Next time he called, Father Conroy found the boy sitting stiffly on a high-backed chair, while the Canon read from one of his first editions, his thin voice piping the most passionate verses with the same unabashed fervor with which he had read from the lives of the saints.

And I think oft if spirits can steal from the regions of air

To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt visit me there

And tell me our love is remembered, even in the sky.

“Now, that’s a lovely one, isn’t it?” He turned to Father Conroy. “We’re coming on with our English literature, Father.”

“Good. That’s the stuff.” And when he looked to see the boy’s reaction, he detected the slight lowering of one eyelid. At least, so he thought at the time. Later on, he was sure.

He came into the sitting room one day to be greeted with unusual warmth by Fitzmaurice. There was a letter lying on the sofa table.

“Read it, Father,” Fitzmaurice said, barely sparing a hand from the book to wave him toward it. “I think you’ll be pleased.”

Father Conroy picked it up, recognizing the Bishop’s handwriting on the envelope. As he paused, afraid to draw out the single sheet of paper, he looked up and found the boy tensely watching him. The few lines were more than he could bear. He had never thought of himself as deserving of promotion, and for a moment it seemed wrong that authority should be given to him, who had for so long fretted against it in the persons of the parish priests whom he had served.

“You have my best wishes, Father,” said Father Fitzmaurice. “I’m very glad, naturally, for your sake...” The phrase seemed unfinished, as if the Canon felt it would not be charitable to show all his pleasure.

Father Conroy looked up to say – what had he been going to say? – something submissive or something arrogant? – and noticed that the boy had gone, slipped quietly out of the room.