longed to witness, did not yet\nshow itself.\n\n\"Tell me, Annorah,\" she said, after the usual time had been spent in\nreading, \"does Father M'Clane know that you can read yet?\"\n\n\"Not he, indade.\"\n\n\"Does he not question you?\"\n\n\"Not exactly. He says I spake better English, and that shure it is\nbecause I live where it is well spoken.\"\n\n\"What did you say to that?\"\n\n\"I said. 'True, your riverence.'\"\n\n\"I'm afraid that is hardly the truth, Annorah. If anything has\nimproved your language, it is your reading.\"\n\n\"To be shure. But is it not because I am with those who spake English\nwell, that I'm learning to read? So it was the truth, after all.\"\n\n\"Not the whole truth, Annorah.\"\n\nJust then Annorah turned, and saw the shadow of a man on the sloping\nrock at the left hand. Her first impulse was to cry out, but the fear\nof alarming Annie, and her own natural courage, prevented her; and she\nsoon thought she could detect in the shadowy outline a resemblance to\nFather M'Clane. \"Och, then, the murder's out,\" she thought; \"the mane\ncreature has been listening, and faith now he shall have a pill that\nwill settle his stomach intirely.--What were you saying, Miss Annie?\"\nshe asked aloud, turning towards Annie's carriage.\n\n\"I said that you did not tell him the whole truth.\"\n\n\"Small matter for that. It was all he asked for, and it's better\nplazed he is than if it were more. He's a lying ould thing himself,\nany way!\"\n\n\"Why, Annorah?\"\n\n\"Ye may well open yer eyes. Did he not tell me last Sunday that you,\nmiss, with your sweet voice and comforting ways, were jist a\ntemptation placed in me way, by the ould inimy himself?\"\n\n\"I, Annorah? What does he know of me?\"\n\n\"Nothing at all, savin' that ye are a saint, and he an ould--\"\n\n\"Stop, stop, Annorah. We must not speak evil of any one. I hope that\nyou were civil in your reply.\"\n\n\"Civil! indade I was. I said, 'Ye should teach your flock better than\nto tempt honest people.' 'It's gettin' impudent ye are,' says he;\n'ye'll be turnin' heretic next. You must be seen to and taken care\nof,' says he. 'Bad luck to ye!' says I; 'when ye sees me two eyes\nlight me to confession again, ye may take care o' me and welcome.'\"\n\n\"And shall you not go again?\"\n\n\"Never again.\" Annorah saw the shadow raise its hand threateningly.\n\"No, indade. Where's the use o' telling all ye know to an ould\ncreature like him? Doesn't the blessed Book say that no man can come\nto the Father but only through Jesus Christ? An' shure, the great\nFather in heaven is angered to see me kneel down before that biggest\no' scamps, when I should be praying to himself. I'll do it no more.\"\n\n\"I am glad to hear you say so, Annorah; I do so hope,\" said Annie, as\nthe affectionate tears stole down her thin cheek, \"that you are\nbeginning to learn in the school of Christ. But, my poor girl, you\nwill meet much opposition. I am afraid that your family will join with\nthe priest in opposing you.\"\n\n\"Let them. I'll fight them all with pleasure--more especially the\npraste.\"\n\n\"But fighting is not the way to make them think well of the religion\nof Jesus. He was mild and gentle, patient under abuse and persecution;\nand he must be your pattern, if you desire to please God. You must\npray to him, Annorah, for a new heart, so that none of these angry\nfeelings will trouble you.\"\n\n\"Is it the new heart, miss, that makes you so sweet and patient?\"\n\n\"If I have any goodness, Annorah, it is because God has changed my old\nheart, and made it better. It is his grace that enables me to suffer\nwithout complaining; and it is his love, which I feel in my heart,\nthat makes me calm and happy in my greatest pain.\"\n\n\"Then I am sure,\" said the girl earnestly, forgetting for a moment\nthat she was overheard. \"I will never rest a day at all, till I get\nthat same done for me. But mayhap he will not be so willing to look\nupon me.\"\n\n\"In his holy Book we read that he is no respecter of persons, and that\nwhosoever cometh unto him he will in no wise cast out.\"\n\n\"Why, then, I can coom as soon as the grandest. _How_ shall I coom?\"\n\n\"I will tell you how I came to him. I studied his holy Word to learn\nhis will, and I prayed often that he would give me his Spirit to teach\nme the way to him.\"\n\n\"An' did he?\"\n\n\"Yes. In a little time I began to know more about myself, and to see\nhow much I needed a Saviour; and then I saw how willing Jesus must be\nto save me, having died for me as well as for others; and so, in a way\nthat I can't explain, I was led to give myself to him, and I soon\nfound peace in believing. He will teach you, Annorah, and lead you\nright, if you earnestly seek him. Look at the sunset clouds. Did you\never see such gold, and crimson, and purple before? But the sunset is\nnot half so bright and beautiful as the true Christian's prospects.\"\n\nLooking at the sunset reminded Annorah that it was late for her charge\nto be out. A very slight rustle in the bushes behind her, recalled\nwhat she had strangely forgotten, in her interest in the conversation.\nShe took up a large stone and threw it among the bushes.\n\n\"What is there, Annorah?\" asked Annie, in alarm.\n\n\"Only a sarpint, miss.\"\n\n\"Well, let us hasten home. Mamma will be anxious.\"\n\nAfter they left, the dark form of a man rose from behind the green\nknoll where they had been sitting, and moved slowly along the bank of\nthe stream, down the valley. It was Father M'Clane.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nTHE PRIEST MEETS ANNORAH AT HER MOTHER'S COTTAGE.\n\n\nBiddy Dillon had just finished a large ironing for one of the families\nin the village, and having placed the clothes-frame where the dust\nfrom the open fire-place could not fall on the fine starched linens\nand muslins, she began to set her table for tea, at the same time\ncounting over the gains of the week. Not a trifle in her calculations\nwere the wages of Annorah, who came regularly every Saturday evening\nto add her contribution to the family fund.\n\n\"It's a good child she is gettin' to be, and a pleasant-tempered one,\ntoo,\" said Mrs. Dillon to herself; \"it's made over intirely, she is,\nour Lady be praised!