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, and no doubt that was why Moran insisted on bringing him
into the house. The specifications were a pretext. He had to glance at