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 1 2 3 
 
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c 
 
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Stories OF THE Promises 
 
 AND OTHIiR TALES. 
 
 BY 
 
 Mrs. M. A. SADLIER 
 
 AND HER DAUGHTERS. 
 
 There on many souls in strait and peril 
 
 Did that gracious Benediction fall, 
 With the strength, or paace, or joy, or warning 
 
 He could give who knew and loved them all. 
 
 Adelaide A. Proctbr.. 
 
 D. & J. SADLIER &. CO 
 
 MONTREAL AND TORONTO. 
 
/ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Ai 
 
 57 
 
 ?M 
 
 \. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year 
 one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five, in the Office of the 
 Minister of Agriculture and statistics at Ottawa. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The little stories contained in this volume were aU 
 written by my daughters auu myself as offerings to the 
 Sacred Heart and first published in the Canadian 
 Messenger during the earliest years of its existence. 
 They are, therefore, of the simplest kind without any 
 pretension to literary merit. Many of them are based on 
 actual occurrences and all on the experiences of daily 
 life. Hence, the lessons they convey are worth studying 
 at this period of growing indifference and religious tipidity 
 foretold by Our Divine Lord Himself to Blessed Margaret 
 Mary as one of the characteristics of the latter times. 
 
 Convinced as I am, by the experience of a long life, — 
 much of it devoted to literary pursuits, — that the more 
 simply and directly the great truths of faith, —with the 
 beauty and holiness of those devotions which spring 
 therefrom, age after age, — are presented to the people, 
 the larger number of readers will be secured and the 
 greater amount of good attained for the grand cause to 
 which we Associates and Promoters of the Holy League 
 are all specially devoted : the extension of Christ's 
 Kingdom on earth. 
 
 Hoping that this little volume may be found useful in 
 some small measure in carrying out the glorious motto 
 of our League : ~ " Thy Kingdom Come ! " I send it 
 forth on its mission of charity and peace. 
 
 M. A. S. 
 
 Montreal, June ist 1895, 
 
STORIES OF THE PROMISES 
 
 AND OTHER TALES 
 
 LITTLE HARRY'S LEGACY. 
 
 X 
 
 Mrs. James Sadlier. 
 
 ~ r u-as a chilly, cheerless day in late October. The 
 ^ glory of the autumn had faded from Canadian 
 ^ woods and its sunshine from Canadian skies 
 The scene without was dreary enough, but within a 
 small cottage, a log-cabin, on the outskirts of a town 
 in Ontario province, it was still more dismal and 
 depressmg, for poverty and sickness were both there 
 
 On a low bed, covered with a faded patch-work quilt 
 in one of the two rooms into which the cottage was 
 dmded a mother lay, stricken with a mortal disease 
 which had already reduced her to a state of extreme 
 weakness, the fore-runner of dissolution. Her wan face 
 and sunken eyes told a sad tale of suffering and want 
 but they also told of coming rest ; the peace of God 
 was there. 
 
 •l^l ^f, ''"i™ ""° ' *""'-'*^ ^'""•ber, and lay 
 with half-closed eyes, so still and motionless, that the 
 solitary watcher by her sick bed, a boy of on.e ten 
 
2 L I TTL E II. \ n n rs l ei;a c y. 
 
 years old, was seized with sudden terror, fearing thai 
 she was already dead. He fell on his knees beside the 
 bed and began to sob and cry piteously. 
 
 The child's lamentations reached the mother's heart. 
 She opened her languid eyes, fixed them tenderly on 
 her boy, and murmured — " Harry I " 
 
 The little fellow screamed with delight as he seized 
 the wasted hand resting on the quilt, and covered it 
 with kisses : " Oh mother, I thought — 1 was afraid. — 
 Oh ! thank God you are not dead 1 '' 
 
 "My poor child, my little Harry ! '' She cast her eyes 
 around. '' Where is your father ? I thought he was here." 
 
 "So he was, mother dear, but he went out a little 
 while ago. Shall I go in search of him ? " 
 
 " No, no, Harry ! Don't leave me ! It will soon be 
 over now. 1 have done all 1 could with him : he only 
 laughs at me when 1 talk to him of God and his own 
 soul — of death and judgment. Father Cantwell says 
 I haven't long to live — a few hours — may be not so 
 long. If it's God's will to take me so soon, it's only on 
 your account I'm sorry. Oh ! what will become of 
 you when I'm gone ? " 
 
 " Mother ! mother ! don't talk like that ; I can't bear 
 to iiear you." 
 
 " My child, 1 must talk — while I can — and you must 
 hear me. Thank God, you have made your First Com- 
 munion. But oh ! you are so young — so young ! and 
 you'll have no one to look after you. If you were an 
 orphan out-and-out, the priest would get you into an 
 asylum where you'd be well cared for. But your father 
 wouldn't hear of that. Oh ! if you were at home in 
 Ireland, near our own people ! It was an ill day I left 
 them ! " 
 
 .i. 
 
 ■f 
 
 t 
 
 ■5f 
 
 i 
 
 
LITTI.l': H.iniiYS LEGACY. 
 
 3 
 
 Mrs. Colson lay a few moments silent, then she spoke 
 again in a voice still fainter. " Harry, my son, you 
 know I have nothing to leave you. Stay, here is some- 
 thing better than gold, a medal and badge of the 
 Sacred Heart. I want you to keep them always about 
 you. T)o you hear me, Harry? Don't cry now, but 
 listen to me ! Keep them ever and always about you. 
 Don't let your father know. He'd take them from you, 
 and put them in the fire as like as not. Our Lord 
 Himself will guide you, and keep you in His holy 
 ways. And the dear mother of God, His own mother, 
 pray to Her, be sure you do ! " 
 
 They were her last words. When the good jtriest 
 returned a little while after, he found the patient sufferer 
 of many a weary year dead, with her little son resting 
 in speechless agony against the side of the bed. The 
 wretched husband was gone, Harry said, in search of 
 some neighbor women. 
 
 " May the Lord have mercy on your soul, Ellen 
 Colson!" said the worthy priest, as he finished the 
 prayers for the dead, " if it were not for your boy, I 
 would thank Him for this release. You needed rest I " 
 
 Two days after, when the churchyard clay covered 
 the remains of the once fair and light-hearted Ellen, the 
 only daughter of a welltu-do farmer in far-off Ireland, 
 the unhappy victim of a run-away marriage with a Pro- 
 testant mechanic, good-looking and intelligent, but, alas ! 
 with no fixed principles of right or wrong to guide him, 
 Father Cantwell would gladly have taken little Harry 
 under his own protection and charged himself with his 
 education ; but, just as the dying woman had predicted, 
 the father angrily refused his consent. No child of his, 
 he declared, should ever be called a Papist. He had 
 
UTTLE HAItliY'S LEG.W). 
 
 had too much of Poi)ery, and would have no more of 
 it. 1 1 c'd rather see Harry dead than jjut him in the 
 way of being brought up a Papist. So the priest had 
 ])est take himself off and never show his face there again* 
 Now that PLllen was gone he'd have his own way at last 
 with the boy. 
 
 The man was so determined, — being, moreover, as 
 Father Cantwell well knew, naturally obstinate and head- 
 strong, — that the ])riest saw further remonstrance was 
 useless. With a sorrowful heart and a fervent benedic- 
 tion he took leave of the motherless boy. " The Sacred 
 Heart will not desert him." he said within himself, while 
 pursuing his homeward way ; " his mother did not leave 
 him unprovided for." 
 
 •if. ■:)(. if. i/i if. ;(; 4c 
 
 The after-career of little Harry was a strange and sad 
 one, at least for a long time. His father, when he chose 
 to refrain from intoxicating liquors, earned money suffi- 
 cient to keep the boy and himself comfortably. An 
 unmarried sister of mature years came to keep house for 
 them. She was a tidy, thrifty woman, who knew how to 
 turn every dollar to account, so that when Bill Colson 
 did go off on a spree, as not unfrequently happened, the 
 comfort of the little household "as in no wise lessened. 
 Under her provident care the wolf was always kept from 
 the door. 
 
 But alas ! for poor Harry, his thrifty, industrious aunt 
 was a bitter Protestant, to the full as great a hater of 
 "Romanists" as her rollicking brother. She left no 
 effort untried to make a sound Protestant of Harry ; 
 but neither threats, nor persuasions, nor even corporal 
 punishment, not seldom or sparingly bestowed, could 
 turn the brave little fellow from his dead mother's faith. 
 
 1 
 
LITTLE HMtnrS LEGACY. 
 
 Still he managed to say his prayers night and morning, 
 and to go to confession to his well-loved friend Father 
 Cantwell once a month. This he contrived to do on his 
 way home from work on the Saturday evening; he was 
 enii)loyed as errand boy in a store in the town. But to 
 hear mass, to receive Communion, was altogether im- 
 practicable. Between the lynx eyes of his aunt, and 
 the brutal violence of his father when aroused to anger, 
 the poor child did not dare to go to church on Sunday 
 morning. 
 
 Luckily for Harry, his father and aunt, like many 
 others of their kind, seldom or never wen: to ciuuxh 
 themselves. Their religion consisted mainly in tiue 
 Orange uaued of Catholicity. Kor the rest t]ie\ ga\e 
 th ...selves, as a rule, little trouble about church, and 
 Harry was free to do the same, so long as he did not go 
 to the Catholic church. To prevent that, however, a 
 strict surveillance was exercised over the boy's move- 
 ments on Sunday morning. 
 
 Acting on Father Cantwell's advice, Harry submitted 
 in silence, hoping that the Sacred Heart and the Holy 
 Mother he so loved would hasten the time when he 
 could practice his religion fully and freely. 
 
 It was a marvel even to himself how he succeeded in 
 keeping his mother's precious legacy, the badge and the 
 medal, together with the beads the priest had given him, 
 from the all-searching eyes of his Aunt Fliza. But he 
 did succeed, and the few short momentr he could devote 
 to these beloved objects in simple fervent prayer were 
 his sweetest consolation. 
 
 1: * * ^ * If. % 
 
 So the years passed till Harry was eighteen, taller and 
 stronger than most lads of his age. He was now earning 
 
6 
 
 LITTLE iiAnnrs legacy. 
 
 il I 
 
 good wages. He had been attending night-school, and 
 had made the most of his scanty opportunities for 
 acquiring knowledge. His father's health began to fail, 
 and Harry was now the bread-winner of the little family. 
 For some years past he had made no secret of his being 
 a Catholic, and although Bill Colson at first made a show 
 of being terribly angry and his sister scolded with might 
 and main, Harry's quiet determination and steadfast 
 adherence to principle, together with his dutiful conduct 
 in all other respects, soon prevailed over the father's anti- 
 Popery mania. He was really proud and fond of his 
 handsome, stalwart son who was doing so well in every 
 sense of the word, and had surrounded the declining 
 years of his father and aunt with comforts never known 
 before. 
 
