Mrs. Higgins seemed both awkward and very pleased. "We're happy to have ye, father," she said and she left the room with a smile on her face.

Gabriel too smiled. Father Brennan treated staff well, and that was another indication of good character. He had always rather liked Mrs. Higgins, though she could be pushy when it came to offering refreshments, and he knew better than to share any sensitive information with her. He hadn't liked the way father Kemble spoke to her.

"Our Lord drank with tax collectors and prostitutes, so I doubt there is much that would shock me," he said.

Father Kemble drank with the rich families in town, which he supposed was much like drinking with tax collectors.

"Father Kemble was on friendly terms with some non-catholic families, like the McPadraics. He was trying to get funds for some of our projects..."

Malachi lifted his cup, allowing the rising steam to drift gently across his face. He should have asked Mrs. Higgins what sort of tea it was, he thought belatedly.

Our Lord drank with tax collectors and prostitutes, so I doubt there is much that would shock me.

What an interesting example to use -- there was a moment's strike of something more natural in his smile. That was the kind of priest that Malachi had always wanted to be: the kind that followed not only to the teachings of the church, but to the actions of God himself. Both had their uses, yes, but he quarreled less with heavenly rules than he did with the conventions of men.

"Projects?" repeated Malachi. He lowered his cup, so that he would not taste it out of habit and burn his tongue.

"What sort of projects?"

Gabriel bent over to pick up his own cup, but regretted the movement. He put some milk in his tea, an moved back much slower, with the cup in hand.

"Father Kemble was planning to hire a trained choir director. Our choir is..." He stopped there. It had been a waste of money in Gabriel's eyes, but he could nevertheless see where Kemble was coming from.

"There's also the Christmas baskets for the poor. Let me see, Cathechism could be organized more efficiently, and then in turn we were backing McPadraic's project, what was it called..." the one with a ridiculously long name. "Something about getting orphans and street children a proper home."

Malachi watched Father Richards closely, and managed to keep his features mostly free of the concern he felt beneath. It was good that he was recovering and apparently doing better than before, but it was still... well, it still made him wish that he would have grabbed the cup and handed it to the injured man himself.

The choir... did not seem overly important. It was not about sounding good, after all, but singing praise and joining together to glorify the Lord. Malachi nodded regardless, but filed the matter of a trained choir director as the least of his concerns.

Christmas baskets for the poor, now that was closer to something he might care about. Not as all-encompassing or as frequent as he preferred charitable acts to be, but it was a good step. It was the mention of McPadraic's project, however, that clearly stole Malachi's attention.

"That sounds... good," he said, though he sounded slightly skeptical. Felt that way too. How many similar projects actually made it to fruition? And how many actually helped more than they hurt? It sounded good, of course it did, but his own experience begged for more detail than that.

"Does this McPadraic attend services, or will I have to meet him elsewhere? I'd like to hear more about this project, if we're to be backing it."

Gabriel could hear the skepticism in the other man's voice. He couldn't entirely blame him. Gabriel didn't trust Lord McPadraic as far as he could throw him. And the man clearly ate well and Gabriel did not. Still, he'd support any project to help those children, even if he was suspicious of the benefactor's motivations.

"He doesn't," Gabriel admitted. "He's Anglican, I believe...? But Father Kemble has many connections. In a nutshell, Lord McPadraic set up a charity that takes in orphans and neglected children, re-socializes them and then sends them to families abroad..." He did believe it was clearing Whitby's streets of unpleasant sights that was McPadraic's main concern, but Gabriel did not say that.

Malachi lowered his cup of tea.

McPadraic's project included sending orphaned children overseas? If anything, he had expected the project to concern itself with making Whitby a more suitable home for its children, rather than the other way around. It was not a child's fault that they could not care for themselves, or that, when neglected, they behaved improperly. Still, he had never met this Lord McPadraic. His own bias bled into his initial judgement, he was sure.

But still... was it only the orphan in him that was suspicious of this project?

"Well," Malachi lifted his tea again, taking a small sip. "I'm glad to hear that there is something being done. I would love to spend some time in town soon, to get a better idea of what the people here need."