\"\n\nShe began to sing the burden of an Irish ditty, but the broken-nosed\ntea-kettle over the fire beginning to sing too, she commenced talking\nagain.\n\n\"Heaven send it mayn't be thrue, but it does look like the heretic's\ndoings. She were like a brimstone match, or like gunpowder itself, at\nhome, and tender-hearted as a young baby besides. Shure, it's a mighty\npower, any way, that has so changed her. I can't jist feel aisy about\nit, for it's Father M'Clane will find out the harm of her good spaches\nand doings.\"\n\nThe words were hardly out of her mouth when the priest entered. The\nstorm on his brow was not unnoted by Biddy, but she respectfully set a\nchair for him in the cleanest part of the room. She was not quite so\neasily terrified by priestly wrath and authority as she had been in\nher own country; for she had the sense to know that the ghostly\nfather's malediction did not, as in Ireland, entail a long course of\ntemporal misfortunes upon the poor victims of his displeasure. But she\nhad not yet acknowledged to herself the doubts that really existed in\nher mind in regard to the truth of the Romish faith; she still clung\nto the errors in which she had been brought up, and feared the effect\non her eternal happiness of Father M'Clane's displeasure. So it was\nwith a beating heart that she awaited his time to address her.\n\n\"Do you know that your daughter is a heretic?\" was his first\nquestion.\n\n\"Indade, no, yer riverence,\" replied Biddy.\n\n\"An' what sort o' a mother are you, Biddy Dillon, to stand still and\nlook on while the wolf stales the best o' yer flock? You might have\nknown that heretic family would lave not a stone unturned to catch her\nat last. And so she can read--\"\n\n\"_Read!_\" interrupted the astonished woman.\n\n\"Yes, read! And it's the heretics' Bible she has read, too,--and all\nthrough your fault. Mighty proud ye have been o' all the fine\nhousekeeping ways she has learned, and very thankful, no doubt, for\nthe bits o' could victuals from the big house; but where's the good\nnow? Ye may thank yourself that she will lose her sowl for ever.\"\n\nMrs. Dillon started and turned pale as the door softly opened, and\nAnnorah herself, unobserved by the priest, came in. He went on: \"Do\nyou call her better, the pestilent crather, when, from her first going\nto the grand place on the hill, never a word about them has been got\nfrom her at confession? The obstinate crather!\"\n\n\"I came to your riverence for spiritual good,\" said Annorah, now\ncoming forward and laying a fat chicken and sundry paper parcels\nbeside her week's wages on the little table by her mother's side. \"I\ncame for spiritual good, and ye thried to teach me to tattle. It's a\nmane trade intirely, lettin' alone the maneness of sich as teach it.\"\n\n\"Annorah!\" exclaimed her mother, \"do you dare to spake in that way o'\nthe praste himself?\"\n\n\"I mean no harm, mother.\"\n\n\"No harm!\" repeated Father M'Clane, turning fiercely toward her. \"You\nwon't cheat me with words like these.\"\n\nAnnorah tossed her head scornfully and sat down opposite the priest,\nwho on his part seemed far less desirous to carry on the war since her\narrival. The cottage that he occupied belonged to Mr. Lee, and judging\nthat gentleman by his own heart, he feared that an unfavourable\nrepresentation of the case to him might either increase his rent or\nturn him out altogether. Besides, he was not unlike blusterers, and\ncould denounce the erring with greater ease when they stood in awe of\nhim. That Annorah felt neither fear nor reverence for him, it was easy\nto see. So, smothering his wrath, he began, to the great surprise of\nMrs. Dillon, to address the girl in his most coaxing tones.\n\n\"Come, come, Annorah,\" he said, \"let us be friends. It's me that's\nould enough, and willing too, to be to you in place o' yer own\nfather, Heaven rest his sowl; but he's gone to a better counthree than\nthis sinful world. An' yer own good, child, is what I think on in\nspaking to you of Miss Annie and the heretics generally. It's not for\nmeself, shure, that me prayers go up at the could midnight hour whin\nye're all sleeping in quiet. It's not me own throubles that make me\ndream o' Heaven's wrath, but it's me care for yer sowl, Annorah, and\nfor the sake o' yer gettin' saved at last.\"\n\n\"Hear that, Norah, child,\" said her mother. \"Who else ever fretted\nthemselves for yer good? What would become o' ye, an' Father M'Clane\ngave ye up entirely?\n\n\"Your riverence must stay till I draw the tae and fry a bit o' the\nchicken,\" added Biddy, as the priest rose to take his leave.\n\n\"No, thank you,\" he replied; \"I must not sit down at ease. Small rest\nis there for me when the wolf is in the fold, and the flock is in\ndanger.\"\n\nHe took leave quite cordially, but when he was gone, Biddy turned,\nwith a shadow on her round face, to speak to her daughter.\n\n\"An' what's this ye've been doing, child? Is it me own ears that have\nheard o' yer Bible-reading and railing at the praste? What's coom to\nye now? Didn't I warn ye against their heretic ways? An' ye've been\nand fallen into the dape pit as aisy as a blind sheep. Och! for shame,\nAnnorah Dillon! Why do ye not spake? What can ye say for yourself?\"\n\n\"Mother,\" said Annorah, \"how often you've said, when Larry O'Neale's\ngood luck has been tould of, that it was the larnin', shure, that did\nit all! An' when we were over the great water, you said, 'How nice and\ncomfortable would it be an' we had one in the family like Larry\nhimself, to send back the news to ould friends, when we got safe\nhere.' Do ye not mind, mother dear, how often you've said that same\nsince? Well, now, I've been and learned what ye wanted so much; and\nfirst cooms the praste and makes a big fuss, and then you, mother,\nspake as if I had thried to anger in the room o' plasing ye. I'm sure\nI've thried to plase you all I could.\"\n\n\"So ye have, mavourneen; so ye have,\" said Biddy, her voice softening\nas she turned to look at the chicken and other things that Annorah had\nbrought. \"It's not yer mother, honey, that has a word to say against\nyou; but when Father M'Clane talks o' yer being a heretic, it angers\nme. This Bible that he frets about, what is it, Norah?