 A time came at last when Father Cantwell was a 
 frequent visitor at the home of the Colsons, now a decent 
 brick dwelling of two storeys. Even the elder people 
 came to regard his visits with a sort of pleasure, and Bill 
 Colson was heard to say, as he smoked his pipe in the 
 chimney corner, while Aunt Eliza sat knitting or sewmg 
 opposite, and Harry read aloud some entertaining book 
 for their delectation : — 
 
 " Well, I declare now, 'Lisa, there must be something 
 in this religion of Harry's that you or I can't see. How 
 in the world did he keep to it ever since his mother died, 
 when he was only a little shaver, and both of us doing 
 all we could to turn him away from it ? How did you 
 manage it, Harry? Tell me that now ! " and Bill shook 
 the ashes from his pipe vigorously. 
 
 " O ! that is easily accounted for, father," said Flarry 
 with a quiet smile, as he half closed his book : " It was 
 all along of mother's legacy." 
 
LITTLE flARRFS LEGACY. 
 
 " Legacy ! what legacy ? Sure, poor Ellen had nothing 
 to leave any one, more shame to the unlucky bird of a 
 husband she had ! " 
 
 '' Father," said the young man solemnly, " she had 
 what was better to me than silver or cold. She had 
 these ! " and he drew forth from a tiny leather case in 
 which he had so long preserved them, a faded and worn 
 badire of the Sacred Heart with a small medal of the 
 same divine Image now black with age. 
 
 *• Those ! " cried the father much amazed, while his 
 sister looked curiously at the unfamiliar objects, "and 
 what may ^/ley be ? What does it mean ? " 
 
 " It means," said Father Cantwell who, just then 
 entering, had overhead the last words ; " it means that 
 the Sacred Heart of Our Divine Lord, there represented, 
 is a tower of strength to those who trust and honor it 
 as He desires. It is now nigh upon two hundred years 
 since the Saviour of mankind promised one of His most 
 faithful servants, chosen by Him to reveal the devotion 
 of His Spared Heart to a world already growing coid and 
 ungrateful, that He would give to those who are devout 
 to His adorable Heart all the graces necessary for their 
 state of life. So it is, William, that little Harry's legacy, 
 left him by his good and pious mother, with the faith she 
 had already implanted in his young heart, has been the 
 immediate cause of his perseverance in good and oi your 
 present prosperity." 
 
 The brother and sister could not understand this then, 
 but they did later when, under Father Cantwell's zealous 
 care and instruction, aided by the force of Harry's good 
 example and his persevering prayers, they both found 
 rest and peace in the safe shelter of the One True Fold 
 
A BAND OF SOLDIERS. 
 
 Anna T. Sadlier. 
 
 JHE lion of that brilliant dinner-party given by 
 a notable Upper Canadian was undoubtedly the 
 ^ young lieutenant of a crack cavalry regiment 
 crowned with nobly won honors in the Soudan. It was' 
 not that he talked of these things, far less did he display 
 that magical Victoria Cross, or the medals, which told of 
 heroic acts and of a daring upon which home-going 
 reports had dilated in glowing terms. But his merry 
 ringing laugh and his hearty, almost boyish, tones fell 
 pleasantly upon the company. The lieutenant's popu- 
 larity seemed momentarily on the increase, which per- 
 haps, suggested a motive for the somewhat malicious 
 utterances of a very gilded youth who made one of the 
 after-dinner group. The group consisted altogether of 
 young people, for their elders sat apart, gathered about 
 a couple of luxurious arm-chairs, wherein sat the host of 
 the evening in conversation with a high dignitary. With 
 this latter personage our lieutenant had come to Canada, 
 in the capacity of military secretary. 
 
 " By the way, lieutenant," said the very gilded youth, 
 speaking with a pronounced and intolerably affected 
 drawl, " I heard an extraordinary story about you the 
 other day. Upon my life, it was scarcely credible." 
 
 " I say, let us hear it," said the Lieutenant in surprise, 
 " without having much curiosity, one does like to hear 
 extraordinary things about oneself." 
 
A HAND OF SOLDIERS. 
 
 
 " My informant was a lady, which is a voucher for 
 the truth of my story. She's a bit pecuHar, a Roman 
 Catholic, and goes in for being devout. When I twitted 
 her with going to church at unearthly hours and that 
 sort of thing, she answered : " What would you say, 
 had you been there yesterday morning ? " 
 
 Interest was excited, but everyone waited in silence. 
 " 'Lieutenant — ,' she went on, ' who is such a lion at pre- 
 sent was not only at mass, but actually said his beads.' " 
 
 Every eye was upon the young soldier, who, looking 
 the narrator full in the face, said quietly : 
 
 " And why not ? I am a Catholic." 
 
 Never was there a more crushing retort, and for a 
 moment it had its effect. But the youth, who prided 
 .himself upon a shallow kind of scepticism, returned 
 after a pause to the attack. 
 
 " Oh, but you must admit, my dear fellow, that it is 
 somewhat startling to hear a man of your calibre going 
 up to the altar and taking the Sacrament, or whatever 
 you call the ceremony." 
 
 The sceptical youth glanced around. Even the elders 
 were listening attentively. Perhaps he caught some 
 furtive smile:;. In any case he had made a sensation, 
 and ridicule is so potent a weapon against success." 
 
 '* My fair friend assured me," he continued, " that 
 you really wore what she called a badge, which, being 
 translated, means a bit of cloth, bearing some religious 
 device." 
 
 " What I am at a loss to understand,'' said the 
 Lieutenant, calmly,"is why all this should be supposed to 
 interest the present company, or why any one should be 
 surprised to hear that I do sometimes perform my reli- 
 gious duties." 
 
 
h 
 
 10 
 
 A HAND OF SOLDIERS. 
 
 I 
 
 " The fact is, Lieutenant, in this country at least, a 
 man of the world who has convictions tries hard to con- 
 ceal them. Of course, I am speaking of a gentleman." 
 
 " It would be a poor sort of gentleman who was 
 afraid to profess his convictions openly," said the 
 Lieutenant with honest scorn. " What would you think 
 of a soldier who was ashamed of his colors ? " 
 
 There was a flash in the speaker's eye and a color on 
 his cheeks, which made one listener, at least, remember 
 the gallant charge at Tel-el-Kebir. 
 
 " I like that boy," said the Canadian millionaire to 
 the dignitary. " If he were not in the army, I might 
 find a good berth for him out here." 
 
 " The army has need of honest men as well as your 
 great companies," said the dignitary with a smile ; " but 
 that lad's a gentleman to the heart's core." 
 
 There were few so frivolous in that company as not 
 to echo this sentiment, and some who stifled in their 
 hearts the unspoken longing for faith so firm and so 
 fearlessly professed. 
 
 The sceptic felt anything but sure that success had 
 fallen to his share. 
 
 ! 
 
 II 
 
 It seemed that opportunities were multiplying for the 
 young cavalry man to show his colors. The following 
 Sunday afternoon he strolled down to the pier. He 
 liked to look upon the lake. How tranquil and beau- 
 tiful was the scene in the Sabbath stillness. The island 
 with its groups of grim and leafless trees, which had a 
 beauty of their own, outlined against the sky. This 
 
A BAND OF SOLDIERS. 
 
 it 
 
 Toronto, he reflected, was a finely situated town. The 
 young officer sauntered idly about ; he stopped beside 
 the projection of a low wall to light a cigar, and became 
 the involuntary listener to some curious snatches of 
 conversation. The voices of several men were raised 
 as if in argument, and the words came to the lieute- 
 nant's ear distinctly. 
 
 " When those priests get hold of a fellow, there's an 
 end of it. 1 wouldn't give a puff of smoke for him." 
 
 It was evident to the young soldier's olfactories that 
 the speaker had suited the action to the word, by 
 sending forth a whiff of strong and not too fragrant 
 tobacco. 
 
 " Yet Rob's a good enought sort," said a second 
 voice. " Priests or no priests, none of us has anything 
 agin him." 
 
 " True for you. Bill," said a third voice. '* I say, let 
 every man have his own way, if only he don't try to 
 come it over other folk." 
 
 ^' Here comes the lad, and we'll have a fling at him," 
 said another. 
 
 The Lieutenant could perceive a tall, fair young man, 
 advancing awkwardly towards the group. He was evi- 
 dently in his Sunday best ; his hair was smoothed down 
 over his forehead, a bright red handkerchief took the 
 place of a collar. He had the indefinable look of one 
 who had either followed a seafaring life, or at least had 
 spent much of his time working about ships or dock- 
 yards. 
 
 He was greeted by a very storm of rude chaff", of vul- 
 gar personalities, of half-insulting, half-derisive epithets. 
 Even those who had spoken well of him before he had 
 approached seemed to relish this new sort of sport. 
 
It 
 
 12 
 
 A HAND OF SOLD I Ens. 
 
 " I say, Rob, how much did you pay at confession ? 
 The priest must have chalked up a pretty big score." 
 " Where's that bit of red rag you wore last Sabbath at 
 the Mass-house ? Bill Squires seen you with it," were 
 among the most refined of the exclamations. 
 
 The poor lad grew red and pale alternately, he twisted 
 his hands uncomfortably. With all his surprise, con- 
 fusion and anger, there was a curiously blended desire 
 to nail his flag to the mast, and show that he was a 
 man. 
 
 " A poor rag of a man," said the first speaker, he of 
 the aromatic pipe. " Sponging around the priests, can't 
 take a drink like an honest fellow, and runs with his 
 whining stories to the parson. We won't have no such 
 fellows among us, trying to cram Popish superstitions 
 down our throats. I sav, let us drive him out of our 
 gang." 
 
 Poor Bill tried to speak : 
 
 " I alius does the best I can," he said ; " and I don't 
 know as it's " 
 
 But his voice was drowned by a chorus of angry or 
 mocking shouts. The Lieutenant felt the hot blood, 
 which had glowed within him on more than one battle- 
 field, mount to his face. An instant more, and poor, 
 bewildered Rob felt an arm firmly linked in his, and a 
 voice raised gallantly in his behalf. 
 
 '• Come, Rob, if you have that badge about you it 
 will just match mine. We fight in the same ranks. See 
 here." 
 
 The Lieutenant drew from his pocket the Badge of 
 the Sacred Heart, and involuntarily Rob produced his. 
 Together they stood, a brave young pair, all difference 
 of rank forgotten between them. The aggressors were 
 
A BAND OF SOLDIERS. 
 
 ^ 
 
 silent a moment. Then there was an attempt at an 
 apology. 
 " We meant no harm, sir. We likes our bit of chaff.*' 
 " Queer sort of chaff, tampering with a man's con- 
 victions," said the Lieutenant, sternly. " Let me advise 
 you in future to have some respect for a fellow who has 
 got some belief and the pluck to profess it." 
 
