Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 57: what you’re looking at

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

SEVEN FRIDAYS seemed a child to her, as she thought how small a spot on the sun of the old creature’s character did the taking of a few glasses of beer seem. What was it Bridgit had prayed for forty years? What of any value could continue to have value for forty years? Could it be a fortune? What would Bridgit Moreen want with a fortune? Every one she had ever loved must have died long ago. What could Bridgit Moreen have to do with love? And, thinking of this, Celia Maitland meditated and dreamed, her hands clasped over her book. Then she rose and made her prepara- tions for the night. Leaning her head forward on her hands, she prayed. She prayed for Bridgit Moreen’s heart’s desire—that it should be fulfilled. Warm spring seemed to break around her as she prayed, and Bridgit Moreen’s heart’s desire, earnestly besought, rose finally to the gate of heaven. And then Celia lifted her own heart’s desire and laid it alongside. “County Kerry, darlint—and God knows it’s a fair long way from the place we are sittin’ in.” The place they were sitting in was Miss Maitland’s own study. There was a little table spread for tea, with silver and fine linen. Bridgit Moreen, in a.decent, black dress and a small bonnet that had been turned back to front and front to back for ten years, sat tranquilly in a big chair and lifted her face to her hostess. “I was born in County Kerry and raised there, and when I come away I was twenty years old.” “So young!” ‘So old, darlint. It depends on what comes to us how old we are at all, at ail.” “True,” assented her friend. There was a great deal of dignity in this old scrubwoman. Miss Maitland treated her like an honored guest. It had occurred to her quite suddenly to pick Bridgit up out of East Eightieth Street, and to ask her for tea, and Bridgit had come with the same sim- plicity with which she was asked. that for forty years.” 47 “Nothing much has ever happened to me, Bridgit,’”’ said Celia meditatively. “Shure, ye’re ‘young still, darlint— you've no age at all, shure.” : Miss Maitland laughed. “At twenty,’ said Bridget Moreen, “I was a little thing, a happy thing, a blessed thing, and a foolish thing, miss, and the Lord knows I’ve kept bits of all Her face grew suddenly set—so set that Miss Maitland asked: “Why, what came to you, Bridgit?” The old woman glanced at her pityingly. “What would it be at all, at all, to do damage like that—to bring one up to the saints of God, and forever afther to cast one out into the cold—it’s love, amn’t it?” The old woman had a pair of worn gloves very black and mended. She had taken them off to drink her tea. She now put them on. Even the pair of gloves had a fashion of their own, and, with the bonnet, dated back some ten years. ; Miss Maitland turned to the little piano at the end of the study. On it stood a bowl of great, soft roses, red and sweet. They had come that morn- ing with a card which told her that Lord Farrell was back in New York. Miss Maitland sat down before the piano. “Shall I sing you a little song, an Irish song, Bridgit ?” “The way it would be like heaven, miss.” Miss Maitland sang, and she was just about finishing when a card was brought her at the piano where she was sitting. “Bridgit, I must ask you to excuse me,” said Celia. “I am so glad you came.” She saw that the tears Stood in the eyes of her visitor. Bridgit did not move. “There are two more verses of it, I’m thinkin’.” “Ves,” said Miss Maitland, and hes- itated. Her heart was beating, but the hearts of women beat at one sole thing. The man downstairs was the person of all the world she wished to see—she could CCOLNMUC TOOK (E@)