The new teacher was a small retiring fellow, possessed of an incredible sense of gentleness, or lightness. A Dublin teacher had been chosen this time because Dublin Irish, although impure, was supposedly easier to learn.

But again Jonathan Adams was trying to save himself from too much familiarity with the natives. His rejection at the hands of the powers-that-be in Dublin still rankled. Then the editor of the Western People returned some interviews with local people he had supplied, with a note to the effect that the material was not relevant. Would be slightly obscure for local readers. In fact, he was trying to imply, the worship of graven images on the west coast of Ireland was a tall story. Well, Jonathan Adams would rectify that. What he intended to do was to immerse himself so completely in the old language that he might emerge one day from his home able to talk to all on an equal footing.

Maisie and Jonathan arrived back from the hospital to find O’Muichin finishing a dry-stone wall that had collapsed at the back of the house. They were taken aback at the stature of the cheerful teacher. The Adams had not expected an imp to arrive from Dublin. O’Muichin’s feet barely touched the ground and his movements were those of a man treading water. He was forever on his bike, visiting Irish speakers in the area, head erect, buoyant and somehow soulless, or maybe all soul; his was a condition where body and soul were always on the move. He was domiciled in Catherine’s room this time. “For variety’s sake,” Jonathan Adams pronounced. So Catherine’s wardrobe was moved into Sara’s room, and a coin tossed each night to see who would sleep on the outside of the bed.

The Sergeant did not advance straight away to meet O’Muichin, feeling, perhaps, that things had got out of control, that he should have called a halt to this procession of Irish teachers through his house, men set on turning myth into reality, and by virtue of their crude and unstable natures ruining his repose. But then O’Muichin presented himself at the study door and said: “I hate these particulars, but I have never done the likes of this before.” For the new teacher to admit such ignorance was a consolation to Jonathan Adams. Now he foresaw fruitful hours ahead, when he, after regaining his rightful place as master of the house, might probe the genial Irish spirit, rather than be afflicted by the troublesome psyche MacDonagh had presented.

He felt O’Muichin was a man in whom the grudge was spent. No bitterness remained. So he took to O’Muichin. And O’Muichin found a further ally in Maisie Adams when, after supper, he rose and carried the dishes into the scullery in the manner of a man who lived alone.