“Do you prize that toy?” she inquired, looking at the flag. “Hide it!” she cried, before I could answer. “Hide it—or it may be taken from you!”
“Why should I hide it?” I asked. “I want to fly it at the mast of my boat.”
“You will never fly it at the mast of your boat!” With that answer she took the flag from me and thrust it impatiently into the breast-pocket of my jacket.
“Don’t crumple it, grandmother!” said Mary, piteously.
I repeated my question:
“Why shall I never fly it at the mast of my boat?”
Dame Dermody laid her hand on the closed volume of Swedenborg lying in her lap.
“Three times I have opened this book since the morning,” she said. “Three times the words of the prophet warn me that there is trouble coming. Children, it is trouble that is coming to You. I look there,” she went on, pointing to the place where a ray of sunlight poured slanting into the room, “and I see my husband in the heavenly light. He bows his head in grief, and he points his unerring hand at You. George and Mary, you are consecrated to each other! Be always worthy of your consecration; be always worthy of yourselves.” She paused. Her voice faltered. She looked at us with softening eyes, as those look who know sadly that there is a parting at hand. “Kneel!” she said, in low tones of awe and grief. “It may be the last time I bless you—it may be the last time I pray over you, in this house. Kneel!”
We knelt close together at her feet. I could feel Mary’s heart throbbing, as she pressed nearer and nearer to my side. I could feel my own heart quickening its beat, with a fear that was a mystery to me.
“God bless and keep George and Mary, here and hereafter! God prosper, in future days, the union which God’s wisdom has willed! Amen. So be it. Amen.”
As the last words fell from her lips the cottage door was thrust open. My father—followed by the bailiff—entered the room.
Dame Dermody got slowly on her feet, and looked at him with a stern scrutiny.
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