“Where the tree falleth, there it lieth,” said she.

“Yes, fallen,” said Paul, “it lieth there till it is taken away to another place.  Where the soul falleth,—­that is, whether in a state of grace or in sin,—­there it will lie forever; but those who go to purgatory die in a state of grace, and so their eternal destiny is heaven—­like those just souls who died before Christ; yet they are not fit for heaven immediately, for ‘nothing defiled can enter therein.’”

“You wrote to the priest, didn’t you, to say masses for your mother’s soul in purgatory?  How do you know she is there?” said Amanda, unguardedly.

“I hope she is in no worse place,” said Paul, the fire kindling in his dark Celtic eye; “and whether in heaven or in hell,—­which God forbid!—­the mass can do no harm, but tend to the honor and glory of God, and I hope procure me and the celebrant merit.  But, Amanda, how do you know that I wrote any such request to the priest?  I know you are above reading my letters, though I should leave them open under your eye; but I am afraid that hypocritical-looking postmaster may have kept my letters, and given them to somebody.  In Ireland, that crime deserved hanging as a punishment; and I do not know what I would do to any body I would detect in opening my letters, and pilfering my secrets,” said he, raising himself up.

“O, my dear Paul,” said the old maid, perceiving her imprudence, “I only guessed at the contents of your letters.  We Yankees are great at guessing, you know.  Be silent; shut up, my good fellow,” she added, going over to the window.  “What crowd is that there below on the road?”

An unusual sight in that part of the country now presented itself to view.  Slowly moving along the road was a crowd of men and women—­the men, as they came up, taking off their hats, and the women courtesying, in that way that only Catholics can courtesy, to a young gentleman, who, seated in a one-horse carriage, the top lowered down, seemed to be engaged, as he was, in earnest conversation about some subject of an absorbing interest to those around him.  In truth, any body, even Amanda, who never saw one, could have guessed that this personage, surrounded by so many of the Irish railroad laborers lately settled in the vicinity, was no other than the Catholic priest.  Paul’s eye, so lately kindled into passion from the hints dropped by Amanda about the foul play regarding his letters, became immediately subdued into composure, and, taking out a small miniature reliquary and silver crucifix which he ever wore on his breast, he pressed them to his lips, saying to himself, “Glory be to God; and Mary, his virgin mother, be ever blessed.  I see the priest, if he is alive.”  And instantly he was over the fence and on the road.

“There is one of ’em,” said Mrs. Murphy, “your reverence; and it would be a charity to do something for the poor children, for they were well reared.”

Paul could not, owing to the tears that rushed on him in floods, dare for some time to join the crowd to offer his respects to the representative of religion; and it was a full quarter of an hour before he could say, “Welcome to these parts, your reverence.”