\"\n\n\"It's God's truth, mother, that he has given to teach us all; and a\nbrave book it is. Father M'Clane has one himself; and what frets him\nis, that the heretics, as he calls them, can read it for themselves\nand find out God's will; for only the praste has it with us.\"\n\n\"Well, then, an' the praste tells us the same, it saves us a world o'\nbother, shure.\"\n\n\"But if the praste is not a good man, he can tell us whatever he\nlikes; and how do we know what is God's Word? Now, mother, in all\nGod's Word there is never a bit about confessing to a praste, but a\ngreat deal about praying and confessing to God himself. But, you see,\nif all our people knew that same, sorra a bit o' money would go to the\npraste's pocket in comparison to what he gets now. It's that, mother\ndear, that makes him so afraid we shall learn. He can't get the money\nfrom those who can read God's Word for themselves.\"\n\n\"Are you sure it's all thrue?\" asked Biddy, her eyes wide open with\nastonishment.\n\n\"It is the truth of God. An' it's this same learning that's got out of\nthe holy Book that makes the difference between Protestants and\nCatholics. They go to the Word itself, an' we take on hearsay whatever\nthe praste tells us. An' there is no word in all the Book, mother,\nabout praying to Mary the mother of Jesus, or to any of the saints.\nEverybody is invited to pray straight up to God himself.\"\n\nThe girl's downright heresy, and her contempt for the mummeries of the\nRomish communion, troubled her mother. But what could she do? The\nchange for the better in the child's temper had prepared her to look\nfavourably upon the change in her religion. She listened to Annorah's\ncontinued account of what she had learned from the Bible with the\ngreatest interest, feeling every moment more and more disposed to\naccept its teaching, and less and less disposed to blindly submit to\nthe priest. Annorah stayed till a late hour with her mother, repeating\nover and over again the truths so interesting to herself, and\nobtaining permission at last to bring the Bible itself on her next\nvisit. She was strictly cautioned, however, to bring it privately,\nlest Father M'Clane should hear of it, and, in Biddy's language, \"kick\nup a scrimmage.\"\n\nThere were more ideas in the old woman's head than had ever found room\nthere before, when, after Annorah had gone, she sat down by herself\nbefore the fire. She was both ambitious and imaginative, and long\nvistas of future greatness opened before her, all commencing with the\nwonderful fact that _her_ child could read and write.\n\n\"An' it's not all a queer drame,\" she said; \"I'll hear her for meself\ncoom next Saturday Och! what a row it will make an' Father M'Clane,\nand Teddy Muggins, and Mike Murphy get wind o' a heretic Bible being\nbrought to the place! But I'll hear and judge for meself, that I will;\nan' if the praste be right, small harm is there to be shure; and if he\nbe wrong, the better for me poor sowl, and a saving o' money.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nPHELIM BRINGS BAD TIDINGS TO ANNORAH.\n\n\nAnnorah's troubles were not ended by the unexpected encouragement\nreceived from her mother. Her brothers and sister, and Irish\nacquaintance generally, soon heard that she no longer went to mass or\nto confession; and great was the uproar among them. The unsparing\nrebukes of Father M'Clane, whenever he met with any one supposed to\nhave any influence over her, soon fanned into life not only a vehement\nhatred of the Protestants, but a bitter feeling of enmity toward the\npoor girl herself. Those who had been most cordial now either passed\nher in sullen silence, or openly taunted her upon her defection; and\nthe very children in the lane hooted after her, when she made her\nusual weekly visit to her mother.\n\nAnnorah often found these things very hard to bear. Her quick Irish\nblood was up with the first insulting word; but she sought for\nstrength from above to control it, and no outbreak of passion was\nsuffered to mar the sweet lesson that her patience and kindness toward\nall was insensibly teaching.\n\nShe was getting ready for her usual Saturday evening's visit to her\nmother's cottage, when her attention was attracted by the low\nwhistling of a familiar Irish air in the yard below. Looking out, she\nobserved her lame brother, Phelim, making signs for her to come out. A\nlittle alarmed lest some evil had befallen her mother she hurried out\nto meet him.\n\n\"What is it, Phelim? What is the matther, dear?\"\n\n\"Matther, do you ask? Well, the matther is, that ye're not to coom\nhome till ye're sent for. Are ye not ashamed to make such a row?\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean. Sit down, Phelim dear; you're over weak\nto keep standin' so. Does the new liniment no help ye at all? And ye\nmust carry home the money to mother, and the tea, and the sugar, and\nsome nice warm woollen stockings that Mrs. Lee showed me how to knit\nfor yerself, darlin'; and Heaven grant that it's no a bad turn o'\npain ye will get in yer bones by cooming to tell me. There's a\ncranberry-pie that Mrs. Lee was to send for your own self, Phelim\ndear; it will relish better than our mother's plain cooking.\"\n\nThe thought of eating the dainty so thoughtfully provided, produced a\nchoking sensation in the boy's throat, as if it had there come into a\ncollision with his wrath against heretics. But he said nothing, and\nAnnorah went on:--\n\n\"I've been making some caps for mother; but ye're no able to carry so\nmany things at once, poor fellow.\"\n\nStill Phelim did not speak, but he gazed earnestly into her face. The\nmoon was up, and he could plainly see the traces of tears on her\ncheek, and the sad but loving expression of her eyes as she returned\nhis gaze.\n\n\"An' it's the Protestant religion that makes you so good and kind,\nNorah,\" he said at length; \"our Lady help me, and I could just be a\nheretic wi' ye!