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BY A FRIEND OF YOUTH Pontnal Cadieux & Derome 1603, Notre Dame Street 1887 GREATER VICTORIA PUBLIC LIBRARY \ - p^mr ! ■ 1 r s e 1< "'".'■' : ■ .- ■■ d i. t f ■V i t « a r I- Which was the greatest sacrifice ; which required most Christian resignation or genero- sity ; and which was most richly rewarded, even in this life, wiih heavenly consolations ?I leave these questions for you to answer, my dear young friend, v/hen you will have read the following stories, which have been taken from a popular Catholic magazine. The perusal of this little book, while ser- ving to fill up some vacant moments during the long summer holidays, will, I trust, with our Virgin Mother's blessing, suggest thoughts, and inspire sentiments that may help to pre- pare you for the " Hour of Trial. " The Compiler. TT^^ ii V>i 4 MY ANGEL " He hath given his angels charge over thee. " There's an tingel stands beside my heart, And keepelh guard. How I wish sometimes that he would depart, And its strong desires would cease to thwart With his stern regard ! But he never moves as he standeth there With unwinking eyes ; And at every pitfall and every snare His silent lips form the word, " Forbear I " Till the danger flies. His look doth oft my purpose check And aim defeat. And I change my course at his slightestbeck. •Tis well, or I soon would be a wreck For the waves to beat. SUB UMBRS The hills that like billows swell clear in theduwn, Seen heaving with conscious existence this morn ; For all the broad woods on their bosom serene Are waving their ocean of green I 11 Wow fair I Save yon cloud sailing up from the west, Whose hbadow falls dark on that bright, leafy breast ; But softly 'tis rocked : while beneath it la beard, In wood haunts, the note of the bird. Ill heart I in yon shadow and sofl-heaving sea Thy God hath unfolded a lesson for thee ; For oft while reposing, nealh sunniest skies, A cloud o'er thy rest may arise. But when from that cloud ihe dark shadow shall fall. Heave gently, heave gently — though under the pall I And neath the dark shadow let, sweet as the bird, Thy low, quiet music be heard I Richard Storrs Willis. VERHEYDE?T'S RIGHT HAND. If there were no miisic, I think there would have been no Verheyden. He was an obligate. The child of a violin-player and a singer, both professional, he had been born into au at- mosphere of sweet sounds. His baby eyelids had drooped in slumber to a flute-voice lulla- b7, or some ethereal strain from his father's precious little Cremona. Every breeze that swept over the rippling Neckar or down the wooded mountain-sides, playing mournfully through the wind-harp in the window, caught the child at his play, hushing him. As soon as he could reach them, his fingers sought the keys of the piano ; and from that thrilling mo- ment when first a musical sound stroke at his touch, Verheyden had found his occupation. It became his life. Every feeling found ex- pression at the tips of his lingers, and his fier- cest passions culminated in a discord. It is said that a violin long played upon will show in the wood fluting worn by the " continual dropping " of musical sounds from the strings. So Verheyden seemed wrought upon by his art. He looked like a man who might have stepped from some wild Grerman 10 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? tale. He was called -tall, being slight, and ap- peared to be made of nerves and as little as pos- sible besides. His dark hair rose like the hair in Sir G-odfrey Kneller's portraits, and strea- med back from his forehead as if blown. His thin face was alive with restless gray eyes — the eyes of a listener, not a seer — with fiery nostrils to the slightly aquiline nose, and with an unsteady mouth. He had frequent flitting motions, apparently inconsequent, really timed to some time in his mind ; He was moody, ab- sent, abrupt ; he was too much in earnest about every thing. He had little perception of wit or humor, and he never laughed except with delight. He could be bold, yet he was simple and ingenuous as a child. An enthu- siast, with room in his narrow, intense brain for but one idea at a time ; a man who would take lil'e by the blade rather than the handle ; a man in alto relievo. On the breath of some unaccountable impul- se, he would have said — fulfilling his desti- ny, say we — Verheyden came to the New World, wandered about a little, dazed and ho- mesick, at length engaged to take the place of Laurie, the organist, who was about going to Europe for further instruction. He went into the church one afternoon with Laurie to try the organ. A sultry aftenujon it was, the eve of the Assumption ; bul: inside the church all was coolness and silence and shadow, most home — like to the stranger of any place he had seen this side the ocean. While the organist played he leaned from the choir and looked down into the nave. Laurie WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 11 played with great sweetii>ss and delicacy, and chose first one of those yearnine^ things that touch, but do not rouse, and Verheyden leaned and listened, dreaming himself e>t home. Ah ! the green, cool Neckar flowing down- ward to the Rhine ; all the rafts and all the barges, all the wet and mossy rock ; the over- looking mountains dense with forests to their summits ; the gray outstanding castle crum- bling lothly from its post ; the red roofs of the houses, the churches fair and many ; all the quiet and the color of that home in fatherland. When the organist ceased playing, the drea- mer felt as though he had been in motion and were suddenly stopped. He perceived that ho was waving his hand, and became aware of a little maiden dressed in white who had been going about placing flov^ers, and who, at the sound of music, had sunk upon the altar- steps, and sat there listening, her eyes uptur- ned and fixed on the crucifix. " Who, then, is she ? " asked Verheyden, ns Laurie trifled with the keys, holding the clew while he searched what next to play. Laurie glanced .,0 the mirror before him. " Oh ! she belongs to a frame on the wall, but sometimes steps out and wanders about the church. She sings at service. Call her up here if you can. " . Verheyden hastily took a seat at the organ, and, as the girl rose and prepared to leave the church, a smooth strain sprang like a lasso from under his fingers, and caught her. She went upstairs, and, standing by the orgaiiist, sang Lambillot's Quam Dilecta. Her voice was 12 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? not powerful, but a pure soprano, clear and sweet, making up in earnestness what it lac- ked in volume. She sang with exquisite finish, having taken the kernel of science and thrown away the husk. Musical ornamentation was not with Alice Rothsay vocal gymnastics ; but seemed to grow upon the melody as spontane- ously as tendrils upon the vine. Verheyden laughed with delight when, at the climax of the song, she touched the silver C in alt. What had been a little maiden in the distan- ce was a small young woman when near by. She was blonde ; her oval face had the lustrous paleness of a pearl ; she looked as she sang, pure, sweet, and earnest. One knowing the signs in faces would say that sharp tools must have wrought there to make the eyelids and the mouth so steady. Strangers called her cold ; but those who had once seen her pale gray eyes gro^ '^ luminous thought her fervid. Then begdu again Verheydeu s life, grow- ing richer every day. Musical cognoscenti grew enthusiastic about him : he was a genius, they said, no one before had so well interpreted the old master-pieoet, of song. Laurie was char- ming ; but Verheyden was inspiring. Laurie saw music as in a glass darkly, and strove to tell them how she looked ; but Verheyden gras- ped the goddess with compelling fingers, and led her out before their eyes to dazzle them. His slight form below the towering organ- pipes they compared to Samson between the pillars of the temple of 0-aza. Verheyden was extr uicly happy in his art : pleased, too, to feel the wreath of fame settling m WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 18 on his brow with tingling touches ; and when that august day had slipped back three years, he was thirty years old. John Maynard, the machinist, drew into his mind various abortive notions conceived by men who had lived, or who were still in the sun-drew them in mistrustfully, and foand them stray sparks of genius whose kindred dwelt with him. Uniting, they played pranks on the man ; they made his brain swell and snap as they pushed open the portals of unsuspected chambers ; they sailed through his dreams in the trains of vast shadows, whose shapes he panted to catch as they eluded him in the labyrinths of sleep ; they grouped and they scattered, forming here and there a salient or receding angle, leaving voids to be filled ; they got into his eyes till he forgot to salute his friends and to brush his hat ; they salted his cof- fee and sugared his beef ; they look him on long rambles, where he would wake to find himself standing stock-still, staring at nothing ; they burned up questions and answers before they could reach his lips, and they dislocated his sentences. They wooed, and eluded, and tor- mented, and enraptured him, till, darting on them unawares, he caught a shadow and co- pied it out on paper. Finally, fused into one shape, it sprang from his brain, like Minerva from Jove's armed cap-d-pie. The machinist's invention was clad in iron, and stood shining and winking in the unaccustomed sunshine for everybody to admire. "Which finishes the story of John Maynard's only love. 14 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? Among the many visitors who llocked to see this wonderful invention came one day Ver- heyden, Alice Rothsay and her cousin Rose. They stood and watched smoothly slipping cylinders that coquetted with a band of gold from every gazing window, large wheels that turned deliberately on their dizzy centres, and little families of cogged wheels that made them feel cross-eyed all the deceitful gentleness and guilefull glitter of the creature. Alice Rothsay stretched a venturesome pink finger-tip toward a lazily rocking bar, then with a shiver drew it back. " But I like to look at machinery, " she said ; " it is so self-posses- sed. Besides it is full of curves, which are amiable as well as graceful. Parallels are un- social, and angles are disagreable. " " Parallels are faithful if not fond, " remarked the machinist, and straight lines have an aim and arrive at places. They are the honest lines, the working lines, the strong lines. The reasoner's thought goes like an arrow, the drea- mer's like smoke on a heavy day. I would rather see a cat pounce upon a mouse than run round after her own tail. " — " But the spiral, " she ven- . d. — " Oh ! that's the supernatural, " said the machinist. — " For my part," said Rose, "I don't see why the cat, after having caught her mouse, should not amused herself by running round after her own -uil. It k'^eps her out of the cream. Miss Rothsay turned to look at Verheyden, who was examining another part of the ma- chine. As she looked, he stretched his right WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 15 hand to point a question, and stretched it too far. The cruel teeth caught it, there was a sharp breath that was not quite a cry : John Maynard sprang to stop the machine, and in a moment Verheyden drewback, wild eyed but silent, holding up a crushed and bleeding hand. '* There is no pain, " he said as Maynard knotted the handerchief about his arm : But he staggered while speaking, and the next moment fell. Miss Rothsay had news of him that evening. His hand had been amputated, and he was wild. He wanted to tear the ligatures from his arm and bleed to death, had to be restrained and drugged into quiet. Her -•essenger had left him in a morphia-sleep, pale as the dead, and with only the faintest breathing-. Weeks passed, and the reports were scarcely more cheering. The patient had to be watched lest he should do himself harm ; and as he resented such watching with savage impatien- ce, his attendant's place was no sinecure. Indeed, Verheyden writhed in his circums- tances as upon burning fagots. Wrapped in his art as in an atmosphere, the wrench that tore his hand away left him breathless. Mu- sic, the glory and the sweetness of his life, floated back only just out of reach, tantalizing him w^th remembered and almost possible bliss. Melodies brushed his lips and left a sting : chords stretched broad, golden, electric and reaching to grasp them, he fell into dark- ness. His passionate heart rose and swelled, and found no outlet, but beat and broke 16 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? against an impossibility, like the r.ea on its rocks. Verheyden's occupation was gone. True, he could study phenomena. He was haunted by the ghost of a hand that he could clench but could not see, that sometimes itched at the finger-tips. It would seem that the nerves, confounded at being cut short from their usual station, had not yet learned to send new messages, even sent the old ones blunde- ringly, overdoing in their anxiety to do the best they could. He had sometimes to recol- lect that this troublesome hand was preserved in spirits in a glass jar set in Dr Heme's labo- ratory, on a shelf just behind his pet skeleton. Verheyden read treatises on nerves till his own were no longer telegraphic lines under control, but the wires of a rack to which he was bound. He studied spiritualism till in dim night-watches the veil before the unseen seemed to glide-back. He dived into mesme- rism till all the powers of his mind centred in a will that glittered hard and bright in his eyes, causing the timid to shrink and the pu- gilistic to make fists. But through all those noxious parasites of the tree of knowledge which he recklessly gathered about him moaned ceaselessly his unforgotten bereavement. Or, if he forgot for a moment, it was like drawing the knife from a wound to drive it back again. Having exhausted every other distraction, he started one day for a long walk in the country. He could not walk the city streets without meeting at every step some piercing reminder of his loss. It was iScylla and Cha- WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 11 rybdis. This fancy had caught a spark from everything beautiful in nature, and there was not an outline nor motion, not a sound nor a tint, but found in him some echo. Stately, swaying trees in his path waved the grave movement of an Andante ; the shrill little bird that slid down on a sunbeam through the branches mimicked a twittering strain of Rossini's ; a sigh of air that rose, and swelled and sank again, echoed a phrase of Beethoven; and an unseen rivulet plaved one of Chopin's murmuring soliloquies. Verheyden trod savagely on yielding moss, and crackling twigs, and dry leaves of last year, and on the bluest of blue violets that bloomed bathed in me roon sunshine. He plunged into a by-path and came to a brook that fled as though pursued. It stumbled dizzily over shining pebbles, glided with suspended breath around grassy curves ; it was all a tremble with inextricably tangled sunshine and sha- dow ; it gushed here and there into sweet complaining ; it leaped with white feet down the rocks. Verheyden threw himself upon the bank beside it. He had played such dan- ces, measures that made the dancers giddy, and sent the ladies dazed and laughing to their seats. ** Does he think we are dervishes ? Do take me into the air, " Verheyden laughed ; and the fingers in Dr Heme's glass jar behind the skeleton played a caprice as saucy as Puck plunging with headlong somersaults and alighting on tiptoe. Then, with a groan, he recollected. 