inn

Wendy__ house, unlike many in Cape Breton, had three floors, along with a basement and attic. Aside from Wendy__ bedroom, there was a laundry room. The dirty water in the sink would rush from the washer hose, bubbling up, threatening to overflow, but it never did. Next-door was a motel with a neon sign that read in turquoise and pink, __e have the best rates in town!_, but the ___ in __ates_ kept flickering on and off day and night so that every few seconds it would switch to, __e have the best rats in town!

An inn, of course, was a place you came to at night (not at three o'clock in the afternoon), preferably a rainy night__ind, too, if it could be managed; and it should be situated on a moor (__leak,_ Kate knew, was the adjective here). And there should be scullions; mine host should be gravy-stained and broad in the beam with a tousled apron pulled across his stomach; and there should be a tall, dark stranger__he one who speaks to nobody__arming thin hands before the fire. And the fire should be a fire__rackling and blazing, laid with an impossible size log and roaring its great heart out up the chimney. And there should be some sort of cauldron, Kate felt, somewhere about__nd, perhaps, a couple of mastiffs thrown in for good measure.

One response was given by the innkeeper when Mary and Joseph wanted to find a room where the Child could be born. The innkeeper was not hostile; he was not opposed to them, but his inn was crowded; his hands were full; his mind was preoccupied. This§ is the answer that millions are giving today. Like a Bethlehem innkeeper, they cannot find room for Christ. All the accommodations in their hearts are already taken up by other crowding interests. Their response is not atheism. It is not defiance. It is preoccupation and the feeling of being able to get on reasonably well without Christianity.