It was the best way to get to know a place, in his experience. Not to stay locked up in the house of God and wait for them to show, but to see them in their own environments, where they did not alter their behaviors or cover up their issues for his sake. Malachi sipped again at his tea, looking Father Richards over once more.

"What about you though, Father? What do you think of this place and its people, from the time you've spent here?"

Gabriel stared down at his tea uncomfortably, not sure how to respond to the question. He had been working hard on trying not to think for himself as much, and father Kemble had not exactly invited him to do otherwise, at least not purposely. So the question found him unprepared.

"There's more poverty and crime and other vice than I had expected in a small town like this," he stated quietly after some thought. "As for the parish, I've seen some real good people with pure hearts that make me ashamed of my own..." Crane came to mind. A soul purer and meeker than any that had ever laid itself bare before him. He tried to push the thought away, as he knew he should. It was dangerous. But he might as well ask his heart to stop beating. How could he not love what was lovable?

He suddenly remembered where he was and quickly lifted his cup just to look like he was there. He spilled some of its contents in the process. "Oh..." he rubbed the wet spot on his cassock with his sleeve. "Sorry, I'm still a little... clumsy at times." He let out a short uncomfortable laugh that was supposed to ease the tension he felt, but only made him feel more awkward.

"As I was saying..." he quickly continued, "good souls, but the parish in general seems lukewarm." Like the tea, mercifully. "Many come to fulfil their Sunday obligation, but their religion seems to end after the blessing. And though they ask for baptisms and marriages and holy unction, Kemble... father Kemble says very few come for the sacrament of penance regularly." There had been more coming for the sacrament when he had still been allowed to hear confessions. And once he had personally received the sacrament under Kemble, he understood why there had been a drop.

Another transgression of his conceited mind, Gabriel reprimanded himself.

Smaller towns, in Malachi's experience, tended to drown themselves in vice thicker than even the clouds of it that plagued bigger cities. In cities, there were ever more chances to be caught, to run into those that would not stand for your ways. Where the people were fewer, they had all the more reason to run wild in their isolation, pulled along their chaotic paths by the invisible strings of their vices alone.

Father Richards' little pause, along with the subsequent spilling of his tea, earned a warm smile from the older priest. There was no fault in being clumsy, and he would not judge him for it.

"Ah. I'm sorry to hear that," said Malachi, in regards to the small percentage of their parishioners who came in search of penance. That, too, was nothing that could not be managed and improved with a bit of work. It was what Malachi was good at, what he enjoyed more than anything else about working in the way he did -- and he had never left a church without at least improving the frequency and fervency of their confessions.

"My previous parish was much the same," he offered, so as not to give the impression that he was displeased with the sound of Whitby. After taking another small sip of his tea, he continued.

"I hope that, if we involve ourselves more in their daily lives -- making sure that they see the Lord's grace, and aren't only told of it -- regular attendance and participation will come naturally. They should not view it as an obligation, even if it is."

His gaze had strayed again to his cup, and he spoke partly to himself, partly to the other priest, sorting through his thoughts.

"In any case, I look forward to serving with you."

"So do I, father," he answered with a grateful smile, and he meant it. Once again the other priests words increased Gabriel's esteem for him. He truly was the opposite to Kemble, it seemed, actively going out, rather than expecting people to come to them. It was a style Gabriel favored too. And from the way he spoke it seemed as if he intended to work with Gabriel rather than hand out orders and pass all the unpleasant work to him. Working with a fellow priest whose heart was in the job might just be the thing he needed to find his own heart in it again.

"Where did you say you served before, father?" He did not remember ever meeting or hearing of his fellow priest before. He wondered what had inspired him to serve the way he did. He lifted his tea, managing not to spill this time, and drank slowly.

He had not said. Malachi almost stated as much, before he caught himself with another sip of his tea. It was not a personal question, and it should have been easy to answer, but he was reluctant all the same.

"It was in a run-down church in a rather tiny village. I'm afraid it is so small you might not have even heard of it. I hadn't, before I went," he gave a smile as he spoke of it, as if he had only good memories of the place despite its size.

"The Lord has called me in many directions, but I started off in London. What about you, Father?"