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faith, was genuinely moved, tell you the God’s truth—and I
remember well his very words. Kernan, he said, we worship
at different altars, he said, but our belief is the same. Struck
me as very well put.’
‘There’s a good deal in that,’ said Mr. Power. ‘There used
always be crowds of Protestants in the chapel where Father
Tom was preaching.’
‘There’s not much difference between us,’ said Mr.
M’Coy.
‘We both believe in——‘
He hesitated for a moment.
‘... in the Redeemer. Only they don’t believe in the Pope
and in the mother of God.’
‘But, of course,’ said Mr. Cunningham quietly and effec-
tively, ‘our religion is the religion, the old, original faith.’
‘Not a doubt of it,’ said Mr. Kernan warmly.
Mrs. Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and an-
nounced:
‘Here’s a visitor for you!’
‘Who is it?’
‘Mr. Fogarty.’
‘O, come in! come in!’
A pale, oval face came forward into the light. The arch of
its fair trailing moustache was repeated in the fair eyebrows
looped above pleasantly astonished eyes. Mr. Fogarty was a
modest grocer. He had failed in business in a licensed house
in the city because his financial condition had constrained
him to tie himself to second-class distillers and brewers. He
had opened a small shop on Glasnevin Road where, he flat-

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