2 18 WHICH WA3 THE 0IIEATE3T ? As ho crouched there, h^U wishing the wa- ter were deep enough to drown him, he heard a low-voiced singing near by, and, taking a step presently, he sa\, a picture among the pine shadows. Alice Rothsay, with a red rose in her bosom, sat in the moss, and the green thready grasst's, looking fiiir as Titania, her small figure showing smaller by the boles and branches of the trees. She was hushing her- self silent and smiling, her lucent eyes intent on a humming bird that wandered in the flickering shade and shine of the woods. It foraged for a moment among the shrinking blossoms, the bold little robber ! it snapped at a round bright drop dashed up by the fretted waters, and got a sip, half spray, half sunshine that turned it clean tipsy ; then it made a dart at the rose in Alice Rothsay's bosom, and hung there a little blue buzz with a long bill. The rose trembled over the girl's suppressed laughter and the winged mite flung itself pe- tulantly breast deep in the fragrant petals. Then it reeled away, scared at the bound her heart gave ; for, looking up, she saw Verhoyden. It was the first time they had met since his accident. — " I dare not pity you," she said ; '• the hand of God shows too plainly. " But the moistened eyes, and the unsteadiness of her soft, loitering voice, contradicted the words she spoke. He looked at her in a dazed, lost way, won- dering who then might be deserving of pity. — " We miss you at church, " she went on. " We haV'3 a ditlerent organist every sunday, and I am not used to their accompaniments. WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 19 tho wa- le heard aking a ong the red rose le green nia, her )oles and ing her- 8 intent L in the oods. It hrinking lapped at le fretted sunshine ide a dart and hung .ill. The ippressed itself pe- lt petals, le bound she saw they had • the hand noistened , loitering oke. vray, won- y of pity. \ went on. f Sunday, taniments. I broke down last Sunday. Mrs. Wilder played and at the suscipe that you always played lega- to, she threw in half a dozen bars of explosives. The 'deprecationem' was fired off, every sylla- ble of it, as from a mortar. I jumped as if I'd been blown up. So few know how to accom- pany. It will be better when Laurie comes. But we want to see you at church, Verhey- den. " His face lost its momentary gentleness. " I don't go to church now," he said ; " that is, to what we call church. I've been invoking black spirits and white, blue spirits and gray, all but the white. I've been calling back the soul of Mesmer, I could tell stories that would frighten you. — " Oh ! no, you couldn't, " she said. " If ar- mies in camp should stand together against me, my heart shall not fear'. I might fear for you, though. I have reason to fear for you when you give thought to such delusions. " Verheyden began defending himself with the impatience of one who knows his position to be weak, going over that hackneyed talk about progress and freedom of thought. " Ah ! " she sighed, " there are heights and heisrhts ; and Babel is npt Pisgah. " The fragment of woods in which they had been walking belonged to the estate of mon- sieur Leon, at whose house Alice was visiting; and, as she saw the two approaching, madame herself came out to meet mem. An amiable, worldly woman, a patroness of the arts, grace- ful, cordial, and full of charming little enthu- siasms. Not least among her aesthetic devo- 20 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? tions was that to the toilette, by the help of which she managed to appear forty instead of sixty. She stepped to meet Yerheyden with both her hands extended, tears swimming in her fine dusky eyes. " My dear fri' ud ! " she said. *' At last you remember us. You are wel- come. Where have you been all summer ? " " Summer ! " repeated Verheyden. 1 haven't seen any summer. " And truly the three months had for him been beautiful in vain. He had not seen their glad, pelting showers, their dim, soft rains, nor the glory ol their sunshine, and their moon- lights had been to him as spilt wine. He could not help being soothed by these friends. There was no obtrusive sympathy, no condolence hard to answer to, no affected reserve concerning his affliction. He was free to speak of it or not, as he should choose. They went on with some trifling employment while they talked to him ; or, if silent, he felt their kindly, homelike presence. Then the large, cool house was refreshing after the dust and heat of the city. Silence was sweetest in that sultry noon ; and, presently perceiving it, they did not speak. But the oaks outside rustled like oaks of Dodona and what had seemed silence grew to be fullest sound. There was astir of plants uneasy with growing, multitudinous tiny voices of insects in the grasses, bee and bird and the murmur of waters, the wings of doves that half flew, half dropped, in purple flocks from the eaves, the fall of an over-ripe peach, WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 21 the shrill cicala, the fond sighing of the brood- ing air in whose bosom all these sounds i nestled. Alice rose to lower the crimson curtain over an intrusive sunbeam, ( madame kept her [crimson draperies up all summer, knowing that her complexion needed deep, warm lights,) and out of revenge the brightness poured through the tissue, its gold changed to a rosy- fire. Pausing in that light to listen, she stood aglow, her pale-brown hair, her clear eyes, her white dress. — " It is a Gruido !" whispered Verheyden, with a flash of light across his face. — " No " said madame ; " it is the Charity for which Ruskin longed, floating all pink and beautiful down to earth, the clouds blushing as she passes." The sun went lingeringly down the west, a breeze fluttered up from the south, and they roused themselves to open the windows. A piano drew Verheyden by all his aching heart strings. He seated himself before it and played the base of Rossini's Cujus Animam. As he played, a fair hand stole to the keys at his right and played the Aria. — " It kills me ! Alice, it kills me ! " he moaned out, turning his haggard face toward her. — " Verheyden," she said, " do something heroic ; submit ! " — "To writhe on the rack is not to resist," he said bitterly. — " But how sublime," she urged, " if, instead I of writhing, one could, in the midst of pain, WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? wear a serene face, and rejoice in a serene heart." — " It is easy for you to talk of serenity, " he said impatiently. " You have all you want. You live in music as I lived in it. And what an enchanted life we lived together ! Do you remember the first time I saw you ? Three years ago, it was, on the eve of the Assumption. You sat on the steps of the altar and lis;,ened while Laurie played. I told him you looked like a soprano, and he said you were one, that you had a voice like a violin. Do you re- member how I called you up ? " — " Yes, " she said, smiling at the remem- brance. " No one ever dccompaniea like you. The voice went floating on your music like a shal- lop on the water. Your interludes were nothing more than spray or little wavelets, or like a half-hushed bubbling laughter under- neath the boughs." " And you," he said," you never learned : you sing of nature, and 'tis art that tries to reach you. Laurie always said your roulades were as if you couldn't help them : that he had to look at the score to be sure you didn't make them up as you went along. Come, now, let us try." In the act of turning eagerly to the piano, he recollected and stopped. She touched his arm with an earnest hand. " Delight is dear," she said ; " but never so dear as when we find it in dark places. Let me speak to you of myself, Verheyden, as I have never spoken to any one else. You think my life has been a tranquil one but you mistake. WHICH WAS THE OIIEATEST V 23 a sereno le remem- None.or but few, kuowini:'', I have i',oiie through tragedies that would delight a romance writer. "What I read is dull to what I have experien- ced. If" I am calm, it is because I have nothing left to sulfer. At twenty-five — you didn't think me so old because I am small and blonde — at twenty-five I have exhausted the [)ain8 of life. And. Verheyden, believe me, contradic- tory as it may sound, the highest rapture that earth can give is distilled from its sharpest pains. It is true, even here, that those who weep are blessed. When the strong man, Jesus, rends this ravenous nature of ours, after some days we find sweetness. O Verheyden ! go the Lord with your burden ; and he will give you rest. Do not fill your soul with discord becau- se your hand can no more awaken harmony. That loftier harmony nothing can disturb without your consent. Is it not beautiful to think of — the security of the soul ? llemera- ber, Verheyden, the lightning may strike us, but our souls shall not be smitten ; and they shall not be drowned though the waters cover us ; the earth may burn, but our souls shall not be consumed ; and they shall not be crushed though the heavens fall on us. When I think of these things, I laugh at fear of anything sa- ve sin ; I am lifted ; my body seems dissolving like frost in fire. I cannot comprehend the sad- ness of your face. I am glad ! He looked at her as she stood there pale and shining, then stretched his hand, and, at a ven- ture, touched the scarf he wore. It didn't scorch him. Monsieur Leon came home at sunset, and 24 WHICH WAS THE ORKATEST ? witli him, his son Auguste. Monsieur was one of his wile's enthusiasms. " He is a misanthro- pe," she would say delightedly. " What a listless air ! he cares for nothing. How mourn- ful and hopeless his eyes ' And though his hair is white, he is but litUe over fifty. He is full of poetry and sublimity and learning ; but it is frozen in. His early days were un- fortunate — a poor gentleman, you know — and all his life till he was forty was a struggle for bread. At forty he inherited his property. Then he thought to live, my poor Auguste ! We went to Paris, which we had left as chil- dren. Ah ! well. But he had aspirations, and pressed on toward Italy. There was the Me- dean chaldron, he said. He was ill when we reached there, and saw nothing till one eve- ning he was convalescent, and I took him by the hand and led him out on our balcony. It was a May-moonlight in Venice. The earth can do nothing more. He stood and looked until I thought he had lost his breath, then clasped his hands over his heart as though hj had a great pang and cried out, 'O my lost youth !' He would look no more. He went in and sat with his face hidden in his h inds. It was too late. The next day we started and ca- me back. He looked at nothing as we passed, but sat in the gondola or carriage with his fa- ce hidden. He said it was like setting a feast before the corpse of a man who had died of starvation. So romantic ! " sighs madame, smoothing the lace ruffles from her little hands. Presently, when evening deepened, Au- guste put his head in at the window and ■I WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 26 called them out to see an eclipse of Venus. They stood in the dewy dusk and fragrance of the garden, and watched the star hover, moth-like, near and nearer to the moon see- ming to grow larger and more brilliant as it approached extinction, shining in audacious beauty. Then it touched, trembled, and di- sappeared. — " Served her right ! " cried Auguste, fresh from the classics. — " But, Alice, where is Verheyden ? asked madame. " He recollected Laurie's concert and would go. I tried to detain him, but could not." Verheyden hurried into town to the concert hall, though by no means certain he might not be tempted to fling hinself over the bal- cony. Avoiding acquaintances, he took a seat high up and apart, and looked down upon the audience. Such crowds had flocked to hear him in that lost life of his. Was it indeed lost, or did he dream ? Presently there was music. There came his fugues rolling in like over-lapping billows. How he had played them when his mood had been to plunge in such a surge, he solitary, everything else washed away like seal weed ! He would never breast that tide again ! Sym- phonies sailed over his head ; but he could no more reach to touch their pinions. There was one he had named St. Michael's, from a sharp brightness that swing through it, sword-like. How he had wrestled with those angels ! Then Laurie, being loudly called, stood out, blushing before their praises. 26 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? Bless the boy ! Only that day, bursting into tears, he had clasped Verheyden around the neck, saying : " Dear friend, my success hurts me like failure when I think of you. " To an encore he played : "Comin' through the Rye," improvising variations in which the lovely melody hovered like Undine in the fountain, half veiled in that spray of music, an arch, enchanting thing. As Laurie stood up again, his friend leaned over the balcony and looked down on the young, lifted brow. For one instant their eyes met ; then Verheyden started up and fled out into the night. Father Yinton sat alone in his room medi- tating on a text which was gradually expan- ding, budding, and blossoming into a sermon. He tried not to be vexed when some one knoc- ked at his door at that late hour, and was just controlling his voice to give a charitable summons when the door opened, and Verhey- den, or his ghost, came in, and, without a word of greeting, fell on his knees beside the priest,dropping his face on the arm of the chair. " My poor friend, " said the father, have you not yet forgiven Grod for loving you better than you can understand ? " Verheyden shivered, but said nothing. " Remember whose hands were pierced, not one, but both, and his feet, and his side. F never shrank. " Verheyden's shaking hand held out a little vial. " I shall take this unless you prevent me, " he said, " Help me if there is any help. I dare not be alone." WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 27 Father Vinton unstopped the vial, and taking deliberate aim, flung it through the open window into the street. Then he laid his hand tenderly upon the bowed head. " You shall not be alone," he said. " Stay here to- night ." Blessed are all peace-makers, but thrice bles- sed are those who make peace between the soul and Grod. Blessed are they in whose ears we breathe the tales else unspoken, who- se hands lead us back from the brink of many a precipice where no one dreamed we stood, whose voices soothe the pains hidden to all besides, and inspire with hope hearts that were filled with despair. May such peace- makers be for ever blessed ! Verheyden's religion had been a recollection rather than a remembrance. He had made a point of going to confession and communion once a year ; and had one looked into his mind while he was preparing for these sacra- ments, something like the following might have been seen : " Well, what have I been doing this year ? I haven't committed any sins. I've done nothing but play times. To be sure I broke Smith's fiddle over his head for playing false and spoiling a chorus. Don't suppose that was just right ; though I must