They circled the hill without further success. Hunger at last made them set a course across the fields toward the car. Father O’Hara took the lunch basket out to a log by the roadside and opened the packets of sandwiches and the thermos flask of chicken broth. The dog sat on her haunches, head on one side, watching them. Occasionally they peeled off a sliver of meat and flung it to her. They ate in silence, watching the breeze move in the hedge, stirring the twigs and old leaves.

Father O’Hara blessed himself when he was finished, and got out his pipe. Father Conroy, too, got out his pipe, and together they sat a long time on the log, smoking. The dog began to fidget in the briers, complaining a little, and watching her, Father O’Hara said, “You didn’t move out much lately, did you?”

“Move out where?”

“To Cullen, or Mahon, or any of us.”

“What for?”

“Well, because—” He made a soothing noise to calm the dog and, as she ceased her whining, said, “Why don’t you come over on Ascension Thursday, Tom? I’m having them all in.”

Father Conroy said nothing, and after a pause they began to talk about Father O’Hara’s holidays – a topic often discussed in the diocese, since Father O’Hara was one of those who like to submit their decisions for general approval.

He was thinking of going to Lourdes again. “The ideal spot,” he said. “I often think, of all the places where Our Lady might have appeared, she could not have chosen any place better.”

Father Conroy nodded, but he was thinking of the time he had been there, long ago, as chaplain to a pilgrimage of elderly Children of Mary. It wasn’t so much the commercialism that disturbed him, the tons of pious junk that filled the stalls in the streets; he could take that – one had to, in this day and age. It was the crutches, hanging like stalactites from the roof of the cave, the candles moving in rivers of light down the great stone terraces of the basilica. It was the way people knelt for hours before the grotto, waiting.

One night, as he walked by the river, three girls came toward him from the grotto with their candles still alight, tall girls with Spanish faces. Linking each other closely, they passed him in silence. The girl in the middle was being supported by the other two; her head was bent, and she seemed to be crying. He stopped, looking after them as they passed into the darkness under the trees, and heard a fit of sobbing, so wild and passionate that the sound stayed with him all night. He was glad to be shut of the place and had no desire ever to go back to it.