Muriel made more than one further journey to the Oratory to explain matters to St. Joseph, on each occasion presenting that delightful saint with a candle. The first time—subsequent to Anne’s confession—that she went to the Oratory she gave him two, one being for thanksgiving.  
Also she invited Father O’Sullivan to tea on an occasion when Tommy, by Muriel’s suggestion, had taken Anne to skate at Prince’s.
 
Father O’Sullivan was a short, stoutish man, with grizzled hair, small twinkling eyes, and a mouth that had the kindliest twist of a smile imaginable. To know Father O’Sullivan for an hour was to love him. To know him for longer was to love him better. Muriel had known him from her babyhood.
 
This afternoon, having invited him to tea, she plied him with cakes and quince sandwiches, which latter his soul adored, and talked in a gay and inconsequent fashion of airy nothings, to which Father O’Sullivan responded after the manner of Irishmen, be they priests or laymen.
 
But on the conclusion of the meal she dropped into a pensive mood, and sat with her elbow on the arm of her chair, and her pointed chin resting in her cupped hand, gazing into space with great dreamy eyes.
 
And then all at once she roused herself and looked across at Father O’Sullivan.
 
“Father,” she said seriously, “I want you to say a Mass for me.”
 
“You do, do you?” said Father O’Sullivan, stroking his chin. “And with what intention?”
 
“Well,” said Muriel, reflective, “it’s not quite easy to explain. I think I’d better tell you the story.” And she launched forth, omitting names at the moment, though at a future date she happened inadvertently to mention Peter’s.
 
“Well, now,” said Father O’Sullivan as she ended, and his eyes were twinkling, “is it just a little small story like that you’d have me be repeating at Mass, for I’m thinking it will take just no time at all.”
 
“Oh, don’t laugh at me!” begged Muriel. “Don’t you see how difficult it is to put into words what I want!” She dropped her hands in her lap and gazed at him tragically.
 
“Well, but have a try,” urged Father O’Sullivan. “Perhaps I can be helping you out.”
 
“First, then,” said Muriel, “I want her to be happy again, and I don’t see how that can be unless she hears from him, and even that alone would be no good, because I’m sure to be really happy she’d have to marry him, and you see he has committed forgery. If only that could be untrue—but it’s impossible, and I don’t see how anything can come right,” she ended despairingly.
 
Father O’Sullivan rubbed his hair up the wrong way. “And it’s a Mass with the intention of things coming right you want me to say, when all the time you’re feeling sure they can’t,” he remarked severely. “And if I’m going to say it that way myself, what kind of faith do you think I’m going to have in it?”
 
Muriel looked at him contritely. “But don’t you see—” she began.
 
“Oh, I see fast enough,” he responded. “Let’s get at what you want the other way round. To begin with, you want the young man never to have committed the forgery, and then you want to run through the whole gamut till they live happily ever after. And all the time you’re wishing it, and wanting me to pray for it, you’re telling yourself it can’t be. Isn’t that so?” His twinkling old eyes belied the half-severity of his words.
 
“Oh, but,” said Muriel, “it’s—it’s such a lot to ask.”
 
Father O’Sullivan leaned forward and tapped the forefinger of his right hand in the palm of his left.
 
“Faith, my child, is not asking God for bushels and setting out a pint measure to catch them in. It’s a good old saying, but not my own, more’s the pity of it. Now, do you want me to............