Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 55: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

SEVEN FRIDAYS “For what, Bridgit ?” “That’s tellin’,” replied the old woman shrewdly. “Did ye ever have an answer to prayer?” The Irish- woman dropped her voice as she asked this. Had she? Miss Maitland wondered, but did not think it necessary to tell the old woman that she had not prayed for a long time. “Tt’s little that’s remained with me but faith,’ said the Absolute Failure. “Wan by wan, as though He couldn't do without them, the Lord took every- thin’ but that from me.” “Have you,’ Miss Maitland asked her, “have you ever had an answer to prayer?” “Not yet, dear.” “What have certain Fridays to do with it?” “Glory be to God! Amn’t there seven days in the Passion, wasn’t He cruelly killed on a Friday?” “Well, Bridgit ?” “It’s afther bein’ a holy length of time, I’m thinkin’.” ‘And your prayer has not been an- swered for forty years?” The old woman’s bright face fell. “I’m thinkin’ I amn’t good enough, miss.” ; The humility and resignation in the old voice touched Miss Maitland. She saw suddenly a rift in the melancholy day; a light seemed to shift and fall through her vision. She had taken her seat in this tenement room in a hope- less mood, the curse of spiritual barren- ness was upon her. Now her face lifted. “It’s prayin’ for one sole thing for forty years, shure, that makes me think I amn’t good enough; else I would have had it whiles since.” “Forty years,” mused Miss Maitland again. ‘The old woman’s face altered. Celia had always seen it brave and gay. Now it grew weary, became the face of a watcher, wearing the unmistakable look that is on the faces of watchers who, till the end, strain their vision for one desired thing. Bridgit Moreen seemed to stand upon a tower and peer forth out and over forty years. 45 Miss Maitland mused. “Forty years ago,’ said _ Bridgit softly, “I set fut in this counthry. I had it in me head that Ameriky was a different sort of place. I seen it like a fine garden, with golden sovereigns lyin’ under the trees.” Bridgit drew a chair from its place by the wall and sat down, her hands meekly folded in her lap. On the hands of the toilers there are always marks that recall the crucifixion—the stigmata of labor. “T found a bit of work to do immedi- ately. Glory be to God, I’ve found it ever since.” This was one of Miss Maitland’s fail- ures. She had failed to make Bridgit renounce her daily glass of beer. Miss Maitland believed it was a blot upon her fine, old age. “IT was thinkin’, the days gone by, shure, it’s herself will take the burthen for seven Fridays!” . “What do you Bridgit ?” “Amn’'t I afther tellin’ how long and short, dear?” “You want me to pray for seven Fri- days?” “That’s it, glory be to God!” “What shall I pray for?’ want me to do, “Isn’t that just like a woman, now?” ~ said the old creature with a laugh, “to think she must be knowin’ it all.” “But how can I pray without know- ing what you want?” Bridgit leaned forward impressively. “He knows, don’t He?” Miss Maitland smiled, rose, and put out her gracious white hand. “T shall pray for seven Fridays, Bridgit, that your heart’s desire shall be fulfilled.” “How did ye guess it, dear?” “Guess what?” “That it should be my heart’s desire.” “By your face, Bridgit.” Bridgit quickly put her hand up to her cheek, and repeated: “Glory be to God!” As Celia took her leave, deciding that she would make no other visits in the honeycomb that day, Bridgit Moreen said seriously, and with a sternness as COLMUCE Ook (E@)