\"\n\n\"It's little I know yet o' the truth, but, O Phelim, it's a lovely way\nto heaven; and the swate, blessed feeling that fills up the heart when\nI pray straight up to the Lord Jesus Christ himself, is better than to\nhave all the diamonds in a queen's crown. It makes me so light and\nhappy; so contented intirely. It quiets the bad temper into perfect\npeace; and I love, as I never dreamed of doing before, all my friends\nand enemies too. It's little I know yet, Phelim, but all the gould in\nthe world, and all the world's hate too, shall not hinder me from\nlearning more o' God's wonderful way to save sinners. But hurry home\nnow, Phelim, mavourneen; the raw night air is no good for ye.\"\n\n\"They may say what they will, Norah,\" said the boy, \"but I'm sure I\nwill love ye for ever. An' ye'll tache me to get those heavenly\nfeelings, I'll jist follow the road ye have taken. I've plenty o'\ntime, as ye know.\"\n\n\"Do ye mean, will I teach you to read?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I'll speak to Miss Annie about it. Hurry home as fast as you can.\nGood-night, and God bless you.\"\n\nWith an affectionate kiss they parted; and Annorah went slowly back to\nher young mistress's room.\n\n\"How is this, Annorah?\" asked Mrs. Lee, as she entered. \"How happened\nyou to return so soon?\"\n\n\"I have not been home, an' ye please, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Are you not going to-night?\" asked Annie, raising her head from her\npillow, and noticing, with a little anxiety, the unusual expression\nof her attendant's face.\n\n\"It's Phelim, my brother, miss, has been here, and it's a house full\no' company there is at home.\"\n\n\"And they want you to spend the holy Sabbath to-morrow in visiting\nthem, I suppose.\"\n\n\"No, Miss Annie.\"\n\n\"What then?\" asked Mrs. Lee, after a moment's silence.\n\n\"Nothing to speak of, ma'am. Leastways nothing to trouble ye about.\"\n\n\"But I can see that it is something that troubles you, Norah,\" said\nAnnie, taking the rough hand of Annorah in hers, and drawing her\nnearer. \"Is it something that you would rather I should not know?\"\n\n\"Indeed no. But it's loath I am to add my bit troubles to yours, when\nye suffer yer own so patiently. It's only that all my relatives, and\nthe praste, and the Catholic neighbours, are waiting for me to come\nhome, to bring me back to the ould Church by force. An' Phelim, poor\nboy, came to tell me to keep away. It's worse he'll be for the damp\nair; and it's angry they'll be for my staying away.\"\n\n\"Ah! Annorah, my dear nurse, I was afraid that rougher times awaited\nyou. I was afraid they would persecute you.\"\n\n\"But they haven't yet, Miss Annie.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it is not what you would call persecution, but it is sad to\nhave those we love turn against us. You must trust in God, my poor\ngirl. He will give you grace to bear it all.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nTHE CONFESSIONAL--AN IRISH FROLIC.\n\n\nGreat was the uproar in Biddy Dillon's cottage when it was found that\nAnnorah was not coming to make her usual Saturday evening visit to her\nmother.\n\nPreparations had been made by Father M'Clane for holding a regular\nconfessional; and an hour before sunset, he had taken his seat in the\nlittle darkened chamber, behind a table on which four tallow-candles\nwere burning, with an uncertain, flickering light.\n\nIt had been decided in the council of relatives and friends that\nAnnorah's only chance of salvation lay in speedy confession, and it\nwas very reasonably supposed, that could she be brought back to that\nPopish duty, a great point would be gained in the way to her perfect\nrestoration.\n\nIt was, therefore, no affectionate, loving circle that had now\nassembled to \"bear a hand\" in Annorah's restoration to the faith. One\nafter another went reverently on their knees up the short, steep\nstairway, and came down lighter in purse, and, as the priest wickedly\ntaught them, absolved of all offences, but swelling with wrath against\nthe poor girl whose coming was so long delayed. And when, at last, it\nbecame apparent that she would not come, a storm of abuse was poured\nupon Biddy, who, it was evident to all, did not cordially join in\ntheir violent measures.\n\nNow, Biddy Dillon had too much of the national character to sit down\nquietly and receive their abuse, and soon a regular quarrel ensued,\nwhich would have speedily become a fight, but for the descent of\nFather M'Clane into their midst, and his imperative command that each\none should sit down quietly and \"hould his tongue.\"\n\n\"Whisht! whisht! Of what are ye thinking, ye silly gossoons? Will ye\nbring down the peace officers upon ye, and take out the bit o' the\nnight in the prison, instead o' drinking me health, as ye may, and me\nhelping to do that same? Arrah! Why should ye glower and snarl at each\nother, like a kennel o' mad puppies, when it's the brave frolic ye may\nhave together? It's the soft looks and the fine words ye must use, an'\nye would win the young heretic back; ye may fight over her till the\ngreat day o' all, and it will be but a sorrowful waste o' the\npowther, barrin' the swate chance ye are losing now o' a comfortable\nfrolic. Arrah, now, Dennis darlin', a sup o' the whisky for me, a\nthrifle sthrong, an' ye plaze. It's a could night to be out wi' an\nempty stoomach.\"\n\n\"Stay till the morning, father,\" said Biddy, coming up to him with an\nanxious face; \"we cannot kape peace an' ye do not bide wi' us; the\nfrolic will be all the better an' ye stay to the orderin' o' it,--and\nthe best bed is waitin' yer riverence's convanience. There's Sandy and\nMike will fight an' ye lave, and Katy there is ready to tear out the\neyes o' big Nelly Murphy. It's quarrelling they've been the whole\nblessed day. Bide with us, lest the dear childer who is the cause o'\nit all should be kilt and murdered intirely, an' she sthrays home\nto-night.\"\n\nShe spoke in a low voice, and he replied in the same tone, drawing her\nback from the crowd, who were all talking together.\n\n\"Look here, Biddy Dillon,\" he said; \"the girl must lave that grand\nhouse and come home to live here with you.\"\n\n\"Lave Miss Annie, do ye mane, sir?\"\n\n\"Small hope for her sowl an' she do not.