 Before the Lieutenant was quite aware of what was 
 being done, the men had set up a rousing cheer for him 
 and Rob. It sounded to his excited mood like the 
 exultant shouts he had heard after a victory. Shaking 
 Rob warmly by the hand, and with a hearty " good- 
 bye " to the rest, the Lieutenant walked away. 
 " That's a plucky young swell," said one. 
 " Know who he is ? " said the man of the pipe. 
 
 " He's the officer what came out here with ," 
 
 mentioning the dignitary to whom the young soldier was 
 secretary. 
 
 '' You get along ; there ain't no Papists in that crowd." 
 " I know what I's talking about. That's Lieutenant 
 
 , and he's got a dozen medals, at least, not to 
 
 speak of the Victory Cross." 
 
 *' Draw it mild ! " and " Who'd have thought it ! " 
 
 were some of the comments provoked by this explanation. 
 
 " He knelt beside me last Sunday at the altar rails," 
 
 ventured Rob. '* He wore the badge that he showed 
 
 you to day." 
 
 *' Gosh ! " was the emphatic exclamation, following 
 upon this information. 
 
 " These Papists is queer folk," said the man with the 
 pipe, who appeared to be a sort of leader in the group ; 
 " and, arter all, I likes to see a man stick up for his 
 colors. So give us your fist, Rob ! " 
 
14 
 
 A BAND OF SOLUIEKS. 
 
 m * 
 . i 
 
 HI' 
 I 
 
 i I 
 
 ! i ! 
 
 One or two bad Catholics who had been amongst this 
 party of English workmen lately arrived from Liverpgol, 
 now stole shamefacedly away. They had that day 
 learned a never-to-be-forgotten lesson. 
 
 The young Lieutenant meanwhile found his way to 
 the club, where he was to take his dinner, retlecting 
 more seriously than was his wont upon each man's res- 
 ponsibility. 
 
 He had never been what is called pious, but always a 
 practical Catholic. He had joined the League at col- 
 lege in England, and had been, through all vicissitudes, 
 faithful to its practices. So that it was with curious 
 emotion he had found himself, here in this strange 
 country, that memorable Sunday morning, amongst the 
 throng of communicants advancing to the altar for the 
 Communion of Reparation. He had worn the badge, 
 but he had little idea that he was so shortly to appear 
 on two occasions as a veritable confessor of the faith. 
 It had hitherto seemed so natural to him to be proud of 
 his religion. He could not gtiess what seeds of good 
 he had that day sown. It was only in after years that 
 they were to ripen. But he did draw a conclusion from 
 all that had occurred. 
 
 " I suppose," he thought, " that one has to be a little 
 aggressive in one's Catholicity at times. Not in attack- 
 ing but in repelling attack. It is a cowardly thing to 
 shut up one's religion for Sunday wear, especially when 
 we carry about this militant emblem." 
 
 He looked at the badge, which unconsciously he had 
 still retained in his grasp, and now restored it to his 
 pocket. 
 
 " I never realized before to day," he added with a 
 laugh, " that the League is a band of soldiers." 
 
 !iiM 
 
 ,! i ' 
 
 

 SAM ALLEN'S LITTLE JOKE. 
 
 Mrs. J. Sadlier. 
 
 ca 
 
 I^BLITHE cheery woman was Mrs. Lanigan, 
 albeit that the battle of life was a hard one 
 
 ft tf^Ti^5^ for her and circumstances were dead against 
 
 her. Left a widow while still young, with three little 
 children dependent on her for support, her days were 
 
 : spent in hard toil from Monday morning till Saturday 
 
 night, and this she bore without a murmur, thanking 
 
 ,.; God for the good health that enabled her to work for 
 
 ; the children she so fondly loved. The only thing that 
 
 troubled her was the hard necessity of going out on 
 certain days to work, and so leaving her little ones all 
 day long without protection. 
 
 It was her custom, on those days, to give the children 
 their breakfast and prepare their little mid-day meal 
 before leaving them in the morning. On her return in 
 the evening she cooked the frugal supper, which she 
 and her children enjoyed beyond everything, because 
 they were together and could talk over all their family 
 affairs at leisure. Then, when the little deal table was 
 cleared and the tea-things washed and neatly arranged 
 in the corner cupboard, good Mrs. Lanigan took up 
 her sewing or knitting, and with her children nestled 
 close around her, gave herself up to the pleasure of 
 listening to their innocent prattle, while they told her 
 over and over the little incidents of the day, — how the 
 
SAM ALLEN'S LITTLE JOKE. 
 
 
 nil 
 
 task assigned to each had been executed, the plays they 
 had played and the sights they had seen. 
 
 The humble abode of the family was in a small court 
 opening on a broad suburban thoroughfare of a large 
 city, where the stream of life ran swiftly past in all its 
 bustle and excitement. So the Lanigan children, from 
 their door-step, or the little window in their kitchen, 
 saw many a thing to interest them in the street beyond 
 their court, during the long hours of their mother's 
 absence. 
 
 In those quiet hours of well-earned rest, the mother 
 laid hold, too, of every opportunity of instructing her 
 children in religion and virtue in the measure of her 
 lights — not over brilliant, it is true, but sound and judi- 
 cious, inspired as they were by simple faith and fervent 
 piety. 
 
 Only one of the children was old enough to go to 
 confession, and had not yet made her first communion. 
 This was Bessie, nine years old, a thouglhtful, quiet 
 child, whose chief pleasure it was to assist her beloved 
 mother in any way she could, and to watch over her 
 little brother Peter, seven years old, and Jennie just 
 turned of five. 
 
 This last was not so easy a task as might be supposed, 
 especially in regard to Peter, who had already '* a will of 
 his own," as his mother used to say, and was somewhat 
 given to climbing poles and fences, hanging on at the 
 back of passing vehicles and other gymnastic feats, to 
 the constant terror of poor Bessie and in forgetfulness 
 of his mother's oft-repeated injunctions. 
 
 Another source of anxious fear to mother and daugh- 
 ter, on Peter's account, was the proximity of a well, 
 
 ■^.f 
 
 ■1 
 
 i 
 
 ::;V 
 
5.1 .V .1 /. LEN S i I TTL E JO KE. 
 
 17 
 
 to 
 
 1 
 
 i. 
 
 •it 
 
 I 
 
 'ii 
 
 I 
 
 situated in the centre of the court, and which supplied 
 the families dwelling therein with water. It is true, 
 there was a substantial parapet surrounding this well, 
 strong enough and high enough to protect those who 
 rested against it while drawing water from below. But 
 who knows not the danger-loving propensity of boys, 
 especially small ones ? So it chanced that of all Peter 
 Lanigan's amusements during the enforced absence of 
 his good mother, the foremost was that of mounting 
 the stone parapet of the well and leaning over to 
 catch sight of his own image reflected in the water 
 beneath. 
 
 Evening after evening, Bessie had to complain of 
 little Peter's disregard of her advice and reckless indif- 
 ference to danger. Then the poor mother in her easy 
 good-natured way took the little culprit to task : 
 
 " I declare now, Peter, you'll break my heart if you 
 go on so. Don't you know it's a sin and a shame for 
 you to be disobeyin' your mother this way, and keepin' 
 poor Bessie runnin' after you when she has the work of 
 the house on her hands all day long ? " 
 
 Peter was ready enough to acknowledge his fault and 
 promise amendment ; but alas ! after a day or two, he 
 forgot all about it, and raced and ran and climbed on 
 the parapet all the same. What would you have? 
 After all, poor Peter was only Jean Ingelo'ws " Seven 
 times one," and was left all the day long to his own 
 resources for amusement. The worst of it was that, 
 not content with running all sorts of risks himself, 
 the sturdy urchin was fond of leading his little sister 
 Jennie, into all the pranks and gambols that were his 
 own delight. This was, of course, when tidy, matronly 
 Bessie was too much engaged to notice their escapades. 
 
 9 
 
m 
 
 18 
 
 SAM ALLEN'S LITTLE JOKE. 
 
 ii< 
 
 It was hard enough for good Mrs. Lanigan to keep 
 up her spirits and brace her energies day by day to 
 take up the burden of her toil and to leave her little 
 ones, so often, to the many perils to which the two 
 younger were exposed, in her absence, from Peter's 
 giddy and reckless nature. 
 
 The neighbors were wont to wonder how she could 
 content herself away from lier children, all so young, 
 and one so wild and harum-scarum, as they said. Some 
 tive or six families dwelt in the same court, all of them 
 working people like Mrs. Lanigan ; but, more fortunate 
 than she, the other women having their husbands to 
 earn for them were not obliged to go out to work. 
 
 They were a kindly little colony, those dwellers in the 
 court, and, as far as their own avocations permitted, the 
 women were quite willing to look after little Peter and 
 Jennie now and then, when Bessie — a general favorite 
 among them — had to go an errand for her small inenagc 
 and leave the children to their own devices. 
 
 Amongst the families in the court only one was Pro- 
 testant. Irish Protestants they were too, Allen by 
 name, consisting of the father, mother and four chil- 
 dren, — two boys and two girls. These children were 
 not had, as the world goes ; the two elder, a boy and a 
 girl, went to school, and the others spent their time, 
 week in, week out, in the more or less noisy sports of 
 their youthful comrades. The fathe, worked in a foun- 
 dry and the mother had constant work at home from a 
 large clothing store. 
 
 " Why in the world don't you try to get work to do 
 at home, Mrs. Lanigan, so as to be all the time with the 
 children?" was Mrs. Allen's frequent question. "I 
 don'c know how you can make up your mind to leave 
 
■>? 
 
 SA M ALL EN' S L I TTL E JO KE. 
 
 19 
 
 to do 
 
 ith the 
 
 " I 
 
 leave 
 
 them, and they so young. Of course, Bessie is a wise, 
 steady little thing, but she can't be everywhere at once, 
 and Peter would need some one after him the whole 
 time not to speak of Jennie, the dear little lammie ! " 
 
 "True for you, Mrs. Allen," would her neighbor 
 reply ; " but you sec it's this way with me ; I get three 
 or four days' steady work every week at house-cleanin' 
 and washin', and that's a great thing, you know, for a 
 lone woman like me, for it helps me to pay the rent and 
 to feed and clothe the little ones. So what can I do ? " 
 
 " But don'*^ you be thinkin' all day long that some- 
 ihin' bad m. .,'ht be happenin' at home — some terrible 
 accident, you know ? If I was in your place I'd never 
 have an easy hour when I'd be away from the children." 
 
 " Well ! I declare to you, iMrs. Allen, " said the little 
 woman with an easy smile, " that's not the way with me, 
 at all, at all. I don't fret a bit about the children while 
 I'm gone from them. You see, ma'am, when I go out 
 in the moruin' to my work, I just put the children and 
 even the little place we have, under the protection of the 
 Blessed Virgin Mary, an' I ask Her to be a mother to 
 them till I come back." 
 
 "Well! an' what then?" asked the other with an 
 amused smile. 
 
 *' Why, just this, " said Mrs. Lanigan simply, " that I 
 have no fear for my fatherless little ones when I'm out 
 earnin' their livin', for I know they're better cared for 
 than if I was with them." 
 
