"But he's an Orangeman, Crofton, isn't he?" said Mr. Power.
"'Course he is," said Mr. Kernan, "and a damned decent Orangeman, too. We went into Butler's in Moore Street—faith, I was genuinely moved, tell you the God's truth—and I remember well his very words. Kernan, he said, we worship at different altars, he said, but our belief is the same. Struck me as very well put."
"There's a good deal in that," said Mr. Power. "There used always be crowds of Protestants in the chapel when Father Tom was preaching."
"There's not much difference between us," said Mr. M'Coy. "We both believe in ———"
He hesitated for a moment.
". . . in the Redeemer. Only they don't believe in the Pope and in the mother of God."
"But, of course," said Mr. Cunningham quietly and effectively, "our religion is the religion, the old, original faith."
"Not a doubt of it," said Mr. Kernan warmly.
Mrs. Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and announced:
"Here's a visitor for you!"
"Who is it?"
"Mr. Fogarty."
"O, come in! come in!"
A pale, oval face came forward into the light. The arch of its fair trailing moustache was repeated in the fair eyebrows looped above pleasantly astonished eyes. Mr. Fogarty was a modest grocer. He had failed in business in a li-
