than a convention which we would not like to hear
called into question, because we feel instinctively that it is well for
everyone to continue in the rut, for, after all, a rut means a road, and
roads are necessary. If one lets one's self go on thinking, one very
soon finds that wrong and right are indistinguishable, so perhaps it is
better to follow the rut if one can. But the rut is beset with
difficulties; there are big holes on either side. Sometimes the road
ends nowhere, and one gets lost in spite of one's self. But why am I
writing all these things to you?'

Why, indeed? If he were to send this letter she would show it to Mr.
Poole, and they would laugh over it together. 'Poor priesty!' they would
say, and the paper was crumpled and thrown into the fire. 'My life is
unendurable, and it will grow worse,' he said, and fell to thinking how
he would grow old, getting every day more like an old stereotyped plate,
the Mass and the rosary at the end of his tongue, and nothing in his
heart. He had seen many priests like this. Could he fall into such
miserable decadence? Could such obedience to rule be any man's duty? But
where should he go? It mattered little whither he went, for he would
never see her any more, and she was, after all, the only real thing in
the world for him.

So did he continue to suffer like an animal, mutely, instinctively,
mourning his life away, forgetful of everything but his grief; unmindful
of his food, and unable to sleep when he lay down, or to distinguish
between familiar things--the birds about his house, the boys and girls
he had baptized. Very often he had to think a moment before he knew
which was Mary and which was Bridget, which was Patsy and which was
Mike, and very often Catherine was in the parlour many minutes before he
noticed her presence. She stood watching him, wondering of what he was
thinking, for he sat in his chair, getting weaker and thinner; and soon
he began to look haggard as an old man or one about to die. He seemed to
grow feebler in mind; his attention wandered away every few minutes from
the book he was reading. Catherine noticed the change, and, thinking
that a little chat would be of help, she often came up from her kitchen
to tell him the gossip of the parish; but he could not listen to her,
her garrulousness seemed to him more than ever tiresome, and he kept a
book by him, an old copy of 'Ivanhoe,' which he pretended he was reading
when he heard her step.