s letter to his sister, and even with Father O'Grady's
letter and all that he might add of an explanation, she would hardly be
able to understand; and Eliza might show the letter to Mary, who was
prejudiced. Father Oliver walked up and down the room thinking.... A
personal interview would be better than the letter, for in a personal
interview he would be able to answer his sister's objections, and
instead of the long letter he had intended to write he wrote a short
note, adding that he had not seen them for a long time, and would drive
over to-morrow afternoon.

V

The southern road was the shorter, but he wanted to see Moran and to
hear when he proposed to begin to roof the abbey. Father Oliver thought,
moreover, that he would like to see the abbey for a last time in its
green mantle of centuries. The distance was much the same--a couple of
miles shorter by the southern road, no doubt, but what are a couple of
miles to an old roadster? Moreover, the horse would rest in Jimmy
Maguire's stable whilst he and Moran rambled about the ruin. An hour's
rest would compensate the horse for the two extra miles.

He tapped the glass; there was no danger of rain. For thirty days there
had been no change--only a few showers, just enough to keep the country
going; and he fell asleep thinking of the drive round the lake from
Garranard to Tinnick in the sunlight and from Tinnick to Garranard in
the moonlight.

He was out of bed an hour before his usual time, calling to Catherine
for hot water. His shaving, always disagreeable, sometimes painful, was
a joyous little labour on this day. Stropping his razor, he sang from
sheer joy of living. Catherine had never seen him spring on the car with
so light a step. And away went the old gray pulling at the bridle,
little thinking of the twenty-five Irish miles that lay before him.

The day was the same as yesterday, the meadows drying up for want of
rain; and there was a thirsty chirruping of small birds in the
hedgerows. Everywhere he saw rooks gaping on the low walls that divided
the fields. The farmers were complaining; but they were always
complaining--everyone was complaining. He had complained of the
dilatoriness of the Board of Works, and now for the first time in his
life he sympathized a little with the Board. If it had built the bridge
he would not be enjoying this long drive; it would be built by-and-by;
he couldn't feel as if he wished to be robbed of one half-hour of the