say I think the chorus of more consequence than Smith's head. But I must have done something. I'm not a saint yet. Q-uess I'll say a prayer. " Oh ! I remember ! — ; that was mean, I wouldn't believe I could do such a thing if I didn't know I had. I'll be hanged if I do it 28 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST again. Then there's — , and — , and — . Well, confession does put a fellow out of conceit with himself. And there's — ; a dishonest deed, I must own. I don't wonder the Lord gets angry with us ; and how he does wait for us to come round ! I'm g'ladi didn't drop dead to-day. I'm thankful I didn't drop dead to-day ! The. Lord is good. What am I loun- ging on a seat for ? Why don't I go on my knees ? Then there's — . I'm sorry for that, I wish somebody would give me a thrashing for it. I've been sorry for the same sin dozens of times, and accused myself of it, and pro- mised not to commit it again. My resolutions are not worth much. Suppose I can't keep myself out of sin without the Lord's help. I'll ask for it. " At the end Verheyden, sobered and humbled, would present himself to the priest and make a clear and sincere confession. But now religion was to be no more an in- cident, but the business of his life. He was fortunate in his director, for Father Vinton was not only prudent but sympathetic. If, when he read lives of the saints, Verheyden longed for ecstasies which should thrill him as sensibly as music could, the father did not reprove his presumption, but said : " My son, such favors do not come when they are looked and asked for ; they are unexpected. Strive to render yourself worthy of Grod's friendship, and forget the reward till he shall please to bestow it. " If, kneeling before the altar, his eyes full of tears, the intensity of his gaze de- feating itself, Verheyden fancied that the cross WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 29 Well, ouceit honest Lord wait drop p deiid loun- hpfore him quivered with its burden, and that the aureoled head grew to be the head of a living, suffering man whose eyes turned pitifully on him — the father did not call his penitent crazy. — '• Perhaps he grieves to j&nd you so unre- conciled, " he said. " "When with a loving violence he tore the idol from your grasp in order to give you a work wherein the end would not be forgotten in the means, he ex- pected your submission. Perhaps he grieves to see that you reject all work. " Verheyden blushed painfully as he extended his mutilated arm. " What can I do ? " — " Take charge of your singing-class again." For one instant he faced the priest with a sudden fierceness, the last spark of rebellion in him. Then his face faded and drooped. — " I will, sir. " — " Miss Rothsay will play for you when you need her. " — " Yes, father. " And Verheyden went back to the drudgery of his profession, missing its delights, and did his duty faithfully if not cheerfully. There could have been no severer test. There was no more talk of visions and tran- ces. But every morning a shadow of a man stole into the chapel, knelt near the door, and went out as quietly after the mass was over. Once a fortnight the same shadow came to Father Vinton's side and made a sincere but disheartening confession. The spring of the musician's spirit was broken. — "You are ill," the priest said to him one day. 30 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? — "No," answered Verheyden dreamily. "My heart troubles me a little. It beats too fast. There's nothing else the matter with me. " He was told that he ought to consult a doc- tor. — " I thought I would, " was the answer ; " but I forgot it. What is in the church ? " — " Laurie with the choir practising a new mass. To-morrow is the Assumption, you know. " — " Oh ! yes. I'll go in and listen awhile ; shall I ? " — " My poor boy ! " said the priest. Will it not give you more pain than pleasure ? " — " No, father, it doesn't hurt me now. " Groing into the choir, Verheyden took a seat apart and unseen. He leaned wearily, closed his eyes and listened, hearing the voices more than the instrument, hearing one voice through all . When Alice Rothsay uplifted her pure voice and sang the Dona nobis pacem, tears dropped slowly down his face ; but they were not tears of bitterness. Presently all but Alice left the church. As on that day, four years before, when he had first seen her, she had flowers for the altars. It was a delight for her to get into the church alone, as she now believed herself to be. If she were good, she knew not. No matter : Grod is good. She felt as though she were among dear friends with melody by to criticise. Her delight bubbled up almost over the verge of reverence. But perfect love cas- teth away fear ; and she loved. " Rosa Mystica, here are roses. Pray for me. WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 31 And lilies for St- Joseph, whom I often forget. He is so near yon he is lost, like the morning- star in the morning. St-Paul, I bring you fine plumes, and cardinal flowers like living coals. But you look ag though you would scorch them up with a push from the point of your pen, writing epistles toward the four winds. O Unseen One ! what shall I offer you ? The earth is yours, and the fulness thereof. I can- not oCTer myself, for I am not mine to give. But if you love me, take me. O Sweetness ! " Sunset flashed through the windows, and every saint caught an aureola. Then the day went out bright and loth. When the sanc- tuary lamp began to show its flame in the gathering twilight, Alice Rothsay rose with a happy heart, and went home. Verheyden was happy, too ; he scarce knew why, perhaps because the happiness of another made his own seempossible.He groped his way down to the chapel, and found Father Vinton hearing confessions. " God is with him, " thought the priest when Verheyden hud left him. " He is like a child. " The same child-like sweetness shone in the face raised the next morning for communion. G-oing out of the chapel after his thanks gi- ving, Father Vinton saw his penitent still kneeling there. " I wish I had asked hira to pray for me, " he said. " I must see him when he comes out. He waited half an hour watching, but no one appeared. The father would not for any- ay for me. H thing disturb so sacred a devotion ; but Iv felt 32 WHICH Was THE GREATEST ? like looking again. G-oing back to the chapel he saw the lonely worshipper still in place, but in a slightly changed attitude. He was leaning a little wearily on the desk before him, and his shoulder and head rested against a pillar beside. His pale face was lifted, as though some one above had spoken, and he had looked up to answer. Father Vinton hesitated, then went nearer. A morning sunbeam came in though an eastern window, stole in tender, tremulous gold over the musician's hair and brow, and looked in- to eyes. So Magdalene might have looked in- to the sepulchre.The father bent and looked also. Ah, Verheyden ! Some One above had spo- ken, and he had answered. AIMJ&E'S SACRIFICE. CHAPTER I. The sun was sinking in the horizon, and the sky was overspread with a glorious array of many-colored clouds — those hues which ar- tists so vainly try to reproduce on canvas, and which it is still more impossible to describe in words. It was a soft, balmy summer evening, the 14th of August, and nature seemed as if ready to join with faithful hearts in keeping the coming feast and to give them a faint shadow of the glories of heaven. Very fair was the landscape which lay outspread before the spectator's eye from the church yard of the little village of tSt. Victoi*, raised as it was on a slight eminence above the rest of the village. Beech-woods, softly undulating hills, fertile dales, cottages scattered here and there, and the sea shining like silver in the far distance, formed the de- lightful prospect ; and the old cure, as ho tra- versed the churchyard which alone separated the modest presbytery from the church, could never help pausing to admire the wonderful beauty ol the scene. On this evening particu- larly, he stood looking up into the gorgeous 3 34 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? sky with the earnest wistful gaze of one who would lain pierce through " each tissued fold " of that marvellous curtain of blue and gold. The little church of St. Victor did not boast much architectural beauty, and the churchyard was filled with simple green mounds and wooden crosses, with here and there a few shrubs and wild flowers, showing that it was the resting - place for the poor and the lowly. The village itself was very small, but there were many outlying hamlets, so that on Sun- days a goodly congregation filled th6 church. While the cur6 was still standing absorbed in thought, a side-door of the church gently opened, and a young girl, about eighteen, very simply dressed, but with a grace in her appea- rance and movements which showed her to be above the peasant rank, came out. The face which she raised as she approached the cur§ was radiant writh beauty and with innocence ; the lines of care had not yet marked their fur- rows on the smooth brow or cheeks ; but there was a shade, as if cast by coming sorrow over the countenance, and on the long, dark eye- lashes tears were still trembling. '* "Well, my child, " said the cur6, " are your labors over ? " " Yes, father," she replied ; " I have finished everything, and I do think Our Lady's altar looks beautiful. The ferns make such a good background and show all the flowers to advan- tage — . Oh ! I think it will look lovely at be- nediction to-morrow, and we will take such pains with the music ! father ! " she conti- nued, " If mamma could but come and see it WHICH WAS THE aREATEST ? 35 and hear Mass ! I did so hope she would be well enough. I have prayed so often for it." And her eyes filled with tears. — "Ah! Aim6e,"said the cure,"sometiraes our prayers are very blind ones, and, like the apostles of old, we know not what we ask. I have just been to see your mother — ." — " And how did you find her ? what do you think of her, father ? " said Aimee eagerly. "' I do think she is a. little better — just a trifle, you know ! The priest made no answer for a moment, then he said : '* Aimee I do not think she is better, and she has asked me to speak to you. She would not have sorrow come on you too suddenly. My child, my poor child, your mo- ther is going fast where she will no long(3r need an earthly altar, and where she may gather flowers in the gardens of eternal bliss. You have loved her well, my poor Aimee ; will you not give her up to his keeping who hath loved her best of all ? " Aim6e had clasped her hands tightly to- gether, and the color had faded from her cheek, Jhe raised her eyes to the sky above, still ra- jdiant with its glorious hues. Within those [masses of golden clouds she fancied she could [see the pathway which should lead to the [paradise of God. She turned her eyes to earth igain, and, bowing her head, she said, " Fiat jvoluntas tua. " Father " she continued, " I have ill but known this for weeks past. I have [seen it in the doctor's face, in yours, but I strove to hide it from myself. " — •' I have hesitated to speak sooner, " said 3G WHICH Was the GREATEST ? the priest, but to-day a letter has come from your undo in Eni»land lor your mothoj, en- closed to me. I took it to her ; and its con- tents are such that it rrada r. . feel the time has come when you must face the truth with her and listen to her counsels for the future. " Aimee closed her eyes in sudden anguish, while a sharp pain shot through her heart. " The future, father, " she said — " the future without her ? " — "Courage, dear child," answered he. "Life is not long. When we look back on the years, they seem but as a day. Even for the young, who knows what its lenght may be ? " And Aimee knew from the tone of his voice that he was thinking of the fair young sisters, of the merry brothers, one week laughing gayly in the old Chateau de Clarean and planning their future ; the next standing on the scaffold, already wet with the blood of their father and mother. This scene he had witnessed as a young man, escaping by miracle from a simi- lar fate. And it is not to be wondered that from henceforth life had seemed to him but a troubled and rapidly passing dream. " I must go to the church, now, " said the cur6 after a moment's pause. Aim6e followed him, and, going in, sank on her knees at the foat of Our Lady's altar, so recently decked by her own nimble fingers. The church was si- lent ; and the last rays of the setting sun came through the west window, made lines of gol- den light upon the pavement, and cast a halo around the head of the young girl who knelt there absorbed in prayer. Never had Aimee WHICH WAS THE OREATEST ? 37 e from lei, en- its con- irae has ith her re." inguish, r heart, e f ature 16. "Life ho years, ! young, ? " And )ice that isters, of ig gayly planning s scaffold, ither and 3sed as a m. a simi- that from im but a prayed before as she prayed now. It is not till sorrow is fairly upon us, till we realize that our individual battle is begun, that the bitter- ness which only our own heart knows is really at our lips — that we pray with intonsity, Aimee poured out her whole heart, and offered herself to do the will of -God in all things. She asked that his will might be done in her and by her ; she renounced the happiness of life, if it were necessary for its accomplish- ment. In after years, Aim6e looked back upon that prayer ; and felt that her offering on the thres- hold of her life had indeed been accepted. The sunset had faded ; at last twilight had settled on the earth, when Aim6e left the church and hastaned home. said the followed !es at the iecked by ih was si- sun came es of gol- ;ast a halo Arho knelt ad Aimee J ' CHAPTER II. Before we follow her footsteps, we must pause for a few instants to tell the past histo- ry of Aimee's mother. Marie- Angelique de Brissac was, like the cure, the sole survivor of a numerous family, who all perished in the Kevolution. She, then a mere child, escaped in the arms of her foster-mother, who con- veyed her to England, and devoted her whole life to bringing up the little girl and procu- ring for her a good education. When Marie was about seventeen, she insisted on sharing her old nurse's burdens, and procured daily pupils. She taught the children of a surgeon in the small country town where the old French woman had taken nr^ her abode. And it so happened that Captain G-eorge Morton, of her majesty's — the cavalry, was thrown from his horse and broke his leg at the very door of Mr Grrant's house. His recovery was tedious, and he chafed exceedingly at the con- finement, and became at last so irritable and peevish that poor Mrs Grant, unable to please him, delegated the task to her young French governess. The result may be easily foreseen. George Morton loved Marie jjas- WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 39 e must it histo- que de vivor of L in the escaped ho con- jr whole d procu- iii Marie sharing ed daily surgeon the old de. And Morton, s thrown the very very was ; the con- irritabla mable to er young be easily [arie pas- sionately and was beloved in return. They were speedily married ; and as Greorge Morton knew it would be useless to ask his father's consent, he did without it, and then wrote to announce his marriage to the old man, and ask leave to bring his bride to the paternal man- sion in Russell Square, London. The spoilt and favorite sou of a rich merchant, indulged in every whim he could recollect, George was little prepared for the storm of anger that burst upon him for the step he had taken. Mr. Morton had lost his wife many years before, and devoted himself — heart and soul, body and mind — to the requisition of wealth, in which pursuit he was warmly aided by his eldest son, Ralph. But the whole hearts of the two silent, cold, apparently sordid - minded men where set on G-eorge, the handsome, care- less, liberal, merry younger son. George was to make a great match, to sit in parliament, and in time attain a peerage ; and, as, according to rumor, Lady Adelaide O.swala was only too willing to enable him to take the first step in the programme, the news of George's marriage to a penniless French governess was more than the concentrated pride of the two natures could bear. George was forbidden ever to communicate with his family again, and his handsome allowance was cut off. George laughed heartily, told his wife the cloud would soon pass, thanked Heaven he was not in debt, and declared it would be an agreeable novelty to have to live on his pay and the in- terest of the few thousands he had inherited from his mother. 