“No, Patsy, they are not; for if they were, there would be more than one priest for this large town; and you heard Father O’Shane say that there was only himself for all the city and a great part of the country,” said Paul.

“I hope somebody will take us to mass on Sunday,” said little Patrick; “and, Paul, will you ask the priest to allow me to answer mass?  You know Father Doyle told us never to forget the lessons we learned of him.”

“I’d know are there any nuns here,” said Bridget.  “O, how beautiful the convent chapel in Limerick was!  I hope I have not lost my beautiful little silver medals and crucifix they gave me when I was coming away.  No; here they are, and my Agnus Dei, too,” she said, kissing them.  “God rest mother’s soul, how glad she was when I got these from the holy nuns!” And the tears streamed down her fair cheeks in floods.

“Hold your tongue, Bridget, again,” said Paul, with emphasis.  “Don’t you know that mother told us not to grieve, but pray for her soul?  And besides, in the ‘Imitation of Christ,’ which I read for you this morning and last night, it is said that grief kills devotion, and excessive, sorrow is a sin.  You can serve mother, or rejoice her soul, by praying, but not by crying, Bridget.”

“O, how can I help it?  ’Tis against me will, Paul,” said she, wiping her eyes.

“Always look attentively at that crucifix,” said Paul, “and you need never grieve for any thing except sin.  This is what Father Doyle used to say.”

“O Paul, we have no father or mother now.”

“Yes we have, Bridget—­our Father in heaven, and the blessed virgin mother of God, our mother also,” said the young preacher.

“How well the priest did not call as he said he would.”

“May be he could not help it; he had to go far into the country, and the snow might stop him.  You know he will find us out.  The priest always visits the poorhouse in Ireland.”

While this conversation was going on between the members of this poor orphan family, Paul acting the meritorious part of a comforter, (I say acting, for his own noble soul was almost crushed with grief, which he thought it better to disguise than to have his little charge rendered quite stupid and almost dead from crying and sobbing;) while this was the way Paul entertained his little charge, in another part of the poorhouse, in a well-furnished room, were seated around a table containing the “reliquiae" or remnants of a good dinner, five persons, engaged in earnest chat about the late importation of orphans.

“Really they are likely young ’uns, and no mistake,” said Mr. Van Stingey, wiping his mouth with the corner of the tablecloth.

“Dear me!” said a lady who formed one of the council.  “Charles, if you saw them, they are perfect beauties, you would say.  The oldest boy is as noble-looking a lad as ever you did see—­Roman nose, raven hair, delightfully-carved mouth, and lips, and eyes, and eyelashes quite indescribable, so beautiful are they.  The little girl is a perfect Venus; while the two younger children, Patrick and Eugene, are as if they came from the chisel of Powers, or some renowned artist of antiquity.”