"And to think all these years I've blamed you for dragging her down, when it was me. It was me!" "It was no one, Frank, no one!" the priest cried, trying to pull him back. "It's a part of God's great unfathomable plan; think of it like that!" Frank shook off the detaining hand and walked to the door with his light, deadly, tiptoed gait. He was born to be a boxer, thought Father Ralph in some detached corner of his brain, that cardinal's brain. "God's great unfathomable plan!" mocked the young man's voice from the door. "You're no better than a parrot when you act the priest, Father de Bricassart! I say God help you, because you're the only one of us here who has no idea what he really is!"

Paddy was sitting in a chair, ashen, his shocked eyes on Meggie as she huddled on her knees by the fire, weeping and rocking herself back and forth. He got up to go to her, but Father Ralph pushed him roughly away. "Leave her alone. You've done enough! There's whiskey in the sideboard; take some. I'm going to put the child to bed, but I'll be back to talk to you, so don't go. Do you hear me, man?"

"I'll be here, Father. Put her to bed."

Upstairs in the charming apple-green bedroom the priest unbuttoned the little girl's dress and chemise, made her sit on the edge of the bed so he could pull off her shoes and stockings. Her nightdress lay on the pillow where Annie had left it; he tugged it over her head and decently down before he removed her drawers. And all the while he talked to her about nothing, silly stories of buttons refusing to come undone, and shoes stubbornly staying tied, and ribbons that would not come off. It was impossible to tell if she heard him; with their unspoken tales of infant tragedies, of troubles and pains beyond her years, the eyes stared drearily past his shoulder. "Now lie down, my darling girl, and try to go to sleep. I'll be back in a little while to see you, so don't worry, do you hear? We'll talk about it then."

"Is she all right?" asked Paddy as he came back into the lounge. Father Ralph reached for the whiskey bottle standing on the sideboard, and poured a tumbler half full.

"I don't honestly know. God in heaven, Paddy, I wish I knew which is an Irishman's greater curse, the drink or the temper. What possessed you to say that? No, don't even bother answering! The temper.