40 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? In less than two years after his marriage he was again thrown from his horse, and met this time with such mortal injuries that he never spoke again, and expired in a few hours. His fellow-officers did all they could for the young, brokeu-he*^^ted widow and her infant daughter. T..{.f» ■ manding officer wrote to Mr. Morton to iiat^iore help, but the appeal was in vain. It was then thought better to purchase a small annuity for Mrs. Morton with the little funds Q-eorge had died pos- sessed of ; and as she had heard that one of the early friends of her family had been appointed cure to the little village of St- Victor, she de- termined upon going there, at least for a time. There her old nurse, who followed her every- where, died, and there she continued to live and educate her child. Time had softened her great sorrows, and her existence had been for many years a happy r.nd tranquil one. Her child grew up in ■ »itiv;^' and grace and possessing every dispcs^ ' ■.■. . <-t heart and mind a mother could desire. -. >V . had a fear, it was that her nature was toi _;e;>r.le, too pliant, too ready to forget herself for oiiiers, to enable her to battle alone with a hard and cruel world. Aimee Morton was one of those b'^'ngs whom nature seems to intend should be always safe- ly sheltered from the struggles of life. They should lean on some nature stronger than their own, like the tendril« which wind themselves round a tree. But "A : : .1 Mrs. Morton spoke of this fear of hers to fci cure, he only smiled, and bode her rememl>cr tnat it is the meek who inlierit the earth. When, however, Mrs. WHICH WAS THE GEEATEST ? 41 Qarriage and met that he TV hours. for the infant wrote to appeal >etter to Morton ied pos- ne of the ppointed she de- •r a time, er every- sd to live softened lad been [uil one. ;race and md mind a fear, it 30 pliant, to enable lel world. ]^s whom f^ays safe- ife. They ;han their lemselves I spoke of y smiled, the meek iver, Mrs. Morton perceived that consumption was ma- king rapid strides in her constitution, a pang of mortal agony shot through her when she thought of what was to be Aimee's fate, left alone in a pitiless world. The cure was an old man and she could not, therefore, hope that he could long watch over and protect her darling child. Besides, Mrs. Morton's annuity ceased with her life, and there were no means at St- Victor for Aimee to earn her bread. She was well educated ; her mother had taken great pains in teaching her, and the cure had made it his delight to increase her stock of knowledge Greorge Morton's father had long been dead, and Ralph had succeeded to the full enjoy- ment of the old man's wealth. No sign of re- lenting had come from that death-bed to the unoffending wldf^w and orphan of his once loved son. And now, emboldened by the ap- proach of death, which so levels the distinc- tions of earth in the eyes oi those just hovering on eternity, Mrs. Morton wrote to Ralph,telling him she was on the brink of the grave, and im- ploring his help for the child she would leave behind her. She enclosed her letter in one from the cure and doctor confirming her statement. And after many day's suspense the answer had come. Aim6e and her mother lived in a little cot- tage close by the presbytery. It had origi- nally been but a peasant's cottage, and it did, in fact, contain but four small rooms ; but Mrs. Morton had gradually transformed it into a most graceful little home. Creepers twined round the white walls, and roses pee- 42 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? ped in at the window. A pretty garden sur- rounded the house ; while inside, the furni- ture, though simple, was gracefully arranged; flowers, books and pictures adorned the little sitting room, and an air of refinement pervaded the dwelling. In that sitting-room, reclining in an easy-chair, propped up with pillows, lay Mrs. Morton. A stranger would have been astonished to find that Aimee could pos- sibly have been in ignorance as to her mother's state ; but the change had come so gradually that it was not to be wondered at that the poor child had fondly hoped on even to the last. But to other eyes the emaciated form, the sun- ken eyes, the hectic glow, the short, dry cough, told their own tale. Aira6e hastened to her mother, and was clasped in her arms in a long, close embrace. — "You know all, my darling ? " said she. — "YeSjSweet mother, the cure has spoken." And Aimee resolutely steadied her voice and drove back the rising tears. " Be at peace about me, mother dear, Grod has gi.en you to me for a long time : I must not grudge you to him, if he wants you now. " — " My own child ! " said Mrs Mor- ton. And she fondly kissed the bright, soft brown hair of the head lying on her shoulder. " Grod guard thee ever, and he ivill guard thee. He is the Father of the orphan. Aimee, I will trust him about you. " — " And may be it won't be very long, you know, mother, " said Aimee. You are going home before me : you will be waiting for me on the other side. " WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 43 A long, silent kiss was Mrs. Morton's answer. — " And this letter, mother, may I see it ? " — " Yes, dearest,here it is." And a letter in a thick, blue envelope, with a large, red, official looking seal, was put into her hands. Its contents were brief, and might have been sup- posed to refer rather to an assignment of goods than the future fate of an orphan niece. Mr. Ralph Morton stated that, in the event of Mrs. Greorge Morton's death, he was willing to adopt her daughter Aimee, to provide for her during his life, and to leave her a sufficien- cy at his death, provided her conduct was such as he should approve of ; that before her arrival in England he should require copies of his brother's marriage certificate and the child's baptismal register ; that he should be willing to pay all expenses of her journey to England so soon as he should receive inti- mation of her readiness for departure ; but that he wished it to be distinctly understood that he would have nothing to do with his niece during Mrs. Morton's lifetime, nor would he pay any debts contracted by that lady, or hold any further communication with her. The blood rushed to Aimee's check and brow as she read the last sentences. " Even on the threshold of the grave, could not that last insult have been spared ? " thought she. She gave a glance at her mother's peaceful face, and realized that it is precisely on that thres- hold that insult loses its sting. Mr. Morton's taunt had no power to move the heart so soon to be done with earth. 44 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST? From this day the mother and daughter often spoke together of the time when they should be separated, and Aimee received many a wise counsel from her mother's lips, to be treasured up for days to come. Mrs. Morton told her all she knew of the character of the uncle who would soon be her only relativ^e. Very early in life he had been disap- pointed in his aflections and treated with great treachery. From that hour he grew hard, morose, and unfeeling and threw himself with all the strength of his iron nature into the acquisition of wealth. Still, however, his strong affection for his brother Greorge had survived the wreck of his better nature and Greorge had always firmly believed that Ralph's anger would in the event of his death be ended, and that he would extend protec- tion to his wife and child. " And therefore, my child," said Mrs. Morton, " I felt compelled to write once more to your uncle, believing that in doing so I was ful- filling what would have been my husband's will , and it will comfort you to feel, when you are with him, that you are doing what your father would have wished." Mr. Morton was, Mrs, Morton believed, a man totally without religion. She counselled Aimee to bear the trials of her lot patiently, to do all she could to conciliate her uncle, and to draw him to a better life ; but, if she found her life in his house was more than her strength could bear, or if any principle were in danger, she was to try and seek employ- ment as a governess. The cure was going to WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 45 aughter ill they eceived ir's lips, Mrs. laracter er only n disap- d with e grew himself ure into ever, his rge had tare and ed that lis death , protec- , Morton, 3 to your was ful- usband's il, when ing what . Morton 1 totally ymee to to do all I to draw ound her tian her pie were employ- going to furnish her with a letter of introduction to a French priest in London, who would in that case advise her how to act. And 60 the days went on. September, which happened to be that year a warra,radiant summer month, flew by without any percep- tible change in the invalid, but early in Oc- tober came cold north winds, rain, and mists. Mrs. Morton was taken suddenly worse, and the last sacraments were administered. After receiving them, she rallied and was able to be lifted from her bed to a sofa the window. Aimee hardly left instant, she grudged that any one placed near her for an but herself shoud render any service to the being so soon to leave her. One night Mrs. Morton awoke from an uneasy sleep ; the day was begin- ning to break, and, as the feeling of suffoca- tion which she often experienced in bed came on, Aimee assisted her to the sofa, and then kneeling by her side, they both watched the sun arise in his glory, just purpling the day above, then making the heavens glorious with his presence. Mrs. Morton opened her eyes and took one long gaze on the e'arth which looked so fair, and on the beautiful sky. Then she turned to her daughter, and she laid her head on that loving breast. I am going from you, my Aimee," she said •, " but remember always, I am not gone to a Stranger." Aim6e pressed her lips softly, and Mrs. Mor- ton seemed to sleep. In that attitude the old servant Marthe found them when she entered the room an hour later. And then only did i6 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST Aim6e wake to the consciousness that her mo- ther had slept into death, and that she had heard her last words. Those words rang in Aim§e's ears as she performed the last sacred offices to the dead. Solemnly she fulfilled her task ; there were no tears in the large, soft eyes nor on the pale cheek ; she compassed those dear limbs in their shroud ; she crossed the wasted hands upon the breast, and laid the crucifix, so loved in life, between the fingers ; then, when the cur6 entered the room, she tur- ned to him and said : " Father, she is not gone to a Stranger." "No," he iswered ; " to her Friend and Bro- ther who is also yours and mine, my child. Leave, then, this poor earthly tabernacle, Ai- m6e, for a while, and come and meet her at his feet." And Aim6e went with him to Mass. OHAFl^KR IIL It was all over : the wasted form of Marie Aiigelique de Brissac Morton was laid in the quiet grave, where the rays of the rising sun would play upon the grass ; where the shadow of the sanctuary wall would shelter it ; where w^ild roses and sweet-brier would scent the air ; where the cure would come daily to say a De Profundis ; and which the faithful villa- gers, who had loved the sleeper well, would always reverently tend. There Airaee left her ; there she shed her last tears in the early mor- ning before she began her journey ; there she knelt at the cure's feet for his last blessing , and the old man's voice faltered as he pro- nounced the words. Mrs. Morton's death and Aimee's departure had robbed his life of the little sunshine that it had possessed ; but he murmured not, and rather rejoiced that tie after tie was cut which should bind him to the love ot earth. With far more calmness than could have been expected, Aim§e bade farewell to the only home and friends she had ever known, and set out to meet her new and untried future. She had never been farther 48 WHICH WAS THE ORKATEST ? till I 1' than to tho country town nearest her village, and the journey astonished and bewildered her. More than one compassionate and admi- ring glance was cast on the slight, lovely girl, attired in such deep mourning, and whose eyes were so dim with unshed tears. A trusty former of St. Victor, saw hor to the sea-cost, and put her in charge of the captain of the vessel in which she was to reach England. He in his turn consigned her to the guard of the train. At length Aimee found herself standing in a London railway station, with people jostling, pushing, vociferating, swearing around her, each intent on his own business and all un- mindful of others. A footman at last came up to ask her name, and, finding she was Miss Morton, told her he was sent for her. He showed her to a fly which was waiting, and having found her luggage, she was soon rol- ling through the streets. At those long, dreary, interminable streets Aimee looked with a kind of awe and oppression. She was thankful when the carriage stopped at the door of one of the large, gloomy-looking mansions to be found in Russel Square. Another footman opened the door, and she entered. No voice- welcomed her, no hand was streched out to meet hers, no smile greeted her. A house-maid appeared to lead her up-stairs. She found her- self in possession of a large room furnished in the heavy style in fashion forty years ago. A luxurious four-post mahogany bedstead half- filled the apartment, hung with dark-brown damask ; the window-curlains were of the same hue. There was a massive wardrobe, WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 49 chairs which could hardly be moved, and an empty fire-place. Aimee shuddered, but not with cold ; and, when the door closed behind the servant, she threw herself into a chair and wept bitterly. Presently she rose, weeping still, but it was to oast herself on her knees and press her crucifix to her lips. She soon grew calm ; the sense of loneliness passed away. She had a Friend who never left her, in whose company the dreariest room was bright ; and Aimee rose comforted and at peace. She went to the window and looked out. Below her was a small paved court, and beyond the house a vista of other houses and lanes ; not a speck of green nor a flower met her eye ; but she