\"\n\n\"And few are the pennies I can bring to yer riverence when the child\nhas no wages to bring home o' a Saturday. Sorra a hap'orth to spare\nwill I find; it's no me two hands alone can find bread for the mouths\no' all, and--\"\n\n\"Stuff and nonsense!\" interrupted the priest; \"there's many another\nplace can be had for a sthrong, likely lass like her. Good servants\nare not over plenty, and she can be better placed.\"\n\n\"But where, I would like ye to tell? It's in a Protestant family she\nmust be, an' she goes out to service at all.\"\n\n\"Yes; but they'll let her alone in some houses. Sorra a bit do the\nmost o' them care what becomes o' the sowl, an' the work be done to\ntheir liking. Our Lady be praised! it's to the far counthrees that the\nProtestant missionaries are sent, and the silver is given; for\none-half o' the pains taken wi' the poor crathurs who work in their\nkitchens would have ruined us all.\"\n\n\"Yer riverence spakes thrue, to be shure,\" said Biddy; \"but for all\nthat, it will never be a bit o' use to thry to make a good Catholic o'\nNorah, now that she can read the big books and talk so bravely\nherself. An' it were to be the savin' o' her life, she would never\nconfess to a praste again, or take the holy wafer from his hands. But\nif ye would take it aisy and lave it to me, and persuade these\nmeddlesome boobies to mind their own particular business, and\nthrouble us no more, it's meself would be sure to bring the handsome\nsum to yer riverence when I come to confession. Contrariwise, you see,\nand you kape fussing, and they kape fussing, it's all loss it is to\nye, and no gain.\"\n\nThe priest's countenance brightened perceptibly. He seemed much\nimpressed with Biddy's view of the case, and was not slow to perceive\nits worldly wisdom. So, after addressing the waiting company to some\npurpose, he left them.\n\nBut Biddy sat thoughtfully in a corner, with her lame boy. She had, in\nher conversation with the priest, cunningly hit on an expedient to\npropitiate him for a time, but she was ill at ease. She could not at\nonce throw off the chains of teaching that had bound her all her life;\nand so dim was the light that she had received, that she dared not yet\nfollow it.\n\n\"Oh, then, it's a jewel she is, core o' me heart, Norah dear!\"\n\nThe last two words were whispered so loud that Phelim heard them, and\nhe said, \"I've seen her to-night, mother.\"\n\n\"Who? Spake aisy, mavourneen.\"\n\n\"Our Norah.\"\n\n\"When?\" questioned his mother, with an anxious glance at the unheeding\nrevellers.\n\n\"Afther dusk. I thought ye would like her to kape away to-night.\"\n\n\"Now blessings on ye for a handy callant as ye are,\" said Biddy,\npatting his shoulder approvingly. \"An' how is she?\"\n\n\"Well as ever, mother, and kind-tempered and good too. A power of good\nthings she has sent, and they're safe hid in the cellar. The money is\nin me coat pocket, mother. Shall I give it ye?\"\n\n\"Not now. Kape it till all be gone. Was she sorry or mad, Phelim?\"\n\n\"Mad? Not at all. Sorry? I don't know at all. Her voice was all\ncourage and kindness; but I saw big tears on her cheek, for all that.\"\n\nThe mother and son sat silently looking into the fire for a few\nmoments. At last Phelim spoke. \"Mother,\" said the boy, \"ye'll not have\nthem abuse her and torment her, just for changing into such a dear\ncrathur?\"\n\n\"She's a heretic, lad.\"\n\n\"What o' that? She's good, any way,\" said Phelim stoutly. \"I would I\nwere a big man. We'd see who would throuble her then. It's a thrashin'\nthey'd get, an' it's manners they'd learn, and no charges made for the\nteaching.\"\n\n\"Whisht, lad! it's careful and sly we must be. An' do ye not bother\nyer poor head wi' yer sister's new notions. It's a nation o' throuble\nI'd have with a pair o' ye at once; and ye're no earning money,\nPhelim, boy, to buy off the praste. Kape a still tongue, lad, an' ye\nbite it in two; an' don't go for to meddle wi' matters concerning yer\nsowl. The praste an' yer poor mother will kape a sharp look-out; an'\nit will go hard, shure, if between us ye are not saved at last.\"\n\n\"But, mother, where is the harm if I look for meself a bit? Who can\nsee Norah, so gentle and loving, so careful o' you and me, so pleasant\nto every one, and not want to know more o' the way she has taken?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, lad; but have ye no sense at all? What if ye have been\ntould a secret, can ye not kape it the same? Now mind, once for all;\nye're not to know it at all, if Norah brings home the Word o' the Lord\nto read to her ould ignorant mother (it's a swate voice she has), and\nye shall hear the big Book as well; only mind, Phelim, acushla, ye're\nto know nothing at all, let who will spake to ye o' the same.\"\n\n\"Yes; but, mother, what if I myself learn to--\"\n\n\"Hush!--Is it o' me ye are spaking?\" asked Biddy, turning to a cluster\nof people who had drawn near them. \"It's no hearty I feel to-night,\nand poor lame Phelim is kaping me company. Is it room for the dance ye\nare wanting? The other is the roomiest, and the floor is the\nplainest.\"\n\nHurrying out with ready good-will to assist in the needful\npreparations, Biddy soon removed any suspicions that might have been\nentertained in the minds of any of her neighbours of any leaning on\nher part toward heresy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nBIDDY DILLON BECOMES A \"HERETIC.\"\n\n\nSeveral months passed quietly by. It was winter, and the heaviest snow\nthat had fallen within the memory of that personage so universally\nknown and respected--namely, the oldest inhabitant--now lay upon the\nground; and all in town and country who were partial to the exercise\nof skating could enjoy it freely. But the severe cold confined the\ndelicate invalids to their heated rooms, and fair Annie Lee again\nfound herself shut up to the tiresome routine of sick-room pleasures,\nonly varied by intervals of suffering. The pleasure, however,\npredominated. She seemed almost to forget her pain and increasing\nlanguor in her unceasing efforts to instruct her young nurse.