ill morning.

His illusions regarding his Latin were broken. He had laid his
manuscript on a table by his bedside, and on awakening he had reached
out his hand for it, but he had not read a page when he dropped it; and
the manuscript lay on the floor while he dressed. He went into his
breakfast, and when he had eaten his breakfast his nerve failed him. He
could not bring himself to fetch the manuscript, and it was his
housekeeper who brought it to him.

"Ah," he said, "it is tasteless as the gruel that poor James Murdoch is
eating." And taking a volume from the table--"St. Augustine's
Confessions"--he said, "what diet there is here!"

He stood reading. There was no idiom, he had used Latin words instead
of English. At last he was interrupted by the wheels of a car stopping
at his door. Father Meehan! Meehan could revise his Latin! None had
written such good Latin at Maynooth as Meehan.

"My dear Meehan, this is indeed a pleasant surprise."

"I thought I'd like to see you. I drove over. But--I am not disturbing
you.... You've taken to reading again. St. Augustine! And you're
writing in Latin!"

Father James's face grew red, and he took the manuscript out of his
friend's hand.

"No, you mustn't look at that."

And then the temptation to ask him to overlook certain passages made
him change his mind.

"I was never much of a Latin scholar."

"And you want me to overlook your Latin for you. But why are you
writing Latin?"

"Because I am writing to the Pope. I was at first a little doubtful,
but the more I thought of this letter the more necessary it seemed to
me."

"And what are you writing to the Pope about?"

"You see Ireland is going to become a Protestant country."

"Is it?" said Father Meehan, and he listened a little while. Then,
interrupting his friend, he said:--

"I've heard enough. Now, I strongly advise you not to send this letter.
We have known each other all our lives. Now my dear MacTurnan--"

Father Michael talked eagerly, and Father MacTurnan sat listening. At
last Father Meehan saw that his arguments were producing no effect, and
he said:--

"You don't agree with me."

"It isn't that I don't agree with you. You have spoken admirably from
your point of view, but our points of view are different."

"Take your papers away, burn them!"

Then, thinking his words were harsh, he laid his hand on his friend's
shoulder and said:--

"My dear MacTurnan, I beg of you not to send this letter."