but that’s why I was so slow in getting here.”rnThe eyes closed while he touched her forehead and handsrnwith the oil and recited the prayer for the sick. When he hadrnfinished, they opened again and resumed their steady gaze.rn”No one anointed Our Lord when He was dying,” Rosa Corellirnsaid.rn”But He died innocent of sin. There was no need.”rn”He wouldn’t drink the vinegar and water they offeredrnHim.”rn”Because He was looking forward to drinking the new winernwith His disciples in Heaven.”rn”Father,” the old woman said, “there is a bottle of winerndown there under the bed. Would you give me a little of it torndrink before you go?”rnThe priest looked and saw the glint of green glass beneathrnthe edge of the quilt. “Is that wise after you’ve taken yourrnmedicine, Rosa? Maybe I should ask the doctor first.”rn”Doctors don’t know everything,” Rosa Corelli said sharply.rn”Rinse this glass here, and take another for yourself from thernbathroom.”rnFather Hillary carried the glass into the bathroom andrnwashed it under the hot-water tap. When he returned to thernbedroom, Mrs. Corelli had slid the bottle clear of the bedskirtsrnand propped the pillow higher against the headboard.rnHe bent for the bottle, poured a small amount of the wine,rnand gave her the glass to drink from. “Where is your glass. Father?”rnthe old woman asked.rn”Oh, nothing for me, thank you,” the priest answered quickly.rnThe odor of the wine affected his stomach to the pointrnwhere he was afraid he might need to return to the bathroom.rnHe set the bottle on the floor again where he could not see itrnand concentrated on putting the idea of wine out of his mind.rn”When I was a girl in Italy,” Rosa Corelli said drowsily, “nobodyrnever drank water, it made you sick, only wine. . . . Whyrndon’t the Protestants understand wine. Father?”rnFather Hillary took the empty glass from her hand and replacedrnit on the table beside the bed. Then he helped her tornresettle the pillow on the mattress and drew the comforter uprnto her chin. Already her breathing was becoming more regularrnas she slid toward her littler reward. The priest turned outrnthe light and went back to the parlor, where Doctor White satrnwaiting in one of the overstuffed armchairs. He looked redderrnin the face than ever—from being overheated inside the heavyrnparka, the priest thought. “She’s asleep now,” he said. “Herrngrandson will be home from Salt Lake tomorrow afternoon.rnI’ll look in on her in the morning to see if she needs anything.”rnThe doctor nodded as he rose heavily from the chair. Herntook the woolen cap from the pocket of his coat and pulled itrnover his skull until the edge of it reached the tops of his earsrnand his yellow eyebrows. “She should do fine with the newrnmedication now,” he said. “Thank Cod, it wasn’t serious.rnThis time of the evening, a man isn’t exactly at his professionalrnbest. ‘No man knoweth the day or the hour’—isn’trnthat how it goes, Father?”rnHe held the door wide in a broad gesture of professionalrncourtesy, and the two men walked side by side under thernpenetrating stars to the doctor’s car.rn^ ^ Learned, thoughtful,rnV V and superbly ^ Arnwrittenrn-Robert NisbetrnNATIONAL REVIEWrn”In this probing and thoughful book, ThomasrnFleming has begun to address the principalrnchallenge to our society and polity.”rn-Elizabeth Fox-GenovesernCHRONICLESrn”A thoughtful conservative of the old school.rn. . . Progressives and radicals could benefitrnfrom grappling with Fleming’s intellectuallyrnstimulating presentation.”rnTHE PROGRESSIVErnISBN; 0-88738-189-8 (cloth) 276 pp. $32.95rnMajor credit cards accepted. Call (201) 932-2280rnSend prepaid orders to:rnF**^ transaction publishersrni r