96 NINTH EIGHT

ItEven if the small congregation of under twelves didn't ask anything, Harriet could count on two of them at least half-listening. Her children took after their father in that regard. Both had long patrician noses and glossy dark hair and neither particularly liked getting up early on a Sunday morning to go to mass, but her son had Matthew's watery blue eyes that shone with interest whenever Harriet spoke and her younger daughter beamed up at her whenever she heard Harriet's voice.

In recent weeks, something even better had happened, their boy had actually taken the reins and answered the questions one of his friends had posed to Harriet. She couldn't remember ever being prouder.

Until a moment later, when her daughter had decided she'd outgrown sitting at Harriet's feet in favour of standing up, approaching the new girl, and offering to share her favourite pink crayon with the daughter of the new parishioners.