looked higher still, and she saw the sky, very cloudy at that moment cer- tainly ; " but then," thought she," it will be often blue, and I can look at it. And so she tried to enliven the prospect. A knock at the door interrupted her musings, and there ente- red a cheerful, elderly woman, who courtesied respectfully, and announced she was Mrs. Con- nell, the housekeeper. As her eyes travelled over Aimee's sad,wan face and deep mourning, an expression of compassion u-xi interest came into her countenance. " Do you want any- thing, miss ? " she asked. " Sure, it was only this morning that Mr. Morton told me you were coming, and so things are hardly straight for you. Will you take some tea, ma'am ? Dinner won't be served for an hour. " — " Is my uncle at home ? " — '■ No, miss, and will not before half an hour ; then he goes to dress, and then dinner 50 WHICH WAS THE OREATEST ? is served. Why, Miss Morton," said tho good woman, bvightcnini^ as she saw Aimee'o cru- cifix on the table, " you're a Catholic ! To be sure I never thought oi' that, though I knew Mr. G-eorge had married a French lady." — "Are you one, Mrs. Connell ?" said Aim6e, with a smile. miss. I am an Irish woman, may know." But as Aimee 'nglish save from her mother Connell's accent was quite nne felt, however, she had and she gladly accepted Mrs. — "To be sure, as perhaps you had never hearr^ and the cure, lost upon her. found a friend Connell's help in unpacking and getting ready for the formidable interview with her uncle. They met in the drawing room a few mo- ments before dinner. Mr. Morton put out two of his fingers with an icy," How are you? " after which he relapsed into silence. When dinner was announced, he gave her his arm, and they went into the dining-room. Two footmen and a butler waited. The plate was magnificent, the dinner very fine ; but not one word was addressed to the poor, lovely girl, too teirified to eat. Once or twice she made a desperate effort to break the ice of her own accord, but she found evidently that this was disliked, and she gave it up. And so day succeeded day, and there was no alteration in her uncle's behavior. He might have been deaf and dumb as iar as intercourse with him was concerned. Kii orders about her — few, brief.and decisive — were given to Mrs. Connell. She was to furnish herself with clothes from certain shops which he named, and whose WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 51 !To be I knew ready 3r uncle, few mo- put out .reyouf When his arm, m. Two )late was but not lovely wice she ice of her that this d so day oration in avo been with him er — few, . Conneil. thes from id whose bills were 1o be sent to him. As soon as pos- sible, she waj to leave off her heavy mourning. She was never to go out alone ; and as for exer(;ise, the Square Gardens would suffice. And having delivered himself of these senti- ments, Mr. Morton apparently considered his duty to his orphan niece was done. He i)ro- vided her with i uther employment nor amu- sement ; he gave her no pocket money; and she had nothing but a small Hum v/hich re- mained to her when all the expenses at St, Victor were paid. The young girl, brought up, as she had been, in the open country, ac- customed to sea and mountain air, to work in her garden and take long, rambling walks to the hamlets round the village, felt like a caged bird pacing up and down the gravel paths of Russell Square. She enjoyed one comfort, that of the daily walk to Mass with Mrs. Con- neil ; and be the weather what it might, the two figures of the old woman and young girl might be seen flitting through the dusk to the nearest Catholic church. Still it was almost impossible to avoid losing both health and spirits in such an atmosphere. She was very courageous, and she struggled resolutely against depression and ennui, a word of which she for the first time began to understand the meaning. She wrote long letters to the cure, and his answers, containing every scrap of village news, were eagerly devoured, as well as some beautiful thoughts on higher themes which he never failed to give her. She pulled down the long disused books in her uncle's li- brary, and, guided by a list the cure had given 52 WHICH WAS THE aUEATEST ? her — for in the days ci' exile he had attained a good knowledge of English literature — she read a good deal. She practised on the old, long-disused piano in the d.*awing-room,much to Mrs. Connell's delight. She tried to teach herself Italian ; and, as visiting the poor was strictly forbidden by her uncle, she spent some of her own money in buying materials, and made clothes for them. Then in the Square Grardens, she made friends with the children who with their nurse-maids o\^ersproad the place. She soon became their fi lend, favorite, and slave, was alternately a he :-se for Master Walter and a lady in waiting for Miss Beatric^e, or a perpetual fountain of story-telling to the whole tribe. Society she saw literally none , one guest only ever sat at Mr. Morton's table, and his appearance Aimee soon learnt to dread rather than desire. Mr. Hulme was Mr. Mor- ton's partner, a little wiry man with sharp fer- ret eyes, and his harsh cynical conversation was far worse to Aimee than her uncle's silen- ce. He took little notice of her ; but it was deeply painful to the poor girl to have all that she held most sacred treated as a fit subject for scorn and ridicule, to hear honor and faith and nobility and truth scoffed at as impossibilities. Many natures might have been warped by hearing such sentiments ; but Aimee's child- like faith and innocence were a secure shii'ld, and not one of Mr. Hulme's coarse remarks ever clung to her memory. CHAPTER IV. Every now and again Aimee understood that she, though not directly named, formed the subject of conversation between the two partners. She was in some way connected with the return of " Robert," though who Robert was, or where he was coming from, she had not the slightest conception, and she felt too weary at heart to indulge much curiosity. Christmas came, and poor Airaee's heart was sqre indeed. At such a period the happiest fa- mily has some sad memories — there are some vacant places at the board, some voices whose tone we listen for in vain , but with Aim6e what a change since last year ! She could not but think of the i .dnight Mass, the gathering of the villagers, he sky radiant with stars, her mother's kiss, tiie cure's blessing ; how, later in the day, she had waited on the poor and gladdened many a heart, and how she had trimmed the church's arches with holly, and how she had dressed the creche. Now there .were no such delights for her ; still she drove back her tears. She thought of her mother's Christmas in heaven, really singing the Ange- M WHICH WAS THE Or.EATEST ? lie song'. And in the dinj^y London chapel a few hollyberries were glistening, and upon the altar was the same Lord, the same Friend and Comforter ; and Aimee, as she walked home through the streets, when a fog was be- ginning to turn to rain, and when every ob- ject looked a dirty brown color, felt in her heart that she possessed the greatest blessing the festival could bring — peace of heart. She dreaded the dinner because she feared Mr. Hulme would be present ; but on entering the drawing room she found, to her surprise, a gentleman whom she had never seen before. He was lying back in one of the easy-chairs, a newspaper in his hand, as if quite at home. On her entrance he sprang to his feet, and Ai- mee saw he was a young man about five-and- twenty, with a fair, open countenance beaming with good humor and cheerfulness. Miss Morton, I presume. Allow me to in- troduce myself, as there is no one at hand to perform the ceremony. I am Rol "rtClaydon, at your service, nephew to the redoubtable Mr. Hulme. I am not vain enough to suppose he has talked of me in my al>sence." — " I have heard him speak of some one cal- led Robert," said Aimee, smiling — " I have been in Holland these three months," he replied, " on business of the firm, and returned only last nii^ht." The entrance of Mr. Morton and Mr. Hulme put a stop to the conversation ;but Aimee soon found that dinner was a very diilerent matter in pres(mco of ti"n> nrw guest Mr. Hulme was in the highest good humor WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 55 Mr. Morton less icy than usual, whilo Robert's flow of spirits seemed inexhaustible. All the little incidents of an ordinary journey from Hamburg to London were told in such a man- ner as to make them amusing; and when Aim6e went to bed that night, she felt as if a ray of sunshine had saddenly lightened her life. Sunshine, indeed, was the word that could best express the effect produced by Robert Claydon's presence. There was suns- hine in his laughing blue eyes, in his merry smile in his joyous voice. Having learned the secret of personal happiness, his one desire was to make others happy, and morose indeed were the natures he did not gladden;and Aimee soon f nid Ihat he was not only bright and genial, bcu noble in character and heart Mr. Hulme had lon£» intended to ii, ive Robert his heir, and sin *• the arrival of Aimee, the partners had formed the schem ' of mar- rying her to Robert, and tnus keeping the pro- perty of the firm intact. Her wishes i ' the matter the old men little thought of, nor wore Robert's much considered, exc^^ot that they each knew too well Robert would not be dic- tated to in so important a matter as the choice of a wife. It was, however, not long after ^ return to England that the " firm '' intiraaiod the pur- port of their august will to Robert. "The course of true love never did run smooth," was his smiling answer. "This little Aimee is, I believe, the A^ery ideal I have imagined to myself for a wife, and by all laws of romance, you, our respected uncles, ought to forbid the 5G WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? match, or cut us off with a shilling, instead of actually urging- us on ; but now, remember," added he, " a fair field, or I am off the bargain. No using of commands to the poor little mai- den. I will win her on my own merits and af- ter my own fashion, or not at all." And so the weeks passed on, and Robert began seriously to doubt whether he had really made progress. Aimee was always pleased to see him ; she had lost all shyness and embarrassment in his pre- sence. There is no self-possession so perfect as that given by simplicity, and Aimee, who ra- rely thought about herself, was always at her ease. She trusted Robert implicitly, and had learned to tell him about her home, her former pursuits, and even of her darling mother. She never tried to analyze her feelings ; she only knew that her whole life was changed since that Christmas-day by the constant intercour- se with this new friend ; and Robert, whose whole heart was given to her, feared that she only regarded him with sisterly affection, and he feared to speak the words which might, in- stead of crowning his hopes, banish him from her side. One evening in the early spring, Aimee was sitting at the piano trying some new music Robert had given her. Robert was not far off, and Mr. Hulme and Mr. Morton were linger- ing, according to their custom, in the dining- room. A servant entered with letters. — " Are there any for me ?" said Aimee, tur- ning round eagerly. " The French letters often come by this post, and it is so long since I heard from St. Victor." WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 61 — "Yes," said Robert, bringing- her the letter, " here it is, post-mark, foreign stamp, and all." — "But not his handwriting ?"said Aimee in a surprised tone, and she tore the letter open, A sudden paleness overi. pread her face, the let- ter fell from her hands, and she looked up into Robert's face with an expression of mute agony. —"My poor child !" said Robert,in a tone so gentle, so full of sympathy, that Aimee broke down. — " He is gone !" she sobbed out ; "my last, my only friend." — " Nay, not so," cried Robert ; " I would Aimee ! O darlinff ! you give me your give my life for you, my can you care for me ; can heart for mine ? " She gave one look only from her innocent eyes, still full of tears, but that one glance suf- ficed ; it removed all doubt from Robert's mind. He felt that he was indeed beloved with a woman's first and ardent attachment. Henceforth their joys and their sorrows were to be in common. After a time they read the letter together. It was from the doctor of St- Victor, and told how the cure had died sud- denly while kneeling before the altar in silent prayer, a frequent custom of his throughout the day. He had fallen sideways, his head resting on the altar step, a smile of childlike sweetness on his lips, his rosary twined about his hands, his breviary by his side a soldier with his armor on, lie had been called by his Master to join the church triumphant. For such a loss there could be no bitterness, and Aimee's sorrow was calm and gentle. And m WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? round her life now there hung a halo such as had never brij^htened it before. She had been happy with her mother, and in her village, with the springtide joy of childhood and early J'-outh ; but now the rich, full summer of her ife was come. True it was, no voice, save Mrs.Connell's wished her joy. She had no mother or sister or even friend to tell out the many new thoughts that her position brought to her mind ; but, to make up for this, she found she had won a heart such as rarely falls to the lot of mortal. To the lonely girl Robert was literally all- mother, and brother, and lover in one. Her happiness, not his own gratification, was the pervading thought of his life. She was not only loved, but watched over tenderly and ca- red for with exceeding thoughtfulness. There was, of course, nothing to wait for ; and as soon as the settlements were drawn up, Easter would have come and then the marriage would take place. Knowing Aimee's love for the country, Robert took a cottage in one of the pretty villages that surround London, and there, as he planned, they could garden together in the summer evenings and some- times take a row upon the Thames. Meanwhile, Robert took Aimee away as much as possible from the gloomy atmos- phere of Russell Square. They went toge- ther to the Parks and to Kensington Grardens, where the trees were fast beginning to put on their first, fresh green ; and they went to- gether to the diiferent Catholic churches, for the beautiful services which abound in such WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 59 variety during Lent ; and during their walks to and fro, Aimee learned more and more of the nobility of the mind that was hereafter to guide and govern her own. Their con- versation often ran on grave subjects ; and often, leaving the things of earth, they moun- ted to the thoughts of a higher and better life, md Aim6e found, to her astonishment, that the young merchant, active in business, the laughing, merry Robert in society, was in reality leading in secret a life of strict Christ- tian holiness, and that the secret of the per- petual sunshine of his nature proceeded from his having found out where alone the he,irt of man can find it. Deep as was his love for her, Aimee knew it was second only to his love for his Creator ; and at the call of duty he would not hesitate to sacrifice the dearest hopes of his life. Here she felt, she could not follow him ; her love for him very nearly approached