 A mocking laugh behind her startled the blithe little 
 widow, and, turning she beheld Sam Allen, who had 
 entered, unperceived by her. 
 
 " What are you laughin' at, Sam Allen ? " she asked a 
 little testily, for her. 
 
in 
 
 111 
 
 i|i 
 
 1 ' I 
 
 i 1! 
 
 20 
 
 SA M ALL Eir S L ITTLE JO KE. 
 
 "Why, what would I be laughin' at, Mrs. Lanigan, 
 only at your simplicity ? How do you think your Virgin 
 Mary, up in heaven, can hear what you say down here 
 in the court, or take care of your children ? I always 
 took you for a sensible woman, but now I begin to 
 doubt it." 
 
 " Sensible or no, Sam Allen, that's my belief ; 
 and you may laugh as much as you please, you'll 
 not laugh me out of it. So, good-bye, Mrs. Allen 
 dear, an' many thanks for the pattern you gave me for 
 Jennie's hood. " 
 
 " Good-bye, Mrs. Lanigan, " called Sam after her 
 from his door. "Won't you put in a word for us here 
 with your Virgin Mary ? " 
 
 " Put in a word with her yourself, Sam," replied Mrs. 
 Lanigan, looking back over her shoulder. "My doin' it 
 would be little use when you don't or won't do it your- 
 self." 
 
 A few minutes later Mrs. Lanigan and her children 
 were kneeling before a little plaster statue of the Virgin 
 ever Blessed, saying the Rosary, as was their hallowed 
 custom before retiring to rest. 
 
 The Aliens enjoyod a hearty laugh at the expense of 
 poor simple widow Lanigan, and after talking the 
 matter over for some time, decided that it was tiresome 
 to hear Papists going on about, " their Blessed Virgin," 
 all as one as if she could hear them or help them. 
 
 " They're a queer lot altogether, " observed Sam, 
 with a yawn, as he arose and began to prepare for bed. 
 " You never know what they'll come out with next when 
 you get talkin' with them. I'd like to make the trial 
 some day of Mrs. Lanigan's belief, as she calls it, in that 
 Virgin Mary of hers. I'll see about it when I have time 
 
 4 
 
 jtft 
 
SA M A L L EN- S fJTTL E JO KE. 
 
 21 
 
 on my hands for a little fun. Any way, let us get to 
 bed, — we have to be uj) early." 
 
 if. if. * 5(; jj: J); :(-, J)-. jf: ^ 
 
 The long dreary winter had passed away, and the 
 emerald sheen of the Spring was in its transit towards 
 the more mellow brightness of the summer. One 
 evening, Mrs. Lanigan, coming home tired from work, 
 was met some way down the street adjoining the court 
 where she dwelt, by no less a person ^han her neighbor 
 Sam Allen, wearing, as it struck the good woman, a 
 particularly sombre aspect. He was ordinarily a long- 
 visaged, sallow individual, but on this occasion he 
 looked doleful in the extreme. 
 
 " Why, then, Sam Allen, " cried the widow stopping 
 short and fixing her eyes on the man's face ; " is there 
 anything wrong with you at home ? You look as if all 
 belongin' to you were dead and buried. " 
 
 "Well ! no, Mrs. Lanigan, there's nothin' the matter 
 with us," — laying a strong emphasis on the pronoun,— 
 " but— but " 
 
 " But what, man ? Out with it, whatever it is ! " 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Lanigan ! Mrs. Lanigan 1 " 
 
 " Now, Sam. " said the resolute little woman, " I want 
 to hear the news. I see by your face that something 
 has happened. What is it, I say again ■: " 
 
 " Oh 1 indeed, then, it grieves me sorely to tell, but I 
 supj)Ose I must. Poor little Peter — " 
 
 " What about Peter, Sam? " 
 
 " Why, he fell into the well there a little while ago, 
 an' Pm afeard he's drowned. We haven't got him out 
 yet. " 
 
 " No, you didn't, " Mrs. Lanigan qiickly answered, 
 " for the best of reasons, that he wasn't i.: it ! Don't 
 
22 
 
 SA M ALLEN'S LI TTLE JOKE. 
 
 .1! t 
 
 tell me, Sam Allen, that ?fiy child is drowned. If any 
 one is, it isn't him. " 
 
 By this time the pair had reached the entrance to the 
 court, where beyond all doubt, there was a wild commo- 
 tion and a crowd of excited people. A child had just 
 been taken from the well, and efforts were being made 
 to resuscitate the little body, but evidently in vain. The 
 child was dead. Rut it was not Peter Lanigan. for his 
 mother found him with Bessie and Jennie on the door- 
 step of their little home, crying in piteous accents that 
 Christie Allen was drowned in the well. 
 
 Yes, it was, indeed, poor Sam's youngest boy, a bright 
 little fellow of six or seven years old, who had come to 
 so sad an end. Sam's little joke turned out no joke 
 after all ! And Mrs. Lanigan's confidence in the 
 protection of the Mother of God, Our Lady of the 
 Sacred Heart, was triumphantly justified. It is worthy 
 of remark that the Aliens, from that sad day forward, 
 laughed no more at the widow Lanigan's trust in " her 
 Blessed Virgin. " 
 
 i 
 
THAT PICTURE OF THE SACRED HEART. 
 
 Anna T. Sadlier. 
 
 .'^^liA-i^ >v5y;^ 
 
 (( 
 
 her 
 
 &N early Spring had come to Canada. It had 
 \^ touched the buds into life; it had clothed the 
 
 ;§ trees with a delicate green. Cattle were low- 
 ing, sheep bleating, the air was full of faint fragrance, as 
 in anticipation of those many odorous plants which 
 should later fill the gardens and the woodlands with 
 their profusion. 
 
 Mary Leonard sat upon the porch of her father's little 
 stone house. Tangled creepers of honeysuckle fell 
 about her. A lilac-bush beside the door was sending 
 her its grateful sweetness. A bird or two sang in a 
 neigliboring tree. Mary was absorbed in a letter, four 
 pages of closely written school-girl news from a convent 
 friend. On the last page a few lines caught her attention 
 particularly :— " We are all busy here about the League 
 of the Sacred Heart. I am a promoter and have got a 
 cross. Lots of our old convent friends are in it. But, 
 perhaps, you do not know wnat all this means. " 
 
 A brief explanation followed, and Mary mechanically 
 took up an inclosed printed card :— "The Promises of 
 Our Lord to Blessed Margaret Mary. " Mechanically, 
 
24 
 
 WAT PICTURE OF THE SACliED HEART 
 
 too, she began to read. Her thoughts were busy with 
 that mad-cap, Lucy Hearn, the wildest girl in the class, 
 transformed now into a promoter of the Sacred Heart. 
 One promise particularly appealed to Mary : 
 
 " I will bless the houses wherein an Image of my 
 Heart shall be exposed and honored. " 
 
 Acting on a sudden impulse, Mary went up to her 
 room and took from a drawer a colored print. It was 
 of no particular value. It had been given as a reward 
 of merit in the young girl's convent days. It was an 
 Image of the Sacred Heart. She brought it downstairs, 
 and with some hesitation hung it up in the sitting-room, 
 just above a rude little shelf. She did not know what 
 her father might say, and she stood considerably in awe 
 of him and his opinions. 
 
 She passed out into the garden and gathered a handful 
 of early Spring flowers, and put them in a vase upon 
 the shelf. Tiien, she sat down at the window, and 
 looked out over the fields just turning green and the road 
 stretching away into the distance. At last she could 
 see afar off her father approaching, a bent and toil- 
 M'orn figure. His clothing was rough, his air and man- 
 ner, as he entered the house, dejected and even morose. 
 
 Thomas Leonard's life had been one of hard and 
 prosaic labor. He had had but little time to attend to 
 his religious duties, and the suburb where he lived gave 
 but narrow scope for anything more than the baldest 
 practice of religion. It was only occasionally visited 
 by a priest, the Catholics in the vicinity being the merest 
 handful. 
 
 After supper, Mary Leonard carried the lamp into 
 the sitting-room, where her fadier usually smoked his 
 pipe. Scarcely had he seated himself, when the light of 
 
WAT PICTURE OF THE SACRED HEART 
 
 my 
 
 the lamp fell full upon the picture and the fragrant 
 blossoms before it. Thomas Leonard started as if he 
 had seen a ghost. The divine face and figure rudely 
 outlined, but yet full of meaning and majesty, strangely 
 awed him. 
 
 " What's that ? " he said, shortly, jerking his thumb 
 in the direction of the Sacred Image. 
 
 " A picture of the Sacred Heart, father. " 
 
 •■ Who put it there ? " 
 
 " I did. " 
 
 " Humph ! " 
 
 No more was said. Mary was rejoiced that her father 
 had not ordered the picture to be taken down. So 
 hard and absorbed in material things had he become, 
 that beauty, sweetness, spirituaHty, paused without the 
 stone porch. Work and economy were all the duties 
 that Thomas Leonard imposed upon his daughter. If 
 she wanted to say her prayers — short ones — well and 
 good. If a priest came, she might go to mass, but there 
 must be no humbug. At first wiien a priest came at 
 Easter, Thomas Leonard was careful to receive the 
 Sacraments. Of late, he had contrived to be out of the 
 way at that particular time, and his faith was apparently 
 dead. 
 
 The picture had been in its place a week or more, 
 when Mary surprised her father, one evening, standing, 
 with a light in his hand, attentively examining it. She 
 stole away, unheeded, and again she caught him pain- 
 fully spelling out " the Promises, " which had been left 
 upon the shelf. 
 
 Once a grandchild came from a still more remote 
 country place, on a visit. Its mother was a Protestant. 
 The child had been taught nothing of its father's religion 
 
 ^ 
 
III ! 
 
 t 1 I I 
 
 :'ii 
 
 !l 
 
 THAT PICTURE OF THE SACRED HEART 
 
 One day i\Iary overheard a conversation between her 
 father and the little lad. 
 
 " Grandpapa, who is that in the picture ? " 
 
 " It's our Saviour, I suppose, " said the man, shame- 
 facedly, the name was so unfamiliar on his lips. 
 
 " Whaf is he doing ? " 
 
 " Oh. I don't know; Mary can tell you. " 
 
 " He has a beautiful, kind face ; and there is a lady 
 in the picture. What is she doing? " 
 
 " Praying. " 
 
 '* Do you ever pray, grandpapa ? " asked the child 
 earnestly. 
 
 Grandpapa growled something in answer. He did 
 not want his young inquirer to learn that for years he 
 had scarcely ever bent his knee. 
 
 '' Grandpapa is too busy, " he added aloud. 
 
 " If you tell me how, / 701//, " said the child eagerly. 
 
