Cariboo Blanche was crying softly to herself.

Her eyes were luminous and moist, and, as he looked, a lone tear stole down her cheek.

Bishop's face had gone serious.

The Virgin had sprawled head and shoulders on the table, amid overturned mugs and dripping lees, and Cornell was tittubating over her, hiccoughing, and repeating vacuously, "You're all right, my dear.

You're all right." But the Virgin was inconsolable.