idolatry. The thought was pain- ful, and she banished it from her mind, and gave herself up to the full enjoyment of her first perfect dream of bliss. It was a late Easter, and the feast came in a glorious burst of spring. Only a brief ten days now intervened between Aimee's marria- ge day. Already the simple bridal attire was ready ; " for, " as Mrs. Connell observed, ''there was nothing like being in time ; " and the orange-flowers and the veil were already in the good housekeeper's charge, and she looked forward with no little pleasure to the novel sight of a wedding from her master's gloomy abode. Robert wished Aimee to see the house M WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? he had taken for their future home ; and early in Easter week Mrs. Connell accompanied them thither, to give her sage advice as to the finishing touches of furniture and house-linen. It really was a little gem of a house, surroun- ded with fairy-like gardens, with tall trees shading it on one side and the silver Thames shining in the foreground ; and as Aimee stood , silent with delight, before the open French window of her drawing-room, Robert showed her a little steeple peeping through the trees, and told her the pretty new Catholic church was not five minutes walk from their abode. And this tiny room, dearest, " said he, opening a miniature window adjoining the drawing- room, " I thought we would make into a little oratory, and hang up those pictures and cruci- fix which belonged to your dear mother. " Aimee replied, " Robert, I feel as if it were much loo bright for earth. The cure always seemed to be trying to prepare me for a life of suffering, for a sad future, for a heavy cross. Long before mamma's death, he used to speak so much in the confessional of the love of suf- fering, of enduring life — and I always belie- ved he had some strange insight into the fu- ture. But where is the suffering in my lot now, Robert, I ask myself sometimes, where is the cross ? " — " It will come, dearest," answered he with his bright smile ; never fear, Grod gives us sunshine sometimes, and we must be ready for the clouds when they come, but we need not be looking out for them . We may have some great trials together — who knows ? But now WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 61 trees, come and look at the way I am goinir to lay- out my garden. " Aimee followed him without answering but in her heart there swelled the thought that, with him, no trial could be really great. On returning to town, Robert took leave of Aimee at the station and put her and Mrs. Cou- nell into a car, and promised to return to Rus- sell Square for dinner. As the car rolled through the streets, now bright and cheerful in the sunlight, Aim6e thought of her first journey through them six months before, and how her life, then so sad, had so strangely brightened ; and it was with a radiant face that she entered the gloomy portal of her un- cle's house. The footman stopped Mrs. Connell as she fol- lowed her younff mistress. " My master has come home, " he said, " and asked for you, and precious cross he was because you wasn't in ; he seems ill like, for he sent for a cup of tea. — " Master at home ! a cup of tea ! " ejaculated Mrs. Connell in dismay, and she hastened to the study to find Mr, Morton shivering over the fire, and so testy and irritable it was dif- ficult to know what to do for him. He was evidently ill, but would not hear of sending for a doctor. " Nonsense, he was never ill ; he should dine as usual, " he exclaimed sharply ; but when dinner-time came, he was unable to partake of it, and his illness was so evidently gaining on him that he yielded to Robert's persuasion, and Dr Bruce was summoned. The doctor ordered his patient to bed, looked seri- ous, and promised to come again in the mor- 62 WHICH WAS TH£ GREATEST ? mng. By that time Mr. Morton was deTirions, and it was with no surprise that the house- hold learnt the illness was a low typhus fever. A nurse was sent for to assist Mrs. Connell. Aimee was forbidden to approach the bedroom, and the wedding was postponed. v» CHAPTER V. Robert's first wish had boen to send Airaee away, but she shrank from the idea, and as Dr. Bruce considered the risk of infection had already been run, he did not press the point. He was careful to take her out as much as pos- sible into the open air, and to prevent the si- lence and q^loom of the house from depressing her. Mr. Morton's life was in the utmost dan- ger, and therefore, do what they would, they could not be so cheerful as before. Hitherto the lovers had, by a tacit consent, avoided the men- tion of Airaee's uncle ; for the six months that had elapsed since she had entered his doors had made no difference apparently in Mr. Mor- ton's feelings towards her. He was as icy as ever ; and when her engagement was announ- ced, he never wished ber joy nor seemed glad of it for her sake. Cold and hard he naturally was, but Aimee could not but feel that he had an actual dislike to her ; for he would smile now and then at Mr. Hulme's jokes, and his manner to Robert often verged on cordiality. With her only he was invariably silent, stern, and freezing ; and poor Aimee's heart, so full 64 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? of affection, so ready to be grateful for the lit- tle he did for her, felt deeply pained. But now Robert and she spoke anxiously of that soul which was hanging in the balance between life and death. He had lived without God, in open defiance of his laws, in avowed disbelief of the very existence of his "Maker, and now was he, without an hour's consciousness, without any space for repentance, to be hur- ried into the presence of his judge ? They shrank in horror from the though: , and many were their prayers, many were '^'^ Masses of- fered up that (xod in his mercy would not cut off this man in his sins. Their prayers were granted ; he did not die, and after three weeks of intense anxiety, the crisis pa sed, and he be- gan to mend. Mental improvement was not to be perceived with returning health. No expres- sion of gratitude for having escaped death cros- sed his lips — apparently the shadow of death had not terrified him — he rose up from his sick bed as hard, as cynical, as icy az before. And Aimee's fond hope that at last he would thaw to her was disappointed. As soon as Mr. Morton could leave his room, Dr.Bruce pres- cribed change of air ; and it was arranged that Robert and Aimee should at-company him. Mrs. Connell was so thoroughly used up with nursing that she was to be sent to take a holi- day among her friends in Ireland. It was hard work to persuade Mr. Morton to go at all, still harder to lind a place to suit him ; he moved from spot to spot, till at last, to his companions' surprise, he seemed to take a fancy for a wild spot on the North Devon WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 69 coast, and there settled down for some weeks. It was a most out-of-the-way spot, and the only place in which they could reside was a homely village inn. It pleased him, however, and day by day he rapidly regained his strength : Robert and Aimee were well con- tented ; the beauty and quiet of the place wero delightful, and not a mile from it was a Catholic church, which happened to be served by a priest who had known Robert in his boy- hood. Grreat was Aimee's pleasure in listening to their laughing reminiscences of by gone years, and greater still was her happiness when she chanced to be left alone with Father Dunne, and he spoke of Robert, of his inno- cent childhood, his holy life, the bright ex- ample he set in his position, and assured her that few women had won such a prize as she had for life. Then Aimee's heart swelled with joy and pride. On one lovely day in June, Aimee was specially happy ; for her uncle's improvement was so marked, Robert had been asking her to lix an early day in July for their wedding. Mr. Hulme and Mrs. Connell could join them, and they could be married at this little church, which had become dear to them, and Father Dunne could pronounce the nup- tial benediction. Aimee greatly preferred this to being married in London, and her heart was very light. That morning-«he had knelt by Robert's side at communion. She could not help observing the rapt, almost celestial ex- pression of his face afterward. It was the Feast of the Sacred Heart and Father Dunne had Benediction early in the afternoon. 5 66 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? As they walked to church together, their conversation turned on religious subjects, and Robert spoke in a more unreserved way than he had ever done before. He spoke of Heaven, the rest it would be after earth's toils, of the sweetness of sacrilice, of the joy of G-od's ser- vice. Aim6e was silent. He looked down into her face. — " Well," he said, smiling, " is it not true ? " — " O Robert ! " she cried, " your love is heaven to me now ! Is not, oh ! is not mine so to you ? " — " No, my Aim6e," he an8wered,gravely yet sweetly ; " my heart's darling, God first, then you." — " I cannot ! " she answered, in a stifled voice. — " Yon will soon, darling, never fear. I prayed this morning that our love might be sanctified, might d.raw us closer to Grod — and I feel it will be so. Pray with me for it at Benediction." So they went and knelt before the altar, and their Lord blessed them as they bent before him. Passing out of church, Father Dunne joined them, and remarked on the beauty of the evening. — '* We shall go with my uncle on the cliflF," said Aim§e, " and watch the coast" — " And perhaps 1 shall meet you there," answered the priest, " for I have a sick call from which I can return by that way." So saying, he turned into another road. Mr. Morton was ready when they returned to the inn, and the three passed up on the cliff WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 67 and wandered on far beyond their usual dis- tance. They came to a part where the cliff was one sheer sheet of rock descending to the beach, save one large crag which j atted out, and on one side obscured the view. Aira6e had a great horror of looking down any steep place, and shrank .jack from the cliff, while Mr. Morton, who despi)»ed her weakness, al- ways choone to walk at the very edge. — " See here, little one," said Robert, " here is a safe place for you." An iron stanchion had been thrust into the ground, and a thick rope was carelessly coiled round it. It must be used for throwing signaja to the boats below," said Robert, " but yoa can lean against it, Aimee." — " I think I shall step on that crag, Robert," said Mr, Morton, " if you will lend me an arm. I want to catch the whole view at once." — " O uncle !" said Aim6e, in a tone of terror. — " Do you think it is very prudent, sir ?" re- marked Robert. " It is none too wide to stand on. — " Oh ! very well," said Mr. Morton testily, •' if you are afraid, I shall go by myself." Robv H's merry laugh was the only answer, and, giving his arm to Mr. Morton, they both descended. Aimee hi*^. her j,ace, sick with terror. She Heard their voices for a minute, then, o hor- ror ! lohat was that ? A crash, a rush, a sudden shout of pain ! She rushed to the edge to see the crag detach itself from the rock, and the two figures falling. She saw both clutching for some support — she saw both catch hold of 68 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? different bits of rock, jutting- out — she knew, for her senses were sharpened by fear, that they could not long sustain their weight. She thought of the rope, rushed for it, uncoiled it, and ran back. All was the work of a moment. An unnatural activity seemed to possess her. She was like one in a dream. She saw the Tope would not reach both ; she must choose between them ; and another could see her ! But on the still evening air, with her ears quickened unnaturally, she heard oaths from one ; from the other, " Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit." Aimee threw the rope to Mr. Morton, and saw him catch it. The next instant she heard another crash — and nature could bear no more. Aimee fell on the ground insensible just as Father Dunne, and some laborers alarmed by the shout in the distance, came running to th<3 spot. "When Aimee woke to consciousness, she was in her own bed at the inn. Her first thought was, that she had been dreaming ; but she started back, the land-lady was walk- ing by her, and now came forward, trying to put on an appearance of composure. — " My uncle ? " said Aimee. — " Lies in bed, miss, and is going on will, answered the good woman nervously. Aimee gave one searching look into Mrs, Barton's face, and sank back on her pillow. In another moment the door opened, Mrs. Bar- ton disappeared, and Father Dunne stood by her side. The silent look at him was all she gave. — " Yes, my child," he said, " your sacritice WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 69 has been accepted, and Robert is with those who follow the Lamb withersoever he goethu" And then, sitting down beside her, the priest drew out the truth which, by a sudden ins- tinct, he had all but guessed. No one but he ever knew it ; it was generally believed that Robert had failed to catch the rope when, thrown to him — he had fallen on the beach, and was dashed to pieces. Aimee could not look upon his form or kiss for the last time the pale, cold face. He had passed in one brief instant from her sight for age. In the heat of noon day her sun had gone down. From this fresh shock to his constitution Mr. Morton could not rally ; he was fearfully shaken and bruised, but he lingered many weeks, and Aimee waited on him with a daughter's care. And at last the stern heart was soltened, and Mr. Morton implored mercy from the Grod he had so long oHended. He died a sincere penitent ; and the grief for Roberi's death caused a salutary change in Mr. Hulme also. Aimee had now become a great heiress, but money cannot heal a broken heart. She would fain have remained in the little village where the tragedy of her life had been worked out, and devote herself to the poor ; but Father Dunne would not allow it, and to him she now looked for guidance and help. He made her go to Italy and Rome in company with some quiet friends of his own for two years : and time and the sight of the woes of others gradually softened Aimee's grief And by degrees a great peace stole over her spirit ; a love deeper than hers for Robert TO WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? took possession of her heart ; and the hour came when she acknowledged that in sacrifice lay much sweetness. She did not live many years ; she distributed her large fortune among various good works. A fair church replaces the humble building in which Robert and s^ for the last time prayed together, and a con- vent stands near the spot where he breathed out his last sigh to Grod. And when her work was done, death came to Aim§e ; and, with a smile on her lips, and joy in her eyes, she went to meet again those fondlv loved, so strai)gely lost on earth. ■— »oj4>;o« hour rifice lany long laces lis^o con- thed work ith a went gely THE SACRIFICE AND THE RANSOM. INTRODUCTION. ^ Among the various manifestations of Chris- tian charity in the middle ages — charity some- times ill-understood perhaps, but always sin- cere and enthusiastic — there are few that show more expressively to what a degree the love of our fellow-creature can suppress all egotistical instincts, than the Order