The Van Buren press., 1894-07-21

ence Is his brothers disappearance y
Och. now, see thati' exclaimed the
younger of the two women, "and it's
months since his brother that he loved
30 started from this"
''This' being remote village in the
west OF Ireland, and the two old WON.
en- had met by chance at the church,
yard gate one Friday evening, just
about the time Father O'Brien would
be going to the confessional In the
church, ready to hear and minister to
the spiritual needs Of the little flock.
For this purpose the good priest was
always to be found in the right place
after yespers on Fridays, and now even
as the two danes stood Father Patrick
came up from his cottage hard by. He
was tall, powerful man, about five and
forty, good looking, with face at once
kind, shrewd and rcsolute--not the
man to be easily fooled or gainsaid-
who could be the Church militant" as
well as the .'Church spiritual when
the cause of right required it.
He looked very grave and sorrow
full, for his heart was heavy enough,
and when old Kathleen Mccartney
asked anxiously 'if his reverence had
heard any news from Misther Ter
encc?" he shook his head sadly.
mo. Katie, can't make it out at
all. and miserably anxious and trou-
bled am. He must be i'll or some
thing have happened to him. He
promised to write from Dublin to give
me his address. and even II he did not
get employment at once, sure and it's
not waiting for that he would be I'm
thinking-but for two long months!
Now must CO."
Still that was q possible solution,
though not one to draw much comfort
from.
But minute after those words he
had passed into the church, and en-
tered his side of the confessional with
its partitions and grating between
priest and penitent. Once within that
santum the man was put aside-it was
the priest only who sat there lin
patience possessing his soul" Some
times there would be good many
penitents, at other times very few in
the whole two hours allotted, and this
evening there were not many--only
four at first, who followed each other
by turn. as usual Then there was a
gap of time before one more, the last,
as it proved, entered the confessional
"a mans step and a mans deep voice
that spoke on the other side of the
grating.
Then there came half hour which
to the confessor was surely as thou
sand years Of purgatorial fires
Patrick O'Brien got back to his cot
tage, to his own little room, and flung
himself to his knees in a passion of
horror and agony that tore body and
soul from head to foot. Was that last
half hour hideous dream or still
more hideous reality of revenge and
crime crowned by the blasphemy of q
confession that was none of penitence,
but mockery, deliberate refinement
of revenge against himself, for an act
three years ago that had been his
duty-the giving Of evidence that had
sent to prison . ruff1an, whose at
tempted deed of bastard violence de-
served in truth a pistol bullet even
more than four walls.
That was all reality enough to the
memory of the tortured man who
knelt with arms flung out over the
pallet bed, and head bowed on them.
He had at once recognised the rough
voice of Donovan Rorke, as with
simulated anguish and penitencc he
confessed himself as a murderer; the
victim was a man who he had waylaid
one evening at certain place, and
shot him in the back. then thrown the
dead man and weapon into deep. dry
old we'll overgrown by thick bushes,
of which the assassin knew. His
motive was revenge, which he had
nursed for three years, and killed this
man because that he found out would
best have it out of the spalpeen he
hated, since this one loved the dead
man--there Rorke had paused, and
che priest. with blood growing ice