The only reconciliation I feel in this matter is that nothing compares to my work. Nothing in my experience could take that place in my heart and substitute the magnificence of providing care for those who need it most. I have had no real regrets in life since I have dedicated myself to God, mind, body and soul.

These are desperate times for the human race. Famine has spread throughout Ireland, and her sons and daughters have been escaping their hardships by fleeing to America. If there has ever been a time where mankind has desperately needed the guidance of God, this is it. By nightfall tonight a ship is to arrive, depositing Irish immigrants onto our shores. Some of these will stay with friends or family who have previously embarked on the journey to America, but many will take refuge here, at St. Patrick's Cathedral.

There is a mass of activity within these walls. Many of the townspeople have come to help prepare the convent for the onslaught of distressed men, women, and children. Father Whitman is certain that there will not be enough room in the areas of the church dedicated for the poor alone to house all of those who will be arriving at our steps shortly. As it is, there is estimated to be at least twenty orphans amongst the ship's passengers. These children will most likely themselves become part of the church. It is our duty as servants of God to safeguard those who are vulnerable, and they are the ones who need the most protection.

I brush errant locks of hair beneath my scarf as an unmistakable Irish accent breaks me away from my contemplation. "I keep telling you, Elizabeth, I will not allow you to sleep in the stables like some common sheep. There's plenty of room at my home for homeless little nuns."

"You know I will not be able to stay with you, Michael. Your farm is half a mile out of town. It won't due for a nun to live so far from her convent. Besides, I will not be living in the stables forever. It will take the men only a few days before finding work on a plantation."

Michael Guerin flashed me one of his trademark grins, his hazel eyes flashing with mischief. "Well, then, send a few of those good Irish lassies my way. There's always room for a few pretty nymphs to bed at my home." I try to hide my own smile, but it's impossible.

"Michael, I'm sure it will take you less than a night to make all the good Irish women disappear." He laughed loudly.

"Well, then send me some of those orphans you've been wailing about. I'm sure I could find a use for a couple of good, able hands."

I can feel my brow furrow as I watch him try to squeeze another bed into the cell. "Michael, all you do on your farm is train wild horses. What work could you find that is safe for a child?"

"I don't recall saying a thing about work, Lizzie. Would I set a child against a wild stallion? Don't be daft. I mean to train them for boxing. Get a few good matches in before the harvest."

I shake my head. Impossible. That's what he is. But then again, he knows it. Sometimes I believe that he tries to be frustrating. In the two years I've known him, Michael has never once displayed a rational train of thought. Don't mistake what I'm saying -- I love Michael like a brother. He is a very good man -- but he is completely insane.

Before I can answer, Father Alexander Whitman appears at the doorway. "Sister, they have arrived." I feel my muscles tense with a sudden premonition as the priest and the horseman lead me out of the convent and into the church. For some reason, I feel that my life is about to change.

***

Am I the same man who questioned the existence of God not more than an hour ago? Because I swear in the name of the Virgin Mary that I see an angel walking amongst my people. Could she be real? This woman, this nun, moves with a modest, feminine grace that I have never been able to fathom even in my dreams. Her hair is hidden beneath a scarf, but a few stray locks of glistening ebony have managed to escape the confinement of the pins to caress her gentle face. Her eyes are loving as she helps remove a child's soiled clothing, a deep, rich chocolate brown filled with the light of the stars.

"Be careful, Father. If you were not a priest, I would feel obligated to protect her honor." I tear my eyes away from the gleaming angel and find myself face to face with a tall, well built man. His posture is threatening in many ways, the muscles in his arms whispering the danger that they are capable of unleashing. But his hazel eyes sparkle with laughter under a mop of unruly brown hair.

Try as I might, I cannot persuade my tongue to be of any use to me. It seems that the woman has captured more than my eye. Chuckling slightly to himself, the man continues to help the nuns prepare the people for their stay. I stand frozen for a moment, still shocked at my actions. Although I question His existence, I am not far from formally becoming a member of the priesthood. Could this angel be a test of my faith? Of my commitment?

"Welcome to St. Patrick's Cathedral, my son." I turn around and face the priest of this church, Father Whitman.

***

Ever since I have started about settling the newcomers into their new home, I have felt some change in the air around me. It's like the atmosphere has suddenly risen in temperature, and I can feel the heat of the descended sun burn through my flesh. Some distant part of my essence vibrates in anticipation of some unknown event that awaits me. What is the cause of these feelings in me?

"Sister, I would like you to meet Father Maxwell Evans. He arrived today with the other Irishmen."

Once I look this new man in the face, my mind can hardly recognize Father Whitman's words. This man is. . . stunning. He seems no more than the average man, but there is something about him. Something about the set of his shoulders, the tortured soul behind his gaze.

His eyes burn through me like wild fire. Suddenly, I understand why my senses have been on overload since the immigrants arrived. Somehow, this Father Evans' presence has awakened parts of my soul I never imagined existed. I could feel my face heat up under his scrutiny, and I duck my head to hid my reaction from Father Whitman. As my eyes are torn from this man's, the father's voice becomes recognizable as it begins to form words and sentences again.