of Mercy for the redemption of captives. Sustained and encouraged by holy charity, the Father of Mercy embarked each year at Marseilles, braving plague, martyrdom, and slavery. In the name of that heavenly King, of whom he considered himself the ambassador, he demand- ed frr^zr. the astonished tyrant of Algiers the liberty of the Christian captives, until then apparently condemned never to see again their homes. The shvage Dey, awed by the heroic confidence of the unarmed pilgrim — moved, perhaps, by some secret compassion, ac- cepted the gold offered as ransom ; and the obscure and humble father recrossed the sea, 72 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST i and returned again on foot to his distant monastery. And what was the origin of this institu- tion ? No legislative assembly, no council of ministers is entitled to the honor of having conceived the idea of this pious enterprise. The loving heart of a man who had devoted himself from his childhood to the service of suffering humanity was the first to devise a plan of carrying relief and consolation to mis- fortunes which, until then, had seemed be- yond the ordinary action of Christian charity. Peter Nolasque, the founder of the Order of Mercy, was born in 1189, near Castelnaudari, in Languedoc, France. His learning was as remarkable as his piety, so that at the age of twenty-five, the education of the son of Peter of Aragon was confided to him by the cele- brated Simon of Montfort. It was while at the court of Barcelona, in this high and respon- sible position, that Peter Nolasque resolved to devote his life and fortune to the ransom of the Christian slaves who languished hope- lessly under the burning sun of Africa. For this purpose he determined to establish a religious order for the deliverance of cap- tives. Several noblemen contributed large sums of money toward the good work ; the court of Rome gave its supreme approbation, and on St. Lawrence's day, 1223, Peter Nolasque was declared the first general of the new institu- tion, and invested with the monastic habit. He lived far from courts during the rest of his life, travelling painfully on foot to carry consolation and freedom to the wretched WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? •73 istant istitu- cil of laving rprise. Bvoted v4ce of 3vise a DO mis- led be- harity. rder of audari, was as J age of >f Peter lie cele- srhile at respon- esolved nsom of i hope- stablish of cap- ge same court of and on que was institu- c habit. le rest of to carry vretched beings he pitied so truly. More than four hundred Christians were delivered from the hands of the Mussulman by his eflforts alone. He died on Christmas-day, 1256, leaving be- hind him the memory of a pure and generous life, and an institution which soon numbered among its members many of the bravest and noblest chevaliers of France. THE SACRIFICE. It was in the year of our Lord 1363. The curfew bell had just been rung, the doors of the village houses were all fast shut, and within the castle wall the measured tread of the sentinel on the battlements was the only sound that met the ear. If, perchance, some belated traveller was still abroad, he hung his rosary around his neck, and hurried onward mut- tering pious ejaculations ; for a heavy mist deepened the shades of night, and the sad wail- ings of the wind and the hootings of the owl mingling together, sounded eminously in his terrified ears. The only light visible was in the chapel of the monastery, where the monks of the Order of Mercy were reciting their evening prayers. They had just ended the last and solemn pe- tition for " all Christians, captive and suffering in the hands of the infidel, " when the bell at the great gate of the holy house rang loudly, and the brother-porter, rising from his knees, has- 76 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? tened to reconnoitre by the wicket who it was demanded admittance at such an unusual hour. Three persons were at the gate ; one, a young man, wore a rich emblazoned coat of arras ; his head was uncovered save by the long cluster- ins? curls of dark hair, now heavy with the n.ght — damp, that descended to his shoulders ; a youth, apparently his page, bore in his arms the knight's helmet. The third indivi- dual was an old man, who kept himself the background, and who appeared by his plain steel cuirass to be an humble squire, grown gray in harness. The page's youthful face was sad and timid ; the old man's showed the traces of violent pas- sions in the deep lines that furrowed it, and his eyes oven now seemed to flash in the light of the torch that the monk carried. The che- valier's noble countenance was pale and grave, and he stood leaning pensively on his sword, — " What wish you, sir Knight ? " asked the brother-porter when, after a short but sharp scruting, his doubts were removed as to the quality of the strangers. — " May it please the reverend Father Prior to grant me a short interview ?" — " May it be as you desire, sir Knight, I will seek the reverend Father when you have en- tered with your followers, " WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? n The heavy iron-bound gate of the convent turned on its massive hinges, and closed the instant that the travellers were within. The golden spurs of the chevalier resounded on the cloister's marble flags as he followed the monk, and he murmured to himself the words of the Psalm " Hccc requies mea in scbcu- lum scEciili " but his page and his squire knew no Latin, and his conductor heard him not. They were introduced into a paoious ancient parlor lined with high black oaken wainscot ; the brother placed the torch ho carried in an iron claw that was fixed in the wall for that pur- pose, and invited the strangers to seat them- selves on the bench that ran round the room, then bowing profoundly, left them. The squire immediately drew nearer to his young lord who appeared to be absorbed in thought. — " How, my lord, " cried he, " is it pos- sible that you believe that these monks can forward your plans ? Why thus retard our journey ? A few days more and we should have reached our goal, and many a good man and true would have made your quarrel his own. The brave free companies would have served you as never a hooded priest in France !" — " Banish all such thoughts for the future. 78 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? |i II li i IP Michel, " replied the kuight, " it is boiler to pardon than to revenge. " — " (.rood Saint Denis ! do I hear the Lord of Montorguoil aric^ht ! My lord, pardon the frank speech of an old soldier, but never was the escutcheon of your house dimmed without being washed in blood and would you bo the first to let it lie soiled in the dust ? " — " Alas ! Michel, it is indeed true that too much blood has been shed in the quarrels of our house ! " — " Holy Virgin ! can it be possible that my liege lord has forgotten the duties of a valiant knight ? " — " Friend, " replied the young warrior sternly while his pale cheek roddeiined with the emotion awakened by the squire's reproach, '' I have remembered that I was a Christian be- fore I was made a knight ! " — Michel drew back in silence, gazing on his master with a countenance in which astonish- ment and grief were nearly equally portrayed, while the Lord of Montorgueil silently pro- ceeded to take off his shoulder-belt and until his silken scarf. The heavy oaken door at length opened and the venerable prior entered. Quick as thought, the knight thjrew the sword he held in his hands at the monk's feet ; then, falling on his I WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 79 knees, exclaimed in a loud, firm voice, " Heve- rend Father, in the name of G-od and of the holy Virgin Mary, I, Kaoul de Montorgueil, chevalier, pray and conjure you to admit me into the religious and devout observance of our Lady of Mercy, for the deliverance of captives !" — " Amen, my son, so be it, if it be G-od who sends thee," replied the Prior. — " My lord, my lord," cried Michel, "remem- ber the Sire of Valeri ! Proud will he be, and loud his boast that fear of him has moved you to this. You know his outrecuidauce. — "O my dear lord !" exclaimed the timid page, bursting into tears, " think of your lady- mother ! " — "I think of the salvation of my soul more than of all else, " replied the chevalier. — " Silence, good friend ! " said the prior, as Michel appeared about to attempt another re- monstrance ; " and you, my son, seat yourself here by myside, and tell me what has induced you to seek this peaceful sanctuary." The young knight arose and placed himself on the wooden bench by the monk ; then, keep- ing his eyes steadfastly bent to the ground as if to «lVoid the sight of his two weeping re- tainers , " Reverend Father, " he said, " most :-i 80 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? bitter is the remembrance of ihe past ; for the last time will I recount the evil thoughts and deeds that once seemed so natural to me. For many a year all Britany has resounded with the feuds of the Lords of Montorgueil and the Sires of Valeri ; bitter has been the hatred and bloody the strife between these two proud houses ; but I will not recall past outrages — let me relate only the last deadly wrong that filled ray heart with unspeakable thirst for ven- geance. Twelve days have not yet expired since the passage of arms at Rennes ; the Sire of Valeri was there at the head of a numerous com- pany of his partisans, and defied me to single combat, with many a vain and bragging word. I ac<"3pted his challenge, resolved to be the vijtor or die. The onslaught was terrible, for we were equal in strength and skill, and we long parried each other's thrusts. " Forced at last to pause to take breath, the Sire of Valeri proposed a truce. ' Let us meet a month hence,' he cried, ' with twenty good men each, and end our quarrel.' ' "Why should we adjourn till another day what can be so well ended now ? ' I replied ; ' our swords will be no sharper and our hate no hotter. No, may my spurs be hacked off my heels WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 81 that by your base?( rarlet, ere I consent to sheathe my sword before or o of us fall ! ' Then again ft\st and furious fell our blows until the traitor knight making a feint, struck me before I had time to cover and I fell. ' Yield ! ' cried iny exulting foe. ' Never ! Never ! ' I replied. ' Then die the death ! ' and he raised his weapon. " At that moment my young brother — alas ! alas ! why did my lady-mother bring him to those fatal lists ! my young brother leapt over the barriers and sprang to the rescue — the heavy blade descended on his fair head ! Father, I saw the long hair of the noble child red with his young life's blood, and I saw no more. When I awoke from my deadly swoon, I found that my good squire and gentle page had car- ried me from the lists and were weeping over me while they swore vengeance on the ennemy of our house. " I, too, thirsted for vengeance, for ven- geance on all the kit and kin of the house of Valeri, and I resolved to seek fifty lances and attack the miscreant in his stronghold. Vainly my lady-mother prayed me to lay aside my sword and live for her. ' Leave ven- geance to heaven ; she said, I have seen too much blood — my son ! let me not weep over the mangled body of my last child ! 6 82 WHICH was THE GREATEST ? Yainly she prayed ; I loft her, reverend Father, to mourn over the i^rave of my brother, while I carried death to the homestead of our enemy. " But as I journeyed toward the quarters of the Free companions, followed by these, my squire and page, intending to enlist some good lances under my banner, the remem- brance of my mother's grief returned again and again, and my heart softened each time that I thought of her, childless and alom^ in her sorrow. I was meditating sadly this very day, when the sound of a bell ringing the Angelns reminded me that it was the hour ot prayer, and I alicihted from my horse to repeat an Ave Maria. Whiin I said, ' Pray for lis in the hour of our death' I asked myself for the first time, if in that supremo hour the remombrance of my revenge would be sweet to me, and if, when in the presence of him who is the suzerain of the lord as well as of the vassal , I should dare to vaunt me of the blood I had shed. Thus I continued to reflect as I resumed my journey until at last I found mysolf before the gate of this holy house, and I heard echoing beneath the arrhod cloisters the strains of that sweet Safve Reo^inu, that pilgrims say the angels sing at night beside the fountains. WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 83 " All the bitterness and anguish of my heart melted away as I listened ; ' Mother of Mercy ! ' I cried, ' it is then here that thou art awaiting me ? Yes, I will henceforth be thy knight ; it is better, I feel, to wipe tears away, than to cause them flow. ' I throw myself on my knees, and when again the holy strains repeated ' O demens ! O pia ! diilch Vir»;o Maria ! ' my resolution was firmly taken, and I had vowed myself to the service of the blessed Virgin. Heceive rae then, Fa- ther, as her servant. " Raoul threw himself once more on his knees before the venerable priest, who raising his arras toward heaven, silently gave thanks for this m" iculous conversion ; then turning toward the knight, blessed him and gave him the kiss of peace. " How admirable are the ways of Grod, my son," said he ; " how little did my brethern and I think while we were praying this night for all captives, that there was one so near us being freed at that moment from his bonds ! Thou wast smitten ou the road, my son, like Saint Paul ; like him thou art, perhaps, destined to become a chosen vessel of grace. In the name of Grod and of the blessed '^irgin. I receive thee into our holy order, and admit thee to the ordeaJ of our novitiate." 