From Father Oliver Gogarty to Miss Nora Glynn.

’GARRANARD, BOHOLA,

’August 6, 19—.

’DEAR MISS GLYNN,

’You said in your very kind letter, which I received a fortnight ago, and which I answered hastily, that on some future occasion you would perhaps tell me about the book Mr. Poole is writing.  I wonder if this occasion will ever arise, and, if so, if it be near or far—­near, I hope, for interested as I naturally am in your welfare, I have begun to feel some anxiety regarding this book.  On the day that—­’

‘Father O’Grady, your reverence.’  Father Oliver laid his letter aside, and then hid it in the blotter, regretting his haste and his fumbling hands, which perhaps had put the thought into O’Grady’s mind that the letter was to Nora.  And so he came forward faintly embarrassed to meet a small pale man, whom he judged to be seventy or thereabouts, coming forward nimbly, bent a little, with a long, thin arm and bony hand extended in a formal languor of welcome.  A little disappointing was the first moment, but it passed away quickly, and when his visitor was seated Father Oliver noticed a large nose rising out of the pallor and on either side of it dim blue eyes and some long white locks.

‘You’re surprised to see me,’ Father O’Grady said in a low, winning voice.  ’Of course you’re surprised—­how could it be otherwise? but I hope you’re glad.’

‘Very glad,’ Father Oliver answered.  ‘Glad, very glad,’ he repeated; and begged his visitor to allow him to help him off with his overcoat.

‘How pleasant,’ Father O’Grady said, as soon as he was back in the armchair, as if he felt that the duty fell upon him to find a conversation that would help them across the first five minutes—­’how pleasant it is to see a turf fire again!  The turf burns gently, mildly, a much pleasanter fire than coal; the two races express themselves in their fires.’

‘Oh, we’re fiery enough over here,’ Father Oliver returned; and the priests laughed.

‘I did not feel that I was really in Ireland,’ Father O’Grady continued, ’till I saw the turf blazing and falling into white ash.  You see I haven’t been in Ireland for many years.’

Father Oliver threw some more sods of turf into the grate, saying:  ’I’m glad, Father O’Grady, that you enjoy the fire, and I’m indeed glad to see you.  I was just thinking—­’

‘Of me?’ Father O’Grady asked, raising his Catholic eyes.

The interruption was a happy one, for Father Oliver would have found himself embarrassed to finish the sentence he had begun.  For he would not have liked to have admitted that he had just begun a letter to Nora Glynn, to say, ‘There it is on the table.’  Father O’Grady’s interruption gave him time to revise his sentence.

’Yes, I was thinking of you, Father O’Grady.  Wondering if I might dare to write to you again.’

‘But why should you be in doubt?’ Father O’Grady asked; and then, remembering a certain asperity in Father Oliver’s last letter, he thought it prudent to change the conversation.  ’Well, here I am and unexpected, but, apparently, welcome.’