I'll tell you,
Fanny, what I've always said: the Irish would be the
greatest people in the world--if it weren't for the
Jews."
They laughed together at that, and the tension was relieved.
"Well, anyway," said Fanny, and patted his great arm, "I'd
rather talk to you than to any man in the world."
"I hope you won't be able to say that a year from now, dear
girl."
And so they parted. He took her to the door himself, and
watched her slim figure down the street and across the
ravine bridge, and thought she walked very much like her
mother, shoulders squared, chin high, hips firm. He went
back into the house, after surveying the sunset largely, and
encountered the dour Casey in the hall.
"I'll type your sermon now, sir--if it's done."
"It isn't done, Casey. And you know it. Oh, Casey,"--(I
wish your imagination would supply that brogue, because it
was such a deliciously soft and racy thing)--"Oh,
Casey, Casey! you're a better priest than I am--but a poorer
man."
Fanny was to leave Winnebago the following Saturday.
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