Part 13 (1/2)

”Less than I said to her.”

”You dunnot mean she hearkened you?”

”Not at first. But in the end, she hearkened me, and made me no answer.”

Dan looked his visitor all over from head to foot.

”Well!” said he, and shook his head slowly. ”Well!” and wiped his face with his ap.r.o.n, ”Well!” he exclaimed a third time. ”If I'd ha' knowed!

I'd ha' given forty marks [Note 1.] to see th' like o' that. Eh, do 'bide a minute, and let me take th' measure on you! T' chap that could strike our Filomena dumb mun ha' come straight fro' Heaven, for there isn't his like o' earth! Now, Father, do just tell a body, what did you say to her?”

”I told her how to be happy.”

Dan stared. ”She wants no tellin' that, I'll go bail! she's got every mortal thing her own way.”

”That is not the way to be happy,” answered the priest. ”Nay, my son, she is a most unhappy woman, and her face shows it. Thou art happier far than she.”

Dan dropped the big hammer in sheer astonishment, and if Father Thomas had not made a rapid retreat, more than his eyes and ears would have told him so.

”Me happier nor our Filomena! Me! Father, dunnot be angered wi' me, but either you're downright silly, or you're somewhat more nor other folks.”

”I have told thee the truth, my son. Now, wilt thou do somewhat to help thy wife to be happy? If she is happy, she will be humble and meek-- happy, that is, in the way I mean.”

”I'll do aught as 'll make our Filomena meek,” replied Dan, with a shake of his grizzled head: ”but how that's going to be shaped beats me, I can tell you. Mun I climb up to th' sky and stick nails into th' moon?”

”Nay,” said the priest with a smile. ”Thou shalt pray G.o.d to make her as a little child.”

”That's a corker, _that_ is!” Dan picked up the hammer, and began meditatively to fas.h.i.+on a nail. ”Our Ank'ret were a babby once,” said he, as if to himself. ”She were a bonnie un, too. She were, so! I used to sit o' th' bench at th' door of an even, wi' her on my knee, a-smilin' up like--eh, Father, but I'll tell you what, if them times could come back, it 'd be enough to make a chap think he'd getten into Heaven by mistake.”

”I trust, my son, thou wilt some day find thee in Heaven, not by mistake,” said the priest. ”But if so, Daniel, thou must have a care to go the right road thither.”

”Which road's that, Father?”

”It is a straight road, my son, and it is a narrow road. And the door to it goes right through the cross whereon Jesus Christ died for thee and me. Daniel, dost thou love the Lord Jesus?”

”Well, you see, Father, I'm not much acquaint wi' Him. He's a great way up, and I'm down here i' t' smithy.”

”He will come down here and abide with thee, my son, if thou wilt but ask Him. So dear He loveth man, that He will come any whither on earth save into sin, if so be He may have man's company. 'Greater than this love hath no man, that he give his life for his friends.'”

”Well, that stands to reason,” said Dan. ”When man gives his life, he gives all there is of him.”

”Thou sayest well. And is it hard to love man that giveth his life to save thine?”

”I reckon it 'd be harder to help it, Father.”

Father Thomas turned as if to go. ”My son,” said he, ”wilt thou let the Lord Jesus say to the angels round His Throne,--'I gave all there was of Me for Daniel Greensmith, and he doth not love Me for it?'”