 Something like an expression of pain crossed the old 
 man's face, as he rose and left the room. He was a 
 skilled workman, and had risen to be foreman of the 
 factory wherein he had worked for forty years. No one 
 could replace him when he was absent, and he taught 
 many of the new hands their work. But he had never 
 taught any one to pray. He had almost forgotten how 
 himself. 
 
 As the weeks and months went by. the picture and 
 Mary's daily offering of flowers before it made a spot of 
 beauty in the house. The bare walls of the sitting-room 
 seemed less dreary. The perfume of flowers had replaced 
 that of new carpet or of stale varnish. 
 
 Once when Mary spoke of removing the picture to 
 her own room, her father almost sternly bade her leave 
 it where it was. 
 
THAT PICTL'fiE OF THE SAC BED HEART. '11 
 
 n her 
 
 It had so far worked its way into his hardened and 
 toihvorn hedrt. 
 
 ihame- 
 
 11. 
 
 a lady 
 
 le 
 
 child 
 
 He did 
 /■ears he 
 
 eagerly. 
 
 the old 
 e was a 
 in of the 
 
 No one 
 taught 
 id never 
 ten how 
 
 ture and 
 spot of 
 ng-room 
 replaced 
 
 )icture to 
 ler leave 
 
 Spring had softly stolen away at the touch of Summer, 
 and the ripe fruits of Autumn had fallen before the 
 vigorous blast of a northerly Winter. Icicles hung upon 
 the trees, the garden of the little stone house was piled 
 high with snow. The roads were blocked, so that 
 Thomas Leonard could scarcely get to his work in the 
 neighboring town. Mary was shut up in a dreariness 
 which she enlivened by decorating, as best she might, 
 the space around the picture. She had begun to burn 
 before it a small oil lamp, which was another school-day 
 relic. Her father had at first said something about the 
 danger of setting fire to the house, but he made no very 
 great objeclion, and seemed at last to look for the light, 
 on his return at evening. The little sitting-room had an 
 end window, through which the red gleam of the lamp 
 shone out upon the road. 
 
 One particularly wild and stormy night came about 
 the end of December. Drifts of snow were whirling, 
 blizzard fashion, up and down the road. The wind 
 howled about the house and rattled the frost-bound trees. 
 Just as the father and daughter sat down to supper, they 
 were startled by a stamping of feet outside and a loud 
 knocking at the door. Thomas Leonard threw it open, 
 and discovered a young man, evidently belonging to the 
 higher classes. The stranger briefly explained that, 
 being on his way to the residence of a gentleman — whose 
 name Thomas Leonard at once recognized — some 
 
 I 
 
■M 
 
 28 
 
 WAT PlCTUllE OF THE SACRED llEAIiT. 
 
 distance further on, he had got off the direct road and 
 lost himself. 
 
 " You had better stop here to night, " said Leonard 
 with rough civility ; " there's no chance of making your 
 way before day-break, and not then, unless this blizzard 
 holds up. " 
 
 " But I have a horse and sleigh, " objected the 
 traveller. 
 
 '' There's an out-house for them. I'll see that they're 
 all right." 
 
 The stranger yielded, and having partaken of the 
 humble but plentiful supper, sat in the little sitting-room 
 watching Mary knit and her father smoke. All at 
 once he said, glancing, with a smile, at the lamp before 
 the picture : 
 
 *' That must have been the light which guided me 
 here. It was like a tiny red spark in the darkness. But 
 it answered the purpose. Had I not seen it I should 
 have wandered on in the drifts, or have gone down an 
 embankment. " 
 
 " If you hadn't found your way here somehow. " said 
 Leonard, " you wouldn't have been a living man to- 
 morrow. " 
 
 '• A very little thing to save a life, " said the stranger, 
 rising and going over to examine the print. " Will you 
 permit me to inquire, " he added, involuntarily address- 
 ing Mary, " v/hat this picture is intended to represent, 
 and why you burn a light before it ? " 
 
 Mary, summoning up all her convent lore, gave as 
 clear an account as she could of the significance of the 
 picture and her reasons for burning the lami . The 
 stranger listened attentively, asking many questions. 
 He read over " the Promises " more than once, and 
 
T/IAT PICTURE OF THE SACRED HEART. '^i) 
 
 returned to the subject of devotion to the Sacred Heart 
 with a persistency which astonished Tom Leonard. 
 
 " What had men got to do, " he thought, " with all 
 this religious business ? The women were the only ones 
 who had time for that. " 
 
 Unconsciously, however, he learned a great deal, no 
 less than his guest. 
 
 The inclemency of the weather detained the young 
 stranger for two or three days under that humble roof. 
 During his stay he conversed more than once with Mary 
 upon the subject of religion, examining her beads, her 
 prayer-book and a catechism, which last he jestingly 
 begged from her as a memento of his visit. Perhaps it 
 was because of the lamp which had saved his life, but 
 he talked most of all of the Sacred Heart. 
 
 HI. 
 
 Ten years had passed away, and again the April 
 blossoms had replaced the Canadian snows. The 
 honeysuckle was climbing once more over the porch of 
 the stone house, and the leaves were fast sprouting on 
 the trees. Mary Leonard was all absorbed by one 
 thought : Her father lay dying, there was no priest 
 nearer than the neighboring town ; she dared not go so 
 far, leaving the sick man alone. Besides, he had 
 repulsed her so sternly when she touched upon the 
 subject, and had broken forth into so savare threats, 
 that she was fairly terrified. The picture of the Sacred 
 Heart had been brought with its little red light, and 
 hung in view of the bed. Before it stood the vase of 
 spring flowers. It seemed to have an extraordinary 
 
.SSSfi 
 
 lilii;! 
 
 M 
 
 li! 
 
 I 
 
 ! 
 
 30 
 
 rjJAT PICTLltE OF THE SACltED llEAItT. 
 
 fascination for Leonard. Even in his ravings he talked 
 disconnectedly about it. A doctor came once, and 
 pronounced, carelessly, that the patient might live a 
 month or two, but that his case was hopeless. He gave 
 his instructions, and departed. Mary was left alone. 
 
 The dusk of an April evening was closing in, and 
 recalling to Mary that other twilight, when, reading her 
 schoolmate's letter, she had resolved to hang up the 
 picture of the Sacred Heart. She sat now overwhelmed 
 by the thought that her father might pass into that 
 terrible, unseen world, unshriven, unprepared. Oh, if 
 she could but get a priest ! H only one were near. 
 A sound of wheels and of voices aroused her from her 
 reverie, then a knocking at the door. Mary threw it 
 open, and found herself confronted by the stranger of 
 long ago. For some time after his visit he had sent 
 them occasional tokens of friendly remembrance, then 
 there had been silence. Mary recognized him at once. 
 
 To her wonder, he wore a distinctly clerical dress. 
 
 The explanations which followed were not long. 
 
 " I shall not try, " said the stranger, smiling, " to 
 unravel for you the tangled skein of my experiences 
 since we met. The clue must be looked for in your 
 picture of the Sacred Heart, and the light burning before 
 it, which saved my life. Do you remember how we 
 talked religion during my visit; how you gave me a 
 catechism ; above all, how you made me acquainted 
 with that wonderful devotion to the Divine Heart? 
 Once set thinking, reading, studying, the path was clear 
 to the Church and to the priesthood. My friend, 
 
 Father , and I, being in this neighborhood, I made 
 
 it a point to come and thank you for your hospitality of 
 long ago. " 
 
THAT PICTUIiE OF TIJE SACHEO l/EAHT. 
 
 *• Perhaps you can do more than that for us, " said 
 Mary, quietly. '' My flilhcr is dying, and has refused 
 10 let me go for a priest, even if I could have left him 
 and made my way to town. He will see yofi. My 
 prayer to the Sacred Heart is answered. " 
 
 An April evening was closing in dreamily. vSunset 
 was fading from the landscape, a faint breeze was 
 stirring the elm-trees, wherein were heard the songs of 
 hirds, an echo, perhaps, of the canticle of joy which 
 the angels were singing for one that had done penance. 
 Thomas Leonard had passed beyond earthly speech or 
 sound. But at his bedside was the priest, the stranger 
 of ten years before, and in his hand was a Crucifix. 
 His last words had been an appeal for mercy to the 
 Divine Heart. His dying eyes had rested upon the 
 picture. The red light from the lamp fell as a benedic 
 tion over the pallid and stiffening form from which the 
 spirit was passing with the last April sun. It fell, too, 
 upon the bowed figure of Mary Leonard, who, through 
 all her grief and desolation, could perceive that the 
 promise had been realized. Great blessings had come 
 from the honor paid to that picture of the Sacred Heart. 
 
I'll 
 
 A GRANDFATHER'S STORY. 
 
 mi ■■ 
 
 III' 
 
 Mrs. James Sadlter. 
 
 PLEASANT hoinc-circle was that which 
 \^ gathered round the cheerful blaze of the 
 parlor-fire in a comfortable homestead in a 
 town of Western Canada one stormy evening in late 
 November, some few years ago. The party consisted 
 of the father and mother, three fair daughters, ranging 
 in age from eighteen to twenty five, and a son, a pale 
 student-like young man of twenty-eight or thirty ; last, 
 but by no means least in importance, was a silver-haired, 
 patriarchal-looking old man, the grandfather of the 
 young people and father of the comely matron who 
 looked more like iheir elder sister than their mother. 
 
 While the mournful winds shrieked and howled with- 
 out, increasing the sense of comfort and security within, 
 and the fire-light cast strange weird shadows over the 
 cosy room, with its cretonne-draped windows, and the 
 group around the fire-place, conversation flowed freely 
 in the careless ease of home-life^ interrupted only by the 
 merry laughter of the younger girls, or now and again, 
 
 '' The quick questioning that brought 
 Such gentlfi calm replies. ' 
 
 One of the girls had mentioned a wedding that was 
 soon to take place in the neighborhood, and to which all 
 the family were invited. 
 
A GliANDFATlJEH'S STUliY. 
 
 Xi 
 
 " What a splendid match it is for Alice Costelloe ! " 
 said Mary, the eldest girl ; *' they say the intended 
 groom is quite well off, besides his profession. And we 
 all know the Costelloes are anything but well off" 
 
 " You forget one thing, Mary, " said her father earn- 
 estly. '* The wealth and position are all very well, as far 
 as they go. But what of religion — the main thing after 
 all ? You know this Mr. Harrington is a Protestant." 
 
 " Oh ! but everv one says that he is very liberal," 
 cried Bella, another of the girls, " and will never interfere 
 with Alice's religion. Indeed, they say he has made all 
 sorts of promises." 
 
 ''And probably means to keep them, too," replied 
 the father. " But what of that ? The fact remains that 
 he is a Protestant, and that being so, all his other 
 advantages cannot make the match a splendid one for 
 poor Alice. " 
 
 ^' That is so, Edward, " said his wife in her cheery 
 pleasant voice. " No worldly advantages can make up 
 for difference of religion. No matter how good the man 
 is, or how bright his prospects may be, I would rather 
 see one of my children dead than marrying out of her 
 own church. " 
 
 The girls were loud in their protestations that people 
 were too hard on mixed marriages, declaring that no 
 girl ought to lose the chance of a good settlement in life 
 on account of religion. There was always a hope, they 
 said, that the husband might be converted. Their 
 brother was partly of their opinion, frankly admitting, 
 hovv'ever, that there was more chance of happiness in the 
 married state where both parties were of the same religion. 
 