84 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? The sohs of the two retainers had been the only sign of their presence that they had given while the knight was speaking ; but now the old squire cast himself at his feet, and in broken accents besought him to have pity on his poor vassals, and not abandon them to the scofi's and outrages of the enemy of his house. — " Have pity on us," repeated the page, wringing his hands. * — " My friends, weep not like women," re- plied their master, " I have thought of every- thing. Grod will comfort my lady-mother, and she will rejoice to have her son a knight of the holy Virgin. My kinsman G-aston will be your lord ; he is worthy of the inheritance I leave him, for he has a noble and generous heart. He is young, it is true, but I will place him under the tutelage of Bertrand du Guesclin, and foolhardy will he be who shall then attack our house or harm its m ssals. Keverend Father, I crave your hot^pitality for my two retainers, and I entreat ^ m lo pt mit me now to seek peace andstren, it m prayer." The prior took his hand and conducted him in silence to the chapel. A single lamp burnt before the sanctuary, and shed a faint, solemn light upon the image of our Lady of Mercy. Eaoul prostrated himself at the foot of the WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 85 altar aud poured forth his ardent soul in sup- plication. When he arose, the marble steps were wet with tears. — " Father," he said to the prior, " I am strong- now — the sacrifice is accomplished." The young convert passed that night in writing. He addressed a long and loving letter to his mother, relating to her all his struggle — his burning wish for vengeance, his fear of shame, the tend'U- mercy that had touched his heart : the parchment on which he wrote was stained with many a tear. " I could not remain in the secular world without revenging our injuries," said he in conclusion, *' I have left it that I may pardon. Honored lady and dear mother, bless your son aud pray for him." To Bertrand du Guesclin he gave a rapid sketch of the facts, and besought his protection for his young kinsman, now Lord of Moutor • gueil. A third letter still remained to be written ; how much it cost him to break this last link with the outward world, was revealed by the sobs that burst from his quivering lips, by the tears that dropped heavily on the oaken table on which he leaned. " No," cried he at last, 86 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? " this tie cannot be broken," and taking his pen he traced some hurried words : they were addressed to his brother-in-arms, his friend, his playmate in happy childhood, his rival in his first feats of arms. •' Dear Ayraar," were his concluding words, " my heart can never change toward you oh ! believe that it beats the same under the monk's frock as under the knight's armor ! For love of me, Aymar, avenge not my quarrel. ^^ The old squire, who had passed the night in lamentations, interrupted only by excla- mations of indignant surprise at the peaceful slumbers of his young companion, looked very sad and weary wht-n Raoul entered his cham- ber ai break of day. " Michel," said the knight, " spare me your reproaches and tears ; they ran avail nothing to changy my purpose, but I have need of all my fortitude. Here are divers messages ; be ht'^'dful of them, that they may reach their destination speedily." He put into the squire's hands the letters he had prepared, each fastened with a silken string, and impressed with his seal. " Give this rosary of golden beads to my WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 87 lady mothor," he continued, " she hung it on my neck when we jiarted ; henceforth when she tells it, the remembrance of her Raoul will be mingled with every prayer. This ring, that I won in my first tournament, is for Aymar de Boncourt ; beg him also to take my armor and my war-horse. And now farewell, Michel, the matin-bell is ringing, and I belong no longer to the world, but to Grod. Farewell, old friend, farewell ; be as faithful to G-aston as you have been to me." He threw himself on the old man's breast and pressed him to his heart, then tearing himself from his arms, he gazed an instant tenderly on the still slee- ping page. "Recommend this poor child to the new Lord of Montorgueil, Michel, and be ever his friend." He stoo[)ed and kissed the boy's smooth brow, then turned softly away — the door closed, and the squire and the page never looked on him again. When the morning prayers were ended, the prior summoned the disconsolate retainers to his presence, and after a discourse full of con- solation and good counsel, .dismissed them with a handsome largess from their beloved master. "We will not follow them on their iourney ; suffice it to say that when the lady of Montorgueil received her son's unexpected letter, the first pang of sorrow and regret was 88 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? excruciating, but the Christian mother was soon able to accept the sacrifice. She ceased to grieve, and in a few months retired to a convent where &he passed the rest of her pea- ceful and honored life. ord an ran wai Du Gruesclin, whose noble heart Vv'a? full of generous sympathy, loudly proclaimed his af- fection for Raoul, and his determination to protect the house of Montorgueil. This was sufficient to prevent all attempts of the Sire of Valeri against the vassals and lands of the new lord ; and he contented himself with whispering accusations of cowardice against the knight who had left the death of hi^ bro- ther unavenged and his own quarrel un- voided. Aymar alone couM not be com/orted for the loss of his brother-in-arras, and it was long be- fore he was seen to take his wonted place in the feasts and tournaments that formed the greater part of the occupations of the young che- valier of his time and country. Raoul meantime consummated his sacrifice ; his long curls were cropped close, and the monk's white woolen robe replaced the knight's brocade and velvet. After a novitiate of a year and a day, he pronounced the three vows of his .' WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 89 order in the chapel of our Lady of Mercy, with an especial promise to give his life for the ransom of captives. From this time forward he was only known as the brother Sainte-Foi. THE RANSOM Time passed away, and France was once more at peace with England for a briet bpace ; at peace, but far from tranquil,for the Free Com- panies, which at tirst consisted only of nobles, younger sous of powerful lords, had been ter- ribly augmented by the disbanded soldiers of both countries, who found inaction intolerable, and who now ravaged her defenceless pro- vinces. In vain the outraged people cried for help and protf ctiou ; the state, without money or men, was unable either to prevent or punish. At length the brave du G-uesclin imagined a means to employ these fiery spirits. He sought the formidable band, then encamped on the plains of Chalon, at the head of two hundred chevaliers, and addressed them : " Most of you," said he, "were once my companions in arms, you are all my friends. Your vocation is not to ravage and destroy, but to conquer and save. Necessity, only, I know, has forced you to such e> ^i%^, ^V"^, %. %^o_^ oJ\^^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 7 / . >,'^ f/. fc ^ 1.0 I.I 1.25 i/Lo 12.0 IM 2.2 1.8 1.4 lil.6 V] <^^ c^^ 7 ^W W^'i' '/ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 i^ .<9 \ » ■^ iV 92 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? extremities, I come now to offer you the means of living honorably and of fighting gloriously. Spain groans beneath the yoke of the Saracen ; would you not rather choose to be the deli- vers of a great nation than the ruin of this fair country ? " At these words the Free Companions sur- rounded the chief, and with enthusiastic accla- mations swore as one man to follow him whither- soever he should lead. The noblest of the French chivalry joined the enterprise, and Spain soon reechoed with the well-known war-cry of "No- tre Dame G-uesclin ! " The Sire of Valeri and young Aymar of Bon- court were among the bravest of du G-uesclin's gallant band, and their exploits soon became the favorite themes of the troubadours and trou- veres of timeful, glory-loving France. But when th J chief and his victorious warriors returned to their native land, Aymar and the Sire of Va- leri were not among them. Had they fallen in the last bloody encounter ? Had they been trai- torously ensnared and were they now languish, ing in some Moorish dungeon ? Several of the adventurers affirmed that the two knights had embarked for France, but no vessel from Gal- licia had reached a port ff Brittany. The Fathers of the Order of Mercy were soon aware of the rumors that circulated con- WHICH W '..S THE GREATEST ? 93 cerning the fate of the two bravest chevaliers of the age ; their continual efbrts to collect funds for the ransom of captives placed them in communication with all parts of Christoii- dom, and the news of the disappearance of the Sire of Valeri quickly reached the ears of Brother Sainte-Foi. The mysterious fate of him who was Raoul's enemy saddened him but terrible indeed was the pang he felt when he learnt that his friend Ay mar was also lost. All his fortitude, all his resignation, suddenly forsook him, and he wept bitterly. — " My son, " said the prior reproachfully, ' I thought thou wast dead to all earthly things." — " O reverend father !" replied he, "earthly things are perishable, but holy friendship comes from Heaven and dieth not. Let me weep for my friend, David wept for Jona- than ; their souls were one ; mine also was one with Aymar's." From this time forward the young monk seen^ed to waste away, his cheek grew thinner and paler, his eyes were dim and tear-worn. In vain, hoping to arouse him, his superior sent him without, to seek funds for their work of charity ; no change of scene could dispel the melancholy languor that had taken possession of him, and the whole fraternity \ ^ 94 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? deplored that so pious and ardent a spirit would, in all probability, be so soon taken from among them. After much anxious deli- beration, the chapter at last resolved to in- vest him with the title and functions of Re- demptorist, and, on account of his youth and unexperience, to associate him with an aged monk who had been several times sent on the errand of love and mercy. Brother Sainte-Foi was accordingly sum- moned one day before the assembled fathers. — " Brother," said the prior, "don thy sandals, take thy staflF, and be ready to depart," — " I am ready, reverend father." — " Thou dost not enquire whither? " — " Obedience questioneth not, reverend father." — " It is well, my son ; ,rought his agony on him, there was nothing more I could do but bear it with him. My boy, though you came on my invitation, you chose the twilight In which to come to me^ that I might hide my shame at meeting you. Such shame died dead in two awful nights and days : First, confession before the priest of G-od ; then to colleagues and friends ; then to my wife and to my son— oh ! that strings yet ; than to an angry throng, whose trust I had betrayed, whose hopes I had blasted, whose love and re- verence I had turned to hate and scorn. I have seen ray home in ruins, my effigy hung up and hooted at in the public square, my name become a byword,my race blott,'! out. I am an old man now, and still they tell my story in Brentwood ; each child learns it ; 132 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? strangers hear of it. Yet, if the power were mine to alter these twenty years of humilia. tion, I would not lose one hour of suffering or shame. You ask me why ? Thirty-five years ago I stood here, the centre and the favorite of this town, and I set myself to work my own will, to gain glory for me and mine. My wife, my name, my home were my idols. It seemed an innocent ambition, but it was not for G-od and it led me into evil work. You told me that since you came of age you have been but once to confession. It is by the light of that sacra- ment that what seems to you the mystery of my life is read. For a Catholic — whether striv- ing after perfection, or struggling up from sin to lasting penitence — has for pattern the life of Jesus, the doing all in union with him, after his example. What is the sacrament of penance but the bearing of shame, though in the pre- sence of a compassionate pries i, with him who, when he could have rescue! us at the price of one drop of his most precious blood chose to die in ignominy, bearing before the world the entire world's disgrace ? My boy, if in any way, by the love of our common name, I can influence you, go back to confession. It is the very sacramen^ for men who would be upright, and loyal, aud strong, and true ; or WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 133 who, having fallen, would humbly and bravely bear for Christ's sake the disclosure and the penalty. " My penance — given by G-od, mark you — was heavy, men think. Was it heavier than my sin ? They do not know everything. All my life I had been helped, guarded, upheld ; and for such to fall is a deadlier sin than for others. The infinite love of Grod bore with me and saved me. And as, day by day, like the unre. mitted lashes of a scourge, suffering fell to my portion, I tell you that a strange an awful sweetness mingled with the anguish. I knew it was the hand of God that smote me, and that he smote here to spare hereafter. Ob. ! do not look at me. Stop ! Turn your face away ! I thought that all such shame was dead, but there are moments when it over- whelms me with its sting Did I say or dare to think that God loves me ? Wait, wait, till I can remember what it means ! Yes, I know now. Through all that night, while the torches glared, and wrathful faces looked curses at me, and lips shouted them, ever through all, I saw, as it were, one sinless but reputed with the wicked ; stripped of his gar- ments as I of my pride ; made a spectacle to m WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? angels and to men ; mocked, reviled, scourged, crucified ; and through the wild tumult I heard a voice say, as of old to the repentant thief on the cross : " This day thou shalt be with me." And through all, my >t lart was answering to his most Sacred li 'T> T, indeed, justly ; for I receive the due reward of my deeds ; but this man hath done no evil." How could I wish to be spared a single pang or lose one hour of shame with him ? What part could any christian take but to suffer with him, having made him suffer ? And when one has Baid " with him ", one has explained all. But somehow, people do not always seem to un- derstand. Understand ? Ah ! no. It >. a k tory, not of two versions, but of many, ;** . ! •. 'ailed James Brent a fool, and some a ma^.t ' mt , and some said he should have saved his L>«; ..' and his name at all hazards ; and some, that he had no right to entail such suffering on his hon '^hold. But there is one light by which such stories bliould be read, that is truer than these. When time is gone and wealth is dust, and earthly honor vanishes like smokf- ^en, by the standard of the cross of Christ, Wt ^!^' , and pomp, and pleasure, and business siiaii be duly tried. Shun humiliation here as we will, there shall WHICH WAS THE GREATEAT? 135 be after this the judgment, when the Prince of Grlory, who pronounces final sentence, will be he who, while on earth, chose for his portion a life of suffering and a death of shame. DISCIPLINE. A block of marble caught the glance Of Buonarolti's eyes, Which brigthtened in Iheir solemn deeps, Like meteor-lighted skies. And one who stood beside him listened, Smiling as he heard ; For, " I will make an angel of it ! " Was the sculptor's word. And soon mall'et and chisel sharp * The stubborn block assailed, And blow by blow, and pang by pang, The prisoner unveiled. 138 WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? A brow was lifted, high and pure; The wak'ning eyes outshone ; And as the master sharply wrought, A smile broke through the stone I Beneath the chisel's edge, the hair Escaped in floating rings ; And plume by plume, was slowly freed The sweep of half furled wings. The stalely bust and graceful limbs Their marble fellers shed And where the shapeless block had been, An angel stood instead. II blows that smite ! hurts that pierce This shrinking heart of mine 1 What are ye but the Master's tools Forming a work divine? hope that crumbles to my feet 1 joy that mocks, and flies I What are ye but the clogs thai bind My spirit from the skies ? WHICH WAS THE GREATEST ? 139 Sculptor of souls i I lift to thee Encumbered lieart and hands ; Spare not the chisel I set me free, However dear the hands. How blest, if all these seeming ills, Which draw my thoughts to thee, Should only prove that thou wilt make An angel out of me I EUSEBE SENEGAL A FILS, Printers, Montreal. My Sub Vei Ain The The The Asl Disc TABLE OF CONTENTS. '