“Ah, your reverence, you musn’t be taking it to heart. If the marriage did not turn out right it was the drink.”
“Ah, the drink—the drink,” said the priest, and he declared that the brewer and the distiller were the ruin of Ireland.
“That’s true for you; at the same time we musn’t forget that they have put up many a fine church.”
“It would be impossible, I suppose, to prohibit the brewing of ale and the distillation of spirit.” The priest’s brother was a publican and had promised a large subscription. “And now, Biddy, what are you going to give me to make the walls secure. I don’t want you all to be killed while I am away.”
“There’s no fear of that, your reverence; a church never fell down on anyone.”
“Even so, if it falls down when nobody’s in it where are the people to hear Mass?”