 The old grandfather had not yet spoken. He had 
 
 been quietly smoking his pipe in the chimney-corner 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 A GRANDFATI/EIVS STOliY. 
 
 
 i'h 
 
 
 I Hi 
 
 an attentive listener to the conversation, an amused 
 siViiie flitting athwart his aged face at the childish 
 arguments advanced by the young people in support of 
 their worldly ideas. He now took the pipe from his 
 mouthj and, holding it suspended between two fingers, 
 thus spoke : 
 
 " Children, I hardly wonder at your way of thinking 
 and talking on this all-important subject of mixed 
 marriages, considering that you have been brought up 
 amongst non-Catholics, and are too young to understand 
 yet how it is that they may be very good neighbors and 
 pleasant acquaintances, even friends, yet most unsuitable 
 for a husband or wife for a Catholic woman or man. 1 
 have just been thinking of a little story, an ' ower true 
 tale,' as the Scotch are wont to say, for it came within 
 my own personal experience. " 
 
 " O grandfather, let us hear it," cried Rosa, the 
 youngest daughter, the others eagerly seconding her 
 request. The old man cleared his throat, and, after a 
 brief pause of what was evidently painful recollection, 
 began his little story : 
 
 " You are aware, my dear grand-children, that before 
 I came to Canada to make my home with you — when 
 your dear grand-mother died and left me alone — I had 
 spent the greater part of my life in one of the great cities 
 of the neighboring repuulic. I had emigrated from 
 Ireland in early youth, and after a little while of striving' 
 and waiting in that strange city where I had at first 
 no one to give me a helping hand, I at last found 
 lucrative employment in the workshops of a large 
 manufacturing firm. It was not long before I found a 
 friend in one of my fellow workmen, a young Irishman 
 and a Catholic like myself, whom I will call Lawrence 
 
 'I ii 
 
.1 GRANDFAWEfVS STORY. 
 
 35 
 
 Rourke. He was a good honest fellow, devotedly 
 attached to the traditions of his race, and faithful in the 
 discharge of his religious duties. In our leisure 
 moments, and especially in our long Sunday afternoon 
 walks in the pleasant suburban places around our great 
 city, my new friend and I often talked of the dear old 
 home so far away, and the good old days we might 
 never see again. We spoke of the pleasant gatherings 
 in fair, or market, or rustic festival ; of the kindly ways 
 of the simple folk whom we loved to call our own, and 
 very often reminded each other of some well-ioved 
 
 • chapel in the glen 
 
 Where ofl \\ ith bare and reverent locks we stood 
 To hear the eternal truths.' 
 
 Of the dear old priests, the teachers of our childhood, 
 
 who had married the parents, baptized the children and 
 
 blessed the graves where the grandparents were laid to 
 rest. 
 
 *' In those long-past days, children, our holy religion 
 occupied a very different position in the cities of the 
 Union from that which it does to-day. You will find it 
 hard to believe that the veally respectable firm in whosre 
 employment Rourke and I were, insisted that we should 
 work on Christmas Day. declaring that they could not 
 allow any such nonsense to interrupt their v;orks. ■ n 
 glad to say that of a dozen Catholic workmen in the place, 
 not one would consent to work on the great festival ; 
 the superintendent insisted, the men were firm in their 
 refusal, and all the Catholics were, in consequence, dis- 
 missed. 
 
 " Rourke and myself, finding ourselves so unexpec- 
 tedly thrown out of employment, were at fir>t bewildered 
 
36 
 
 A GRANDFATIIEIVS STOItY. 
 
 iiii" 
 
 ll I 
 
 is n 
 
 'I Hi 
 
 and at a loss to know what to turn to for a living. But 
 even then neither he nor I regretted for a moment what 
 had done. Duty, before all, was our motto, and 
 
 we 
 
 especially religious duty. So it was that, cheered by 
 the approval of our conscience, and trusting in Divine 
 Providence, we set about seeking other employment. 
 In this we succeeded beyond our expectation, thanks to 
 God and Our Blessed Mother, to whom we were at that 
 time equally devout. After a while each of us com- 
 menced business on our own account. 
 
 " It would be tedious for you, children, were I to go 
 over in detail all that befell Rourke and myself during 
 the long years that followed. Suffice it to say that we 
 both prospered exceedingly in our undertakings. I 
 married a young girl from near my own place at home, 
 and of a family well known to me. She was possessed 
 of good sense and a good heart, and by her prudence 
 and industry, above all by her practical piety and 
 cheerful submission to God's will in all the vicissitudes 
 of life, she helped me to gain a still better position, and 
 sustained me in many an anxious hour. Her death, 
 ten years ago, was my first great sorrow." 
 * The old man's voice faltered and he remained silent 
 a moment, as did all his listeners, who understood and 
 shared his emotion. Looking round with a sad smile, 
 and controlling himself by an effort, he resumed : 
 
 " Children were born to us who grew up in the love 
 and fear of God. Nearly all of them, like your dear 
 mother there, have sons and daughters of their own, all 
 good Christians — a son of one family, as you know, 
 studying for the priesthood, and two daughters of 
 another family members of religious communities. 
 
 " You will ask how it fared with Lawrence Rourke 
 
A GRANDFATHEWS STORY. 
 
 37 
 
 Alas ! for the sad story I have to tell of him and his ! 
 He made what our Mary here would call a splendid 
 match. He married the daughter of a wealthy merchant 
 who brought him a fortune oi" several thousand dollars, 
 which enabled him to extend his business operations 
 and even to invest in property. He bought a fine 
 house on one of the grand avenues as a home for his 
 family. So far all was well. But there was one fearful 
 drawback. The young lady and her family were of the 
 sect of Methodist Episcopalians, and deeply imbued 
 with strong prejudices against the Catholic religion and 
 all that belonged to it. 
 
 " Up to the time of his marriage, Rourke had been, 
 not indeed a very zealous Catholic, but still a tolerably 
 practical one. He had even worn the scapular of the 
 Blessed Virgin, and been enrolled, as I was, in her 
 sodality. This went on for some time. His wife went 
 regularly to the Methodist meeting-house on Sunday 
 morning and Rourke to his own church as usual. 
 The first trouble came with the first child, a son. The 
 father would fai;i have had him baptized in the Catholic 
 Churcli, but the mother positively refused to allow it, 
 and w; \ed alarmingly hysterical over the matter; then 
 her moti^er declared it would kill her darling in her 
 weak condition i^ her child were taken to a Romatc 
 Catholic church for baptism. 
 
 " ' So what could I do? ' said Lawrence to me when 
 unbosoming himself of this new trouble. ' I could not 
 run the risk of killing my poor wife, you know ? ' 
 
 ' *I don't know about that,' I said, 'where ycir 
 chiki':^ soi:l was at stake. And besides I don't think it 
 would nave killed your wife. She'd soon have got over 
 
m 
 
 ill! 
 
 38 
 
 A GRANDFAlflEfrS STORY. 
 
 it, depend upon it, if she found you were not to be 
 frightened out of doing your duty.' 
 
 " ' Oh well ! it may easily be remedied afterwards,' 
 was the reply. ' I .ell you, Ned, I can't go against 
 poor Elsie's wishes at such a critical time. The old 
 folks would never forgive me If I did.' 
 
 " I shook my head but said nothing more. I saw it 
 would be all in vain. At first my friend seemed 
 troubled and anxiour but the boy was strong and 
 healthy, and all went mc ryas a mariage-bell. Of bap- 
 tism notiiing more wa '•' by Rourke, but I had 
 reason to know that the jh. . "'d been baptized, after 
 two or three months, by a minister of his mother's reli- 
 gion. Other children came in due time and were bap- 
 tized in like manner, the father no longer daring, or 
 perhaps not caring, to protest. By and by, all were 
 sent to Protestant schools, and grew up in the ways of 
 their mother's family, staunch out-and-out Protestants. 
 
 " And still prosperity flowed in on Rourke. Fis 
 business increased to an enormous extent, and the 
 usphot was that in the course of years, by the time his 
 sons and daughters were grown up, he declared himself 
 to me, in our occasional conversations on the subject, 
 far too busy to practise his religion. The sodality 
 li-jeetings were out of the question, the scapular was 
 half jestingly laid aside, and when Sunday came, poor 
 Lawrence was tired and worn out with the manifold 
 affairs of his vast business during the week. 
 
 " It was only now and then that he managed to go to 
 mass always avoided hearing sermons, and never 
 approached sacraments. It took years and years to 
 bring all this about, but it came surely and sadly, even 
 as constant dropping wears the stone. 
 
 Mi 
 
 I Hi 
 
A GHANDFATHEirS STORY. 
 
 39 
 
 " It was not without many a strenuous effort on my 
 part that my early friend — now a middle-aged man with 
 grizzled hair and portly figure — sank into this state of 
 awful indifference. He always listened good-humoredly, 
 admitted the truth ofalllsaid, but always wound up 
 with — ' It will be all right some day. Never fear, Ned ! 
 I appreciate your good intentions, but nothing can be 
 done at present. Let us talk of something else. ' 
 
 " In vain I endeavored to remind him ri the danger 
 of putting off his conversion. ' My conversion, indeed ! ' 
 he would exclaim with heightened color. ' I tell you, 
 Ned, I'm as good a Catholic as you are. I have lived a 
 good Catholic, and hope to die one, too ! ' 
 
 " It so happened that, after one of these discussions, 
 Rourke was more than usually excited. He seemed 
 rather depressed in mind for some cause unknown to 
 me, and after a short silence he suddenly said : 
 
 " ' Ned Dalton, you are my oldest friend. I know 
 your advice is good, and I wish from my heart I could 
 only follow it. But I can't, Ned, I can't ! You don't 
 know how hard it is for me to do even the little I do in 
 the way of religion. And when it comes to the end — ' 
 he paused again, then, as if making a violent effort, he 
 said in an agitated voice : 
 
 " ' There is one thing, Ned, I want you to promise 
 me. When you hear of my being taken sick — I mean, 
 of course, dangerously sick — will you make it your 
 business to bring the priest to me ? ' 
 
 " I was startled by this strange request, wholly unex- 
 pected as it was, but I willingly gave the required pro- 
 mise, adding with a smile, ' that is, if I am alive. I may 
 die before you, you know. ' 
 
 ' ' Oh ! I hope not ; but in case you should, you must 
 
! '!l 
 
 40 
 
 A GUANDFATHEWS STORY. 
 
 ask your family before hand for some one of them to 
 render me that last service. They all know my wife 
 and children, and can easily do what I ask. ' 
 
 " ' I am not so sure of that, ' I replied, ' but we will 
 do our best. ' Whereupon he wrung my hand with a 
 nervous grasp and I left him. More than once after he 
 reminded me of this promise, and I could only make 
 the same reply. He was evidently troubled in his mind. 
 
