One morning near the end of September the Irish Times published a list of Irish graduates ordained in England on the previous Sunday. Among other names appeared:

‘Hyacinth Conneally, B.A., T.C.D., deacon, by the Bishop of Ripon, for the curacy of Kirby-Stowell.’

Shortly afterwards the Croppy printed the following verses, signed ‘M.O’D.‘:

                 ‘EIRE TO H. C.

     ‘Bight across the low, flat curragh from the sea,
     Drifting, driving sweeps the rain,
     Where the bogborn, bent, brown rushes grow for me,
     Barren grass instead of grain.

     ‘Out across the sad, soaked curragh towards the sea,
     Striding, striving go the men,
     With their spades and forks and barrows toil for me
     That my corn may grow again

     ‘Ah! but safe from blast of wind and bitter sea,
     You who loved me—-Tusa féin—
     Live and feel and work for others, not for me,
     Never coming back again.

     ‘Yes, while all across the curragh from the West
     Drifts the sea-rain off the sea,
     You have chosen. Have you chosen what is best
     For yourself, O son, and me?’

Hyacinth read the verses, cut them out of the Croppy, and locked them in the box in which he stored the few papers of interest he possessed. The sorrowful judgment pronounced on his conduct affected him, but only in a dull way, like an additional blow upon a limb already bruised to numbness. He accepted his new duties and performed them without any feeling of enthusiasm, and after a little while without any definite hope of doing any good. He got no further in understanding the people he had to deal with, and he was aware that even those of them who came most frequently into contact with him regarded him as a stranger. A young doctor whose wife took a fancy to Marion tried to make friends with him............