The ragged, old woman knocked on the Head Master’s door in a quiet, respectful way as if she didn’t expect an answer. ‘Come in,’ said a familiar voice still retaining that Irish lilt he had always had. She entered and saw him sitting at his desk, an open bible in front of him. ‘Sorry to bother you brother but I’m in need of some help.’ He stood and offered her a chair, ‘Tell me Mrs Ward, what troubles you so? You look so worried.’ The old woman sat, fingers interlaced, nervously rotating her thumbs...
Don't Let it Be Forgot · Jan 19
A Celtic heart
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