\n\nAnnorah, on her part, thirsted for knowledge, especially for the\nwisdom that cometh from above. She improved, too, rapidly enough to\nsatisfy a less partial teacher. In the varied arts of housewifery, and\nin the more intricate use of the needle, she had also become quite\nexpert, and, to use Mrs. Lee's own words, \"was quite a treasure in\nevery part of the house.\"\n\nLittle lame Phelim came for an hour each afternoon to Miss Annie's\nroom to be made a \"schollard, shure;\" and every Saturday evening found\nAnnorah, with her Bible, seated by her mother's fireside, reading, and\nin her own earnest but uncouth manner expounding the truths she read.\n\nOne Sabbath evening in March, Father M'Clane set out for a walk to\nMrs. Dillon's cottage. His prospects and reflections had been of a\ngrave and sad character throughout the day, and his threadbare coat\nand lean purse had been more than usually suggestive of the great\ntruth, that all earthly comforts are fleeting and transitory.\n\nFor the first time Biddy had that day absented herself from the\nCatholic chapel. Annorah had lately added to her Scripture reading,\n\"Kirwan's Letters to Archbishop Hughes.\" She read it to her mother\nwhenever a spare hour enabled her to run home. Biddy had been greatly\ninterested in the appeals and arguments of her talented countryman,\nand deeply impressed by his life-like delineation of the follies and\nsuperstitions of the Romish ritual.\n\n\"It's rasonable he is intirely,\" she said, \"and a bright son o' the\nould counthree, blessin's on it! It's him who spakes well o' the poor\nruined crathers, and praises us all for the natural generous-sowled\npeople we are. He knows us intirely, Norah dear. Shure he's a\nwonderful man and a bould, let alone the thrue son o' ould Ireland,\nfor doing the beautiful thing. Read us one more letther, mavourneen,\nbefore ye are off, and lave the book here. Mayhap Phelim will spell\nout a morsel or so when the Sabbath even is coom.\"\n\n\"You will not go to confession to-morrow, dear mother?\" said Annorah.\n\n\"Not I,\" replied Biddy firmly.\n\n\"It goes to my heart, mother, that the money we earn so hardly, and\nwhich should be kept to comfort your old age, should go for nothing,\nor worse.\"\n\n\"I will do it no more. Make yer heart aisy, honey. Never a penny o'\nmine will the praste hould in his hand again.\"\n\n\"He will visit you, mother.\"\n\n\"An' what o' that? Let him coom. He is welcome an' he minds his own\nbusiness, and only dhraps in for a bit o' gossip; but an' he\ninterferes in me private consarns, it's soon he'll find himself\nrelaved o' all throuble on account o' us.\"\n\nAnnorah saw that there was no reason now to fear that her mother would\nbe overawed by the priest; but she still lingered anxiously. Her\nmother saw the shade on her face, and asked,--\n\n\"What is it, Norah? Are you in throuble?\"\n\n\"Do not quarrel with him, mother,\" replied the daughter.\n\n\"Let him be dacent, and it's ceevil treatment he'll get; but no man\nshall browbeat me on me own floor,\" said Biddy, in a tone which\ndeclared the firmness of her purpose.\n\nIt was on the night succeeding this conversation, that Father M'Clane\nvisited the cottage. As he approached the house he paused at the\nunusual sound of a voice reading. It was Phelim imperfectly spelling\nout to his mother and a few of the neighbours one of the letters of\nKirwan. The priest, who was not remarkably well versed in the books of\nthe day, did not know the work, but supposed that it was the Bible to\nwhich they were so profoundly listening. His face grew as dark as the\nnight shades around him.\n\n\"I've caught ye at last!\" he exclaimed, as, without ceremony, he burst\ninto the room. \"This tells the story. It's not that ye are ill in bed,\nor hindered by the rain, or the could; it's because ye are heretics\nall, that ye shun the confession and the holy mass. Do ye know what\nthe Church has power to do wi' the like o' ye? Arrah! it was the\nheavenly and not the mortal wisdom that made the hot fires o'\npurgatory for such. Small help will ye get from me when the flames are\nscorching ye. Never a mass shall be said for a sowl o' ye, unless ye\nrepent at once.\"\n\n\"And what call have ye to spake the like o' that,\" said Biddy, \"and me\nsitting peaceably by me own fire wi' the neighbours?\" She spoke in a\nlow, uncertain tone, for his sudden appearance had startled her. A\nhush had fallen on the little assembly, and signs of terror flitted\nacross the faces of the most timid, as the familiar voice of the\npriest recalled their old Popish fears. He was not slow to perceive\nthis, or to take advantage of it.\n\n\"And who taught yer lame boy to read at all? Who brought the heretic\nBible into yer house? And who gathered the poor neighbours together to\nhear the false words that lead to perdition? Answer me that, Misthress\nDillon,\" said the priest in a tone of anger.\n\nBiddy did not reply, though she had quite regained her usual courage.\n\n\"I'll ask ye a plain question, Biddy Dillon, and I want a straight\nanswer. Will ye, or will ye not, give up these heretic doings, and\nstay in the communion o' the holy Church?\"\n\n\"An' it plaze yer riverence,\" replied Biddy, no ways disconcerted,\n\"yer blessed saints are nothing to me; an' I shall do as I plaze.\"\n\n\"Hear the woman! Do you hear the bould blasphemer?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"An' what if they do hear? It were a sore pity they should be sthruck\ndeaf to plaze ye,\" replied Biddy, her eyes flashing with excitement.\n\"I would ye were in ould Ireland, or, for the matther o' that, in\npurgatory itself.\"\n\n\"We would--\" said the priest.\n\n\"No doubt o' it. But it's here I am, at yer service,\" interrupted\nBiddy.\n\n\"Yes, and it's here ye've been bought for a wee pinch o' tae and a few\npoor, lean chickens. Sowl and body ye've been bought, and a mighty\npoor bargain have the blind purchasers made o' it.\"\n\n\"Plazing yer riverence, ye know nought o' what ye are saying, and\nsmall throuble ye'll make wi' yer idle words. It's not a turkey, duck,\nor hen could buy Biddy Dillon. Ye've tried it yerself, father, and so\nye know.