He knew the familiar touch of the girl's hands. He patted them with his
own and moved aside on his bench that she might sit down with him.
"Father," she said, very low, her eyes shining. "It's my dream again."
The old priest did not chide her for idling, as her grandmother would
have done. The old priest dreamed, too.
"Tell me," she went on. "Can one go to school over there as long as one
likes? Is it too grown-up I am to learn more things from books?"
The old Father told her one could never be too old to learn from books.
He loved her craving for knowledge. Had he not taught her himself, since
she was twelve? He looked at her proudly.
"Father!" She whispered now, and the rose flush deepened in her face.
"It's Danny Lynch that comes every evening to see me."
Now Father Murphy turned squarely and regarded her with startled eyes.
This slip of a girl was the most precious colleen in his flock.
"And, Father, it's of America _he_ talks all the time!"
The old priest shivered as though from a chill. Sensing his feeling,
Moira caught his hand quickly and held it in a close grip.
"But if I go away it's not forgetting you I'll be! Oh, who in all this
world has been a better friend to Moira O'Donnell? Who has taught Moira
but you?"
"Child--"
"Sure it's grown-up I am! See!" She sprang to her feet and stood slimly
erect.
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