The farce continued. The hearse came slowly through the gateway of the churchyard, its curved wings almost touching the stone pier on either side. Behind it came a black limousine with blue-tinted windows through which several white faces peered dimly. On it came, in steady, imperturbable slow motion, for a moment carrying with it a chilling presence of death. But only for a moment. As it rolled to a stop, the undertaker hurried to open the rear door. Out came Elsie, Father O’Hara’s housekeeper, massive in black. After her, dabbing at her eyes with a little handkerchief, came the woman who had been Father Conroy’s housekeeper a few years back. She threw a glance around to see who was present, then, with a whimper, buried her face again in the handkerchief. Her husband tagged behind her, respectfully attending her. The local women came forward to shake her hand or kiss her tearstained cheek.

“Peg!” muttered Father O’Hara. “A dreadful cook, but a great actress.” And Father Mahon understood his resentment that there was no one else to mourn Tom Conroy.

As the coffin was shouldered across the porch, Father O’Hara nudged him and whispered, “If a spider wanted the quietest spot in this church, where would it hide?”

Father Mahon looked startled, and shook his head. O’Hara nodded to the collection box, marked BAPTISTRY FUND. “There! According to Tom. He used to tell them that a spider could be warm and snug in there. Undisturbed from one week’s end to the next!” And with a grin at Father Mahon’s discomfiture, he passed into the church.

The congregation was very quiet while the priests recited the prayers over the coffin. A stolid lot, Father Mahon thought. Then a sob surprised him, quite close, and he saw an old man slumped in the first pew with hands hiding his face. There were others, yes, quite a number were crying, but it was getting so dark that it was hard to see them; he could feel the emotion spread from one to another. Fortunately, Father O’Hara launched straight into the first decade of the rosary. The congregation, of its own accord, began the second, forcing Father O’Hara to go on to say the whole five, though only one was usually said.

“A true priest is never loved,” someone – Bernanos was it? – had said. The syllogism formed itself before he could stop it. “Father Conroy was loved. Ergo, he was not a true priest.” His tricks of logic often disconcerted him, and now he shrugged the conclusion aside to join in the prayers.