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housekeeper can put some unguent on her arm . . .”
    The girl whimpered, her hand over the burn.
    â€œI know it hurts,” said the Bishop, “but the pain will go away. Forgive me, my dear. Go with the Father and he will take you to the housekeeper. She’ll make it feel better. Then sit in the parlor and wait for us. You can read a magazine or something.”
    Gregory took the girl away. Alone, the Bishop bowed his head and clasped his hands together. When Gregory returned, the Bishop said, “Shut the door.”
    Gregory did so. “What’s wrong with her arm?”
    â€œDid you see it?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGregory,” said the Bishop, “I’m frightened. They say there was a case like this in Bavaria, back in the 1890’s. A little boy. And in Africa a few years after that. In China, too, in the twenties. And in this country, too: in Iowa and in Illinois.” Adopting a matter-of-fact tone, he said, “You know more than I of such matters—give me the psychiatric explanation why a good, devout young girl should suddenly be incapable of stepping inside a church.”
    â€œIt’s hard to say,” shrugged Gregory. “I suppose it might have something to do with an unpleasant childhood experience connected in her mind with the Church, or something she has done that makes her feel unclean, unworthy . . .”
    â€œAnd cursing her father—how might that be explained?”
    â€œHe insisted on her attending Mass, which had become abhorrent to her.”
    â€œAnd her advances toward Father Halloran?”
    â€œWell,” ventured Gregory, scratching his head and moving about the room, “priests—despite the vow of chastity—can’t help being a little glamorous, I guess. We’re symbols of authority, of power. I suppose this might be attractive in a way. And in an already disturbed mind, this could perhaps take the form of—the kind of thing Susan felt toward Father Halloran. As for trying to strangle him, it could be nothing more than the old story: a woman scorned.”
    â€œYes,” said the Bishop. “Yes, that’s all very interesting, Gregory. Very plausible.” He stroked his chin, reflectively. “Now tell me why just now, in this room, while her eyes were closed, I pressed a series of coins to her bare skin but when unbeknownst to her I substituted the crucifix from my rosary and pressed
it
to her skin, she cried out in pain.”
    Gregory sat down. “That’s what it was?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBut I see nothing in that. If she reacts violently to the church, why not to the cross? And to a girl in her mental condition—hysterical—it’s not unbelievable that her mind should play a trick on her and make her think the cross had burned her.”
    â€œWhen she didn’t know it was a cross?”
countered the Bishop. “Her eyes were closed, remember!”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œI’m sure!”
    â€œBut,” groped Gregory, “even with her eyes closed she surely could tell the difference between a round coin and a cross. The sense of touch—”
    â€œThere medical science will refute you,” interrupted the Bishop. “Ask that psychologist brother-in-law of yours. He will tell you that the fingertips, yes, are clusters of nerve ends that are extremely sensitive and capable of distinguishing subtle differences in the shapes of objects.
But not the arms
. Try it some time.”
    Gregory rubbed his forehead. “I admit I’m stumped for the moment,” he said, “but you told me she was
really
hurt, youwanted unguent applied to her arm. Were you just humoring her or—”
    â€œNever mind that now,” said the Bishop. “One thing at a time.” He seemed to drift away, began talking half to himself. “St. Michael’s Church . . . there’s a kind of fitness to this