Martin, the postman, was the most deliberate man in Grey Town. He never hurried, and he never made a mistake. If he had twenty letters to deliver at the same address, he would carefully read the address of each one before taking the responsibility of handing it over to the recipient. This accounted for the fact that Martin, the postman, was invariably late.

To Molly Healy, anxiously waiting at the Presbytery gate for the weekly letter from Ireland, Martin was a constantly recurring cause of sin. So keenly did she resent his leisurely methods that her indignation had changed to anger, her anger almost to hatred, when she resolved to check herself.

"It must be stopped," she remarked to Mrs. Quirk, "or one day I will be running at him with the pitchfork, and it would never do for the priest's sister to be pursuing the postman through the town to destroy him."

"Sure, then, if I was you I would be praying for the man, returning good for the evil he was doing you," said Mrs. Quirk.

"But he doesn't mean it, and that is the worst of Martin. His conscience is so big that it takes him all his time to carry it round. He's a poor, good man, but it is murder I sometimes contemplate," cried Molly.

At last she hit upon the device of giving Martin half an hour's grace before expecting him.

"I will be lenient with the man, and not expect him until he has arrived," she said. "But it would do my heart good to pinch him."

The half-hour had been prolonged to an hour, and Molly Healy was in a white heat of fury when Martin arrived.

"And what has kept you to-day?" cried Molly Healy. "You are the slowest man in Grey Town, for sure, and that is saying you are phenomenally slow."

"You are angry," said Martin, in his most deliberate fashion.

"Angry! I am just quivering with ungovernable temper. I could shake you!"

"You require your letters delivered by a twenty horse-power auto-motor,"

replied Martin.

Therewith he began to run through the letters with a deliberation that was almost cruel.

"When you have done shuffling the cards, perhaps you will give me the one you have in your hand," cried Molly.

"Patience, young lady. I have a duty to perform----."

"Your duty is to give me my letter. If you only knew how near you were to sudden death you would be in haste to get away from me."

"There you are, five letters--one for you. Let me see; is it for you?"

Martin began to read the address over.

"Oh, the Lord forgive you! You are an occasion of sin to me."

"Patience, Miss Molly! Here you are, and good-day to you. The Lord send you a better temper!"

Martin delivered the letters, and proceeded placidly on his path of duty. Molly Healy watched him until he had turned a distant corner.

"The man will never get to heaven--he is too slow; and he will prevent me getting there unless Providence removes him to another round."

She carried the letters to Father Healy, and then proceeded to shut herself in her room, and there absorb the news from Ireland. In laughter and in tears she read her letter, and then re-read it, determined to lose not one word of the contents.

Dr. Marsh was with Father Healy when the letters came.

"May I read them?" the priest asked.

"Certainly! Why not?" replied the doctor in his brusque manner. "I will digest a slice of theology."

He took a book from the table and opened it.

"I hope it will agree with you," laughed Father Healy, as he tore the first letter open.

"Humph!" grunted Dr. Marsh. "When I am dying I will send for you; meanwhile I am quite content to remain a sinner."

Father Healy did not reply. He had become keenly interested in his letter. Twice he read it, and then he asked:

"Where was it that Denis Quirk told you he was editing that paper of his?"

"'The Firebrand?'" asked Dr. Marsh, who had become absorbed in the book he was reading.

"Yes! yes!" cried the priest.

"I don't exactly remember. I fancy it was Goldenvale. You had better ask Denis. Now, I can't agree with this," said the doctor, referring to something he had just read.

"I will controvert with you in due season. Just now I am worried. You are a safe and reliable man. Read this."

Father Healy handed the letter to Dr. Marsh, who having glanced at it, became deeply interested in the contents.

"Goldenvale! Do you know this man?" he asked.

"How should I?" replied the priest, almost irritably. "Could you expect me to know every priest in America? But I could find out if there were such a man."

"I would take this letter to Denis Quirk, and allow him to deny it. It's a lie, a palpable lie. I am sure of that."

"And so am I; but lies are more readily credited in Grey Town than the truth. I will see Denis Quirk at once. Will you come with me?" asked Father Healy.

"Not to 'The Mercury' office, but a part of the way. Put your hat on while I finish what I was reading."

Denis Quirk was in the outer office as Father Healy entered. He was inditing a letter to Tim O'Neill, who now claimed, among his other qualifications, a certificate as a typewriter.

"Good-day, Father Healy!" cried Denis Quirk. "What can I do for you? A paragraph to encourage your congregation to build the new school?"

"Not at present, Mr. Quirk. If you will give me five minutes, I will ask no more."

"Then come into my room. Finish that, address it, and post it, Tim."

"Yes, sir. And might I then go down to the hall and report that meeting?"

"Certainly, Tim. This is the keenest man on my staff, Father."

Tim O'Neill beamed all over at this praise, and he settled himself resolutely to his task. Meanwhile Denis Quirk's office door closed with a bang on Father Healy and himself.

"I should like you to read this," said the priest, as he handed the fateful letter to Denis Quirk.

The latter took it and read it frowningly. Then he leaned back in his chair, and regarded the priest with a composed face.