and he compared Moran's walk up and down the highroad with his own
rambles along the lake shores and through the pleasant woods of
Carnecun.

For seven years Father Oliver had walked up and down that road, for
there was nowhere else for him to walk; he walked that road till he
hated it, but he did not think that he had suffered from the loneliness
of the parish as much as Moran. He had been happier than Moran in
Bridget Clery's cottage--a great idea enabled him to forget every
discomfort; and 'we are never lonely as long as our idea is with us,' he
ejaculated. 'But Moran is a plain man, without ideas, enthusiasms, or
exaltations. He does riot care for reading, or for a flower garden, only
for drink. Drink gives him dreams, and man must dream,' he said.

He knew that his curate was pledged to cure himself, and believed he was
succeeding; but, all the same, it was terrible to think that the
temptation might overpower him at any moment, and that he might st agger
helpless through the village--a very shocking example to everybody.

The people were prone enough in that direction, and for a priest to give
scandal instead of setting a good example was about as bad as anything
that could happen in the parish. But what was he to do? There was no
hard-and-fast rule about anything, and Father Oliver felt that Moran
must have his chance.

'I was beginning to think we were never going to see you again;' and
Father Moran held out a long, hard hand to Father Oliver. 'You'll put up
your horse? Christy, will you take his reverence's horse? You'll stay
and have some dinner with me?'

'I can't stay more than half an hour. I'm on my way to Tinnick; I've
business with my sister, and it will take me some time.'

'You have plenty of time.'

'No, I haven't? I ought to have taken the other road; I'm late as it
is.'

'But you will come into the house, if only for a few minutes.'

Father Oliver had taught Bridget Clery cleanliness; at least, he had
persuaded her to keep the f owls out of the kitchen, and he had put a
paling in front of the house and made a little garden--an unassuming
one, it is true, but a pleasant spot of colour in the summer-time--and
he wondered how it was that Father Moran was not ashamed of its
neglected state, nor of the widow's kitchen. These things were, after
all, immaterial. What was important was that he should find no faintest
trace of whisky in Moran's room. It was a great relief to him not to
notice any