\"\n\n\"It's a black heart ye have,\" said the priest, whose courage was\nhardly equal to his anger, and whose valour speedily cooled before\nresolute opposition. \"It's blacker than ink ye are, Biddy Dillon,\nwith the wicked heresy.\"\n\nLike most Irish women, Biddy was well skilled in the art of scolding,\nand among her neighbours was considered rather more expert in the\nbusiness than themselves. When angry, abusive epithets seemed to fall\nas naturally from her tongue as expressions of endearment when she was\npleased.\n\n\"A black heart, did ye say?\" she cried, rising and facing the priest,\nwho involuntarily retired a step from her; \"the same to yerself! An'\nye were bathed in Lough Ennel, and rinsed in the Shannon at Athlone,\nit would not half clane out the vile tricks ye are so perfect in. A\nblack heart has Biddy Dillon? An' ye were ducked and soaked over night\nin the Liffey mud at Dublin, ye were claner than now? A black heart?\nAn' yerself an ould penshioner, idle and mane, stirrin' up a scrimmage\nin an honest woman's house, and repeating yer haythenish nonsense, an'\nye able and sthrong to take hould o' the heaviest end o' the work! Are\nye not ashamed? What are ye good for?\"\n\n\"The saints preserve us! what a tongue the woman has!\" exclaimed\nFather M'Clane, making a futile effort to smile, as he turned his\nface, now pale as death, toward the company. \"But I have no time to\nstay longer. I warn ye all, my friends, to kape away from this\naccursed house, and to turn a deaf ear to all that is said to ye here.\nYour souls are in peril. Ye are almost caught in the snare. Ye should\nrun for yer lives before ye perish entirely. I shall remember you,\nBiddy Dillon.\"\n\n\"In course ye will. An' ye show yerself here again, barrin' as a\npeaceable frind or ould acquaintance, ye'll find yerself remimbered\ntoo, honey.\"\n\nThere was a silence of some minutes after the priest left the house.\nIt was broken by the most timid of the party.\n\n\"Afther all, Biddy, my heart misgives me. Of what use are all the\nprayers on the beads, the Hail Marys, and the penance, the fasting\nfrom meat on Fridays, or even the blessed salt o' our baptism, if we\nanger the praste, and he refuse to give us the holy oil at the last?\nWhat will become o' us then?\"\n\n\"What can a wicked ould praste do to help us? It's God alone can\nstrengthen us then. I wouldn't give a penny for the oil. It's a\nbetther way, darlin', that God has provided for us. It's a brave story\nthat Phelim is waiting to read to us. There's thruth and sense in it,\ntoo, ye will find.--It's a fine counthree is this, Masther Barry, and\na free,\" added Biddy, turning to a stout man, who, with scarcely a\nwhole article in his apparel, was lounging in the shade of a corner.\n\n\"Thrue for ye,\" he replied,--\"though it's little I get out of it,\nbarrin' the sup o' whisky wi' my supper.\"\n\n\"But ye might--the more shame it is. Ye are weel-conditioned and\nhearty. It's no the counthree is to blame, neighbour, nor Katy indade.\nShe works night and day for ye an' the childer. Ye are better here\nthan over the sae.\"\n\n\"Oh, then, I don't know. When I came to this counthree, I had never a\nrag to me back, an' now, faith, I'm nothing but rags. A fine, illigant\ncounthree!\"\n\n\"Lave the liquor alone, Peter Barry, and ye may have the best of the\nland for yerself. An' ye would give up the dhrinking, a better lad\ncould not be found, nor a handsomer.\"\n\n\"It's too sthrong for me. It's many a day have I given it up for ever,\nand been drunk as a beast in an hour. But to-night, says Katy to me,\n'It's the heretic Bible as is read at Mrs. Dillon's has a cure in it\nfor weak sinners like you, Peter dear.' So I came to hear a bit o' the\nBible, an' ye plaze.\"\n\nSo Kirwan's Letters were laid aside, and a New Testament brought out.\nPhelim read very poorly, and was often obliged to spell over the long\nwords, and did not always succeed in giving the correct pronunciation;\nbut no fault was found by his eager listeners. He read how Christ\nhealed the leper, and poor Peter Barry found in the story a word of\nencouragement for him. He read of the Saviour's gracious compassion\nfor the hungering multitude; and his ignorant auditors praised the\ndivine Being who so sympathized with mortal infirmities. Phelim was\noften interrupted by remarks or approving comments, but these in no\nway diminished the interest of the sacred story.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nANNIE'S DEATH--ANNORAH'S PROSPECTS.\n\n\nOn every pleasant evening Biddy Dillon's cottage was thronged by those\nwho came to listen to the Word of God. It was in vain that Father\nM'Clane opposed these meetings. His threats and arguments, once so\npotent, seemed now but to lessen his power. He even secured the\nservices of a neighbouring priest, and with him visited each Irish\nfamily in succession, coaxing and flattering where his authority was\nnot acknowledged. But, alas for him and his prospects! he could do\nnothing with the people.\n\nThe Protestant clergyman of the village, when he heard of the interest\nfelt in lame Phelim's reading, readily came to their assistance, and\njoyfully read and explained the divine lessons. As their knowledge of\nthe right way increased, their impressions of its importance to them\npersonally were deepened, and Annorah soon had the happiness of seeing\nnot only her mother and brother bowing at the foot of the cross of\nChrist, but many others earnestly seeking the salvation of their\nsouls.\n\nThe little Irish neighbourhood had been named New Dublin. It stood\nquite by itself, a thick belt of wood and the narrow mill-stream\nisolating it from the large village, where Mr. Lee's residence stood.\nNothing but the smoke, which in summer as well as in winter is ever\npouring from Irish chimneys, revealed to a visitor the existence of\ntheir pleasant hamlet. Still it was not so far retired but that, when\na wake was held for the dead, the noise of the revelry seriously\ndisturbed their quieter neighbours; and when a row ensued, as was\noften the case, the distant uproar alarmed as well as annoyed the\ntimid women and children. But no one thought of interfering. The\nwealthy owners of the iron-works and factories in the vicinity were\nglad to secure their labour, because of its cheapness, and never\ntroubled themselves about an occasional noise, if the general\ninterests of their business were not neglected.