grazing, whisking the flies away. How beautiful was everything--the
white clouds hanging in the blue sky, and the trees! There were some
trees, but not many--only a few pines. He caught glimpses of the lake
through the stems; tears rose to his eyes, and he attributed his
happiness to his native land and to the thought that he was living in
it. Only a few days ago he wished to leave it--no, not for ever, but for
a time; and as his old car jogged through the ruts he wondered how it
was that he had ever wished to leave Ireland, even for a single minute.

'Now, Christy, which do you reckon to be the shorter road?'

'The shorter road, your reverence, is the Joycetown road, but I doubt if
we can get the car through it.'

'How is that?'

And the boy answered that since the Big House had been burnt the road
hadn't been kept in repair.

'But,' said Father Oliver, 'the Big House was burnt seventy years ago.'

'Well, your reverence, you see, it was a good road then, but the last
time I heard of a car going that way was last February.'

'And if a car got through in February, why can't we get through on the
first of June?'

'Well, your reverence, there was the storm, and I do be hearing that the
trees that fell across the road then haven't been removed yet.'