’I might go on quoting till I reached the end, for on every page I note something that I would have you read.  But why quote when I can send you the book?  You have lost interest in the sentimental side of religion, but your loss is only momentary.  You will never find anyone who will understand you better than this book.  You are engaged now in the vain pursuit of knowledge, but some day, when you are weary of knowledge, you will turn to it.  I do not ask you to read it now, but promise me that you will keep it.  It will be a great consolation to me to know that it is by you.

’Very sincerely yours,

‘OLIVER GOGARTY, P.P.’

From Father Oliver Gogarty to Miss Nora Glynn.

’GARRANARD, BOHOLA,

’November 3, 19—.

’DEAR MISS GLYNN,

’I sent you—­I think it must be a fortnight ago—­a copy of “The Imitation of Christ.”  The copy I sent is one of the original Elizabethan edition, a somewhat rare book and difficult to obtain.  I sent you this copy in order to make sure that you would keep it; the English is better than the English of our modern translations.  You must not think that I feel hurt because you did not write to thank me at once for having sent you the book.  My reason for writing is merely because I should like to know if it reached you.  If you have not received it, I think it would be better to make inquiries at once in the post.  It would be a pity that a copy of the original Elizabethan edition should be lost.  Just write a little short note saying that you have received it.

’Very sincerely yours,

‘OLIVER GOGARTY, P.P.’

IX

‘The Imitation’ dropped on his knees, and he wondered if the spiritual impulse it had awakened in him was exhausted, or if the continual splashing of the rain on the pane had got upon his nerves.

‘But it isn’t raining in Italy,’ he said, getting up from his chair; ‘and I am weary of the rain, of myself—­I am weary of everything.’  And going to the window, he tried to take ant interest in the weather, asking himself if it would clear up about 3 o’clock.  It cleared usually late in the afternoon for a short while, and he would be able to go out for half an hour.  But where should he go?  He foresaw his walk from end to end before he began it:  the descent of the hill, the cart-track and the old ruts full of water, the dead reeds on the shore soaking, the dripping trees.  But he knew that about 3 o’clock the clouds would lift, and the sunset begin in the gaps in the mountains.  He might go as far as the little fields between Derrinrush and the plantations, and from there he could watch the sunset.  But the sunset would soon be over, and he would have to return home, for a long evening without a book.  Terrible!  And he began to feel that he must have an occupation—­his book!  To write the story of the island castles would pass