“There,” thought Larry, “no one thought about your religion.  No one cared if you had one, and the presumption was that you hadn’t.”  But here, in these little Irish towns, the question of a man’s private views on a matter that might be supposed to concern only himself, appeared of paramount importance.  He listened to denunciations of Protestants until he felt, as he told the faithful Barty, that “for tuppence” he would change over himself; just as in some sections of the rival camp, he would have heard to weariness of the bigotry and errors of Romanism.  He was brought, as many people more God-fearing than he have been brought, to debate the question as to whether a common atheism were not the only panacea for the mutual hatreds that, as appeared to him from his present point of view, ruled the Island of Saints.  He and Barty would sit up over the dying embers of the dining-room fire of No. 6, The Mall, talking; wrangling, in a sort of country-dance of argument, in which they advanced and retired, and joined hands, and flung away from each other again; ending, generally, in such agreement as might be found in a common determination to lay all the blame for all the malice and uncharitableness at the door of the clergy of the two creeds; a comprehensive decision, and a consoling one, from the point of view of two laymen.

Larry, in his loneliness, had fallen into the habit of frequenting No. 6; of “taking pot-luck,” of “dropping in,” or of “turning in,” all of which courses had been urged upon him by his captor, Dr. Mangan.  Those great and special gifts of the Mangan family, the love of music, and the habit of it (which are not always allied) bestowed upon the household a charm that was almost more potent for Larry than any other could have been.  At the end of a long day of canvassing, spent with companions who, he felt, only half trusted him, and were incapable of being amused by the things that amused him (a factor in friendship that cannot be valued too highly) it was comforting to “drop in” to the hospitable, untidy house, where, thanks to Mrs. Mangan’s early experiences, there was always good luck in the pot, and to spend a peaceful evening over the fire, smoking, and listening to the famous Mangan Quartet.  Music was the initial point of contact between Larry and these people among whom he had once more been cast, and the Big Doctor was not unaware of the fact.  Singly, or united, the Mangan voices, mellow, tuneful, singing songs of Ireland with artless grace and charm, wrought more in Larry’s soul than he was aware of.  Not only to his ears, but to his eyes also, the Mangan Quartet brought artistic satisfaction.  The Big Doctor, with his sombre face and overhanging brow, looking, in the lamplight, like a Rembrandt burgomaster; Barty and his mother, pale and dark-eyed, recalling Southern Italy rather than Southern Ireland; and Tishy—­Larry’s eyes used to dwell longest on Tishy, her face lit by her most genuine feeling, the love of music, while