 " One day, about three months later word was 
 brought me that poor Lawrence was seriously ill. I 
 went at once to his house, and was told he was too ill 
 to see any one — the -loctor had given strict orders that 
 he was not to be disturbed on any account. Knowing 
 very well that the [ r. st '-'ould not be admitted, I was 
 wholly at a loss how to fulfil my promise. In my per- 
 plexity I went home and told my wife and children how 
 matters stood. 
 
 " One of my daughters, a warm-hearted, impulsive 
 girl, declared she would go and try to see a faithful 
 old Irish servant of the Rourke family, and a fervent 
 Catholic, who might succeed in bringing the priest 
 upstairs to her master to whom she was much at- 
 tached. * I know Nellie will do it if it can be done, ' 
 she said, ' and then, father, you can go at once for 
 Father Williams. ' 
 
 " My daughter hastened to the Rourke mansion. 
 The bells were all muffled, but by tapping at a window 
 in the basement she succeeded in attracting old Nellie's 
 attention, and, having secured her willing aid in her 
 charitable undertaking, she was leaving the house when 
 one of the Rourke young men came down the stairs. 
 
 *' ' How is your father, Mr. Charles? ' she anxiously 
 inquired. * Do you think he would like to see a priest ? " 
 
 k" 
 
A GRAND FA THEWS STORY. 
 
 41 
 
 " ' Thanks very much, Miss Dalton, but my father is 
 just dead ! ' 
 
 " * Dead ! ' said my daughter horrified and amazed — 
 ' and without any preparation ! ' 
 
 " * Oh ! not quite,' the young man replied with a half 
 smile on his lips, — * the Rev. Mr. Jenkinson, our minis- 
 ter, prayed beside him.' 
 
 " The girl came home with tearful eyes and pallid 
 face and told the awful news. My wife and children 
 were loud in their lamentations, but for me I only said 
 — ' Ah ! poor Lawrence, poor friend, so much for your 
 oft-repeated protestation that you were a good Catholic 
 and would die one.' Alas ! he died as he had lived, at 
 least for years and years." 
 
 The old man ceased to speak, anc was evidently 
 overcome by the sorrowful recollections of vanished 
 years that crowded upon his mind. The young people 
 were deeply impressed by their grandfather's simple 
 story, and all were fain to admit that mixed marriages 
 were not desirable after all. 
 
 While writing the above story of a mixed marriage 
 the writer was told of a death noticed in some of the 
 American papers. It was that of a man of ninety, a 
 nominal Catholic, at whose funeral service no fewer 
 than fifty-one descendants, all Protestants, were present. 
 So much for mixed marriages. 
 
WHAT CAME OF IT ? 
 
 Mrs. James Sadlier. 
 
 iiii 
 
 HAT wedding of Alice Costelloe's was a great 
 
 event in the quiet city of (C .) '• It was 
 
 attended by all the eclat that the wealth of 
 the bridegroom and the high social standing of both 
 families seemed to demand. Everything smiled on the 
 handsome young couple on their weeding day. Even 
 the skies were propitious, and of the gay company of 
 relatives and friends who partook of the festivities at 
 the Costelloe homestead, few there were, if any, who 
 doubted that the good wishes lavished upon them and 
 the '* good luck " invoked for them would be amply 
 realized in the sunny future opening before them. 
 
 Of the few doubting hearts were Mrs. Costelloe, the 
 pale and care-worn mother of the bride, and her pastor 
 and spiritual guide since childhood, good Father Fitz- 
 gibbon. The mother, an earnest, uncompromising 
 Catholic, had never fully approved of the so-called 
 " splendid match " which her more worldly and ambi- 
 tious husband had had no small share in making for his 
 eldest and best-beloved daughter, while the pastor had, 
 as in duty bound, openly set his face against it as long 
 as there seemed any chance of preventing it. Finding 
 that the current ran dead against him and Mrs. Cos- 
 telloe — who alone took his view of the danger Alice was 
 
WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 43 
 
 incurring — Father Fitzgibbon studiously absented him- 
 self from the Costelloe dwe'ling during the long weeks 
 of busy preparation. 
 
 He had positively refused to be present at the 
 celebration of a marriage unblessed by the Church, and 
 had warned Alice from the first that her union would be 
 an unhallowed one, devoid of sacramental grace. 
 Mrs. Costelloe's heart sank within her, hearing this, 
 and many a bitter tear she shed over the infatuation 
 of her husband and child ; but she, like the priest, was 
 powerless to ward off the blow, and the great day came 
 at last — and found Alice outwardly gay and smiling, 
 inwardly full of strange misgivings, for "conscience 
 doth make cowards of us all." 
 
 Alas ! poor Alice ! the shadow of the future was 
 already falling over her hitherto sunny life ! This first 
 departure from the path of duty was even then hard in 
 itself, and attended with shrinking pain and trouble. 
 Had she any misgivings as to the final goal, or the 
 coming events that in that hour of hope and joy cast 
 their shadow before? 
 
 She had reached the parting of the ways. Were they 
 ever, ever to be re-united ? Time alone could tell. 
 
 II. 
 
 For some years all went well with the Barringtons in 
 their city home, many miles away. The husband's pro- 
 fessional practice went on increasing. Money came 
 pouring in, and the large establishment over which the 
 fair Alice presided was kept up on a scale of plenty and 
 luxury that left nothing to be desired, while she, on her 
 
 i 
 
i; i! 
 
 •': 
 
 !l ! 
 
 il'l "Hi 
 
 44 
 
 Wfl.lT CAME OF IT. 
 
 part, made it a model of order, neatness and comfort. 
 Five children, two sons and three daughters, were born 
 to George Barrington and his wife, and, as yet, there 
 i ad been little trouble even on the score of religion. 
 The boys, as a matter of course, " went with their father," 
 as the phrase goes, while the girls were being brought up 
 Catholics. For Alice was free as air in the way of prac- 
 tising her religion. George Barrington was one of the 
 very large class of Protestants who believe that all 
 religions are good, and that Catholics are about as good 
 as any others, except in the matter of social position, in 
 which they were certainly not up to the mark, and never 
 would be, he supposed — the true reason, after all, why 
 George insisted on his sons, at least, being Protestants. 
 For the rest, he opined. Catholics were not half so bad 
 as they were represented, and Alice and he had got 
 along as well as most married couples. 
 
 But George Barrington, being mortal, died one day 
 quite unexpectedly, just when the tide of his affairs had 
 led him on to fortune and his prospects were at their 
 brightest. His family, therefore, were well provided 
 .for, and his widow spared the torturing anxiety attendant 
 on straitened circumstances when a certain position has 
 to be kept up. His mother and sisters, who lived in a 
 town several miles distant, were most kind to Alice and 
 her children ; all the more so, probably, because they 
 wanted nothing from them. Sharing the widow's grief 
 for the dear departed one, their companionship was 
 most consoling to her and her children, and it was with 
 real sorrow she saw them depart for their distant home 
 after a stay of several weeks. It is true they were not 
 of her own faith, very far from it, and all the comfort 
 they could give was merely human. They were narrower 
 
WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 45 
 
 in their views than the lamented George had been, and 
 were, indeed, what is called "earnest Christians," — 
 leaders at prayer-meeting and other religious gatherings, 
 teachers in Sunday-School, and painfully strict in the 
 matter of Sabbath observance. But they were soft 
 spoken and sympathetic, they were poor George's own 
 people, and as such Alice clung to them in her time of 
 mourning, although, to say the truth, she had had no 
 special liking for them during her husband's life-time. 
 They were so ultra-Protestant and had so little in 
 common with her as a Catholic ! 
 
 The children, and especially the boys — one fourteen, 
 the other nine — were devoted to grandma and their 
 " aunties. " Robert and George were already as good 
 Protestants as these paternal relatives could desire. 
 They were pupils of a Protestant school during the week 
 and regular attendants at Sunday-school on " Lord's 
 Day. " Their mother would have deemed it dishonorable 
 to break the promise she had given " poor George " on 
 his deathbed to interfere in no wise with their religion. 
 So whatever it cost her, and it did cost her many a 
 troubled hour, — she made no effort to explain the 
 mysteries of religion, or implant the faith in the tender 
 minds and hearts of her boys. True, they were as near 
 and dear to her as their sisters, and their souls were no 
 less precious, but how could she break her promise to 
 their dear dead father ? Impossible. 
 
 As for the girls, Harriet, Jane and Bertha, she took 
 them regularly to mass, sent them to Catechism, and 
 saw that they approached tl' , Sacraments at stated 
 times. Father Fitzgibbon did what he could to save 
 the daughters and imbue them with pious sentiments, 
 since the sons were lost to the Church. The League of 
 
IT" 
 
 46 
 
 WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 il 
 
 i I 
 
 the Sacred Heart had recently been established in the 
 parish at the close of a mission, and he would fain have 
 Mrs. Harrington become a promoter, as, with her 
 daughters, and two Catholic servants, she v.'ould have 
 had six Associates under her own roof. 
 
 But Alice would not consent. She was about to 
 
 lease her house in CJ for a term of years and take 
 
 the children to B so as to be near their grand- 
 mother and aunts, who had been urging her to this step 
 ever since their father's death. " We are all Associates, 
 you know, Father Fitzgibbon,'" she said with a faint 
 blush, "and, of course, we can fulfil the obligations just 
 
 as well in B as here. Our tickets can be sent us 
 
 there as usual. But I could not undertake to be a 
 Promoter. 1 have really no time for such things. " 
 
 Father Fitzgibbon sighed. The shadow was falling 
 darker. The heart, once so fervent, was already waxing 
 cold in the dreary blight of religious indifference. Time 
 was, and not so long ago, when Alice Barrington would 
 gladly have made time for "' such things, " as the good 
 
 pr 
 
 riest well knew. 
 
 III. 
 
 Again, a few uneventful years and the young Barring, 
 tons were no longer children. The boys were studying, 
 one for the legal, the other for the medical profession. 
 The girls had almost finished their education, the two 
 elder were soon to be *' brought out " under the auspices 
 of their aunts, who were leaders in the best .society of 
 
 B . As for Alice, her health had been failing so 
 
 much of late that she was no longer able to take part in 
 those gay assemblies in which she was wont to shine. 
 
\\7I.\T CAME OF IT. 
 
 47 
 
 The Barrington girls were expected to make a sensa- 
 tion. They were sprightly and attractive, hud been 
 " finished " at a fashionable boarding-school kept l)y 
 the widow of a Congregational minister, their mother 
 having been persuaded by her mother -and sisters-in-law 
 that a Convent-school could never give the necessary 
 polish to young ladies of their position to prepare them 
 for good society. 
 
 So Harriet and Jane were home *' finished, " but 
 alas ! the finishing process had polished away the last 
 traces of the old faith they inherited from generations of 
 Catholic forefathers — the faith of their own devoted 
 mother. They had gradually fallen more and more 
 under the influence of their grandmot! :r and aunts, 
 learned to look up to their school-mistress, Mrs. 
 Wilkins, as a mother in Israel, went occasionallv to 
 some Protestant church to hear a fashionable preacher, 
 in company with their good-looking, pleasant-spoken 
 brothers — offhanded, manly young fellows, great 
 favorites with the girls of their set. 
 
 Needless to say, the Misses Barrington had long 
 ceased to be Associates of the League, giving as a rea- 
 son that they really could not remember to make the 
 morning offering, and had not time to say the daily 
 decade of the Rosary. The truth was that their dear 
 grandmama, aunts and brothers had all united in 
 Liughing them out of what they called such childish 
 nonsense and silly superstition. 
 
 Their mother had at first protested, feebly indeed, 
 for she had long ago given up the reins of domestic 
 government to other and more skilful hands. She had 
 begged Father Fitzgibbon to reason with the girls and 
 endeavor to keep them faithful to their obligations. As 
 
 ^11 
 
 !i 
 

 ]■ s 
 
 mmmmmm 
 
 \f 
 
 I I 
 
 : 
 
 i ! 
 I ! 
 
 48 
 
 'VIIAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 a matter of duty he complied, well knowing that the 
 ridicule of their protestant and Popery-hating relatives 
 was a thousand times more potent for evil than his 
 expostulations could possibly be for good. 
 
 For some time little Bertha was kept faithful in the 
 practice of her religious duties, especially during the 
 absence of her elder sisters. But no sooner had they 
 returned home than the girl began to follow their 
 example in most things, having an unbounded admi- 
 ration for these accomplished graduates of Mrs. Wil- 
 kins' celebrated school, where she herself was to enter in 
 the following year. 
 
 By the time Bertha was eighteen and duly finished 
 by Mrs. Wilkirs, he^ iwo sisters had married Proles- 
 tants, professed whatever form of religion their hus- 
 bands professed, and were foremost in all Protestant 
 works, Bible and Trace Societies, Missionary Societies, 
 and heaven knows what of Evangelicalism besides. The 
 young men were conspicuous more than all for their 
 anti-Popery procHvities, and lost no opportunity of 
 showing their dislike of their mother's religion. Young 
 Britons, Christian Association Young Men were they, 
 and, In short, sturdy upholders of the Protestant cause. 
 
 Bertha still remained with her mother, now a confir- 
 med invalid. They had removed to a quiet home in a 
 small town, some miles away from the larger one where 
 their relatives dwelt. The poor mother was broken 
 down with sorrow, as well as suffering. The death that 
 could not be far distant loomed up before her in awful 
 terror. Conscience brought up in stern array the 
 disastrous effects of her ill-starred marriage : her chil- 
 dren torn from the Fold and wandering ir the mazes 
 of error, for even of Bertha she had little hope, with so 
 
WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 49 
 
 many counter influences around her, — all their poste- 
 rity lost to God, lost to the Church. Her good mother, 
 worn away with shame and sorrow, long since dead and 
 gone, resting in the shadow of the cross near their dear 
 old parish church ; for herself the lamp of faith no 
 longer burning with so clear a flame as in the days of 
 her happy girlhood, as she had for years long neglected 
 many of hose practices of devotion that nourish faith 
 and piety in the Christian heart. Bertha, a lukewarm, 
 indifferent Catholic was little comfort or help to the 
 poor invalid. Even the priest was long miles away, and 
 just then the state of the roads made it extremely diffi- 
 cult to reach him. Moreover, Alice Barrington, weak- 
 ened as she was in mind and body, and with a morbid 
 fear of the last Sacraments, actually shrank from seeing 
 him, while Bertha kept saying — 
 
 " Oh ! dear me ! what's the use of sending for the 
 priest? — mamma is not so bad as that, and there's 
 plenty of time ! " 
 
 So it went on till one dreary day in late October, a 
 message was brought to Father Fitzgibbon by the 
 brother of one of the Catholic servants, that Mrs. 
 Barrington was dying and he must go to her immediately. 
 Not a moment to be lost, the young man said, if he 
 would overtake her alive. 
 
 Through the pelting rain and piercing wind drove the 
 now aged priest, regardless c / his seventy years and 
 many infirmities, mindful only of the soul that was 
 about to go unprepared before the Judgment-seat of 
 God. Hoping, praying and yet fearing, on and on he 
 went through the blinding storm, and, all the weary 
 miles past, he drew up his little vehicle at the doors of 
 Barringlor Villa. In answer to a\s eager inquiry he 
 
 fi 
 
 ; I ■ 
 
 J' ! 
 
 i' 
 
 4 : 
 
 
I 
 
 50 
 
 WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 received the sorrowful announcement that Mrs. 
 Barrington had died an hour before. 
 
 The shadow settled darkly and heavily on the deserted 
 home and on the priests' crushed heart. " Oh ! my 
 God ! " he murmured as he crossed the threshold to pray 
 beside the dead. " How often I warned he*- that this 
 might happen ! Poor, poor Alice, thank God your 
 pious mother did not live to see this sad hour I " 
 
 IV. 
 
 This is what came of Alice Costelloe's " splendid 
 match," and the merriest heart in that pleasant home- 
 stead where we heard it first spoken of was saddened 
 and subdued, while the mournful tale was told in the 
 after years to other ears, in another circle of the same 
 family. The grandfather's chair was vacant ; the father 
 of the family, the hale strongman of that vanished time, 
 was gone, too. One daughter, the fairest and gayest of 
 all, had left them years before to serve God and his poor 
 in a religious community. The mother still remained, 
 a white-haired, aged matron now. The son had married 
 and settled in British Columbia, but he, with his wife 
 and children, had come on a visit to the ancestral home. 
 Two of the sisters were there also with their husbands 
 and children, for it was Christmas time', and the happy, 
 united family had assembled under the old roof tree for 
 the Christmas festivities. While the yule-lcg blazed on 
 the wide hearth in the open chimney, the story of Alice 
 Costelloe was told by the venerable grandmother, as that 
 of Lawrence Rourke had been told by her long-dead 
 father some thirty years before. 
 
A SEPARATE SCHOOL-BOY. 
 
 Anna T. Sadlier. 
 
 ^OV/ good it is of you, Emily, to remember all 
 these little devotions ! " said Mrs. Watson, 
 patronizingly. She was leaning back in a 
 comfortable arm-chair, leisurely observing Mrs. Rowan, 
 who was busy arranging a bunch of June lilacs before 
 her picture of the Sacred Heart. 
 
 " Oh, this is my special devotion, " said Mrs. Rowan, 
 pointing to the picture ; '• and just now, I am asking a 
 great favor." 
 
 Mrs. Watson smiled a dubious sort of smile. 
 
 " You were always a good creature, Emily," she said 
 carelessly ; " and '">ow young you do keep to have five 
 big children ! " 
 
 '* When I told you I was asking a great favor of the 
 Sacred HccTt,' said Mrs. Rowan, sitting down on a low 
 seat near her friend, " I was thinking of the children, 
 especially of Paul." 
 
 '' Yes.^ " said Mrs. Watson, with very mild interest. 
 
 " You know, Our Lord made such beautiful promises," 
 said Mrs. Rowan, "in behalf of those who are devout to 
 His divine Heart, and one of them is, *I will be their se- 
 cure refuge during life and above all at the hour of death.' 
 N. ", I have betaken myself to the kSacred Heart all 
 these years for the grace to educate my children really 
 
52 A SEPARATE SCllOOL-BOY. 
 
 well, and especially Paul. Boys are a so much greater 
 responsibility ! " 
 
 Mrs. Rowan had spoken a little shamefacedly. It is 
 easy to profess one's faith to out-siders, but hard to speak 
 of things spiritual to an indifferent Catholic. But Mrs. 
 Watson answered promptly and warmly the latter half 
 of the speech : " Of course, one is always anxious 
 about a boy's education. I lie awake half, the night 
 thinking how George is to be pushed on, and what 
 advantages we can give him. " 
 
 " I do not mean exactly that, " said Mrs. Rowan. 
 " I want him to be a good, well-principled man, a truly 
 good Catholic. " 
 
 " Let the priests attend to all that. I send him to 
 church regularly ; but I see by your face there is some- 
 thing on your mind. " / 
 
 " I am so troubled, because Mr. Rowan wants to 
 take Paul from the Brothers and send him to a public 
 school. He thinks he will learn quicker, and that it 
 will be a help to him in business. He says that if we 
 were wealthy he would put Paul at a Catholic college, 
 and leave him there till he could take a profession. 
 But, as it is, he will not believe what I tell him so often, 
 that the Catholic schools are at least as good, if no 
 better, even apart from religion." 
 
 '* But, perhaps, the class of boys is not so gjod." 
 
 " I do not care in the least for that, even if it were thf 
 case," said Mrs. Rowan, warmly. " I shall never, never 
 consent to see my boy taken away from religious influence." 
 
 " What a little bigot you are, Emily," laughed Mrs. 
 Watson ; " if you had been married to a Protestant as 
 long as I have, you would have learned something of 
 the policy of conciliation." 
 
 f 
 
 'I 
 
A SEPARATE SCHOOL-BOY. 
 
 53 
 
 ever 
 »» 
 
 t as 
 
 g 
 
 of 
 
 " A Catholic must be one thing or another," said Mrs. 
 Rowan, stoutly. " Why, even the very Protestants des- 
 pise and distrust a weak-kneed Catholic. And well 
 they may, for there is nothing so despicable. I would 
 not for the world see Paul grown up to be halfhearted 
 in his religion." 
 
 " I have never heard you talk so much, Emily," said 
 Mrs. Watson ; " you are positively eloquent. " 
 
 " The subject is near my heart, " said Mrs. Rowan 
 " Paul shall remain at a Catholic school." 
 
 " Why, look at me, " said Mrs. Watson, complacently, 
 
 " I was never at any other but a Protestant school. 
 I met Jim Watson on Commencement-day ; his sister 
 was in my class. Now, no one could be more rigid 
 about the essentials of my faith than I am. " 
 
 Mrs. Rowan sighed. The illustration was not an 
 inspiriting one. 
 
 *' Let me give you a word of advice, dear," added 
 Mrs. Watson, rising to go, "follow your husband's 
 judgment. It does not do for a man to be too religious, 
 and these public schools are not sectarian. " 
 
 "So much the worse," murmured Mrs. Rowan. 
 " I would almost rather have them out and out Pro- 
 testant." 
 
 " Then you will not be so much shocked at me, you 
 good little soul ! I am going to send George to the 
 
 Protestant college at . His prospects arc so brilliant, 
 
 I must not mar them by letting him associate with an 
 inferior class of boys. Do be wise, and let Paul