\n\nThere were not wanting those who pitied their low estate, and who\nwould have sincerely rejoiced in their elevation; but until poor\ninvalid Annie Lee began to instruct Annorah, no one had dreamed of\nwinning them, by self-sacrifice and kindness, to a knowledge of the\ntruth. Annie herself, while patiently explaining over and over again\nwhat seemed to her as simple and plain as possible, little imagined\nthe glorious results that were indirectly to grow out of her feeble\nefforts. But God watches the least attempt to do good, and fosters the\ntiniest seed sown; and Annie, without knowing it, was sowing seed for\na plenteous harvest.\n\nBut while the good work prospered, she herself was rapidly ripening\nfor heaven. She knew that she was hastening to a better land, even a\nheavenly; and she strove to improve every moment of the time that\nremained, in efforts to give stability to Annorah's religious\nfeelings. Many were the conversations that they had together on the\ncondition of the poor Irish people, and countless almost were the\ndirections that Annorah received in regard to the best methods of\nwinning their love and confidence. Young as she was, Annie had\nlearned that all efforts to benefit the unfortunate or ignorant are\nvain so long as the cold shoulder is turned towards them. She had\nproved in Annorah's case the magic effect of loving words and\nsympathy.\n\nAs the spring advanced, Annie grew weaker. The mild air seemed to\nenervate rather than to brace her system, and she grew daily more\nemaciated. Her paroxysms of pain were less frequent, and she suffered\nmost from languor and drowsiness. It was apparent to all but her fond\nparents that her days were numbered. They watched over her with the\ntenderest affection, hoping when there was no hope, and persuading\nthemselves and each other that she would rally again when the ripe\nsummer brought its gentle breezes and beautiful blossoms.\n\n\"She is so fond of flowers and of the open air,\" said Mrs. Lee to\nAnnorah, when, after an unusually restless and painful day, Annie had\nfallen asleep at last, and both left the room to breathe the fresh\nevening air. \"When the weather gets settled so that she can let you\ndraw her little carriage down by the mill-stream again, she will\nbrighten up and get stronger. It is enough to make a well person ill,\nto be shut up so long.\"\n\n\"Ye know best, shure,\" said Annorah, in her grief resuming her\nnational accent and brogue--\"Ye know best, but it's thinner and weaker\nshe's getting, and is a baby for weight in me arms. Och! the dark day\nit will be for poor Norah when she looks her last on that swate angel\nface!\" And the poor girl burst into tears, and covered her face with\nher apron. After a few moments she went on to say,--\"It'll go hard wi'\nye all, Mrs. Lee: ye'll miss her dear ways an' her heavenly smiles;\nshe is yer own blood, were she not an angel intirely. But oh, ma'am,\nshe's been to me what no words can tell; and the short life o' me will\nseem without end till I go to wait on her above. Oh, what'll I do\nwithout her, when the whole world is dark as night?\"\n\nMrs. Lee could not reply, for she, too, was weeping. There was\nsomething in Annorah's desolate tone that went to her heart, and\ninspired a pitying affection for the plain-looking girl by her side,\nwhich she would once have thought impossible. She began to comprehend\nthe mystery of Annie's caressing manner to her young nurse.\n\n\"Annorah, my poor girl,\" she faltered at length.\n\n\"Ah, ma'am, in all me troubles, and when I was wickedest, was it not\nher voice that was full and sweet with the pleasant encouragement? Oh,\ncore o' me heart, acushla, what'll I do? what'll I do?\"\n\n\"We must trust in God, Annorah. If he takes her from us, it will be\nfor the best, and we must learn to say, 'His will be done.' She will\nleave us her lovely example to guide us, and we shall not forget how\nshe strove to do good. We shall be lonely; but is it not selfish in us\nto wish her to stay here and suffer? God knows what is best for us\nall.\"\n\nIt was but a little time that they were permitted to hope. Fair Annie\nLee's appointed work was done, her mission of love was accomplished,\nand she was ready to depart. Shut up by her protracted illness from\nall the ordinary paths of usefulness, she had found out a way to work\nin her Saviour's service. Long will it be ere her gentle acts of\nkindness will be forgotten, or her precious influence cease to be felt\nby those who knew her.\n\nShe died suddenly, perhaps unconsciously at last. Annorah had placed\nher couch so that she could see the beautiful changes in the rich June\nsunset; and when she returned after a moment's absence to her side,\nshe found that, with a sweet smile of joyous triumph on her lips, she\nhad fallen asleep in Jesus.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnnorah, although greatly refined by reading and association with\neducated people, and especially improved by the happy influence of\ntrue religion, yet retains enough of the characteristics of her nation\nto make her an acceptable visitor in the humblest cottage in New\nDublin. It was long after the death of her young mistress before she\nregained her usual cheerfulness. But time, the great healer of sorrow,\nhas gradually softened her grief, and made her cherished memories of\nMiss Annie, like beautiful pictures, very pleasant to look upon.\n\n\nFINIS\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note\n\nMinor typographic punctuation errors have been corrected without note.\n\nThe frontispiece illustration has been moved to follow the title page.\n\nThere is a large amount of dialect in this book, which all remains as\nprinted in the original text. This includes some variable spelling,\ne.g. crather--crathur, plase--plaze.\n\nPage 55--Sharron amended to Shannon--\"... and rinsed in the Shannon at\nAthlone ...\"","title":"Live to be Useful: or, The Story of Annie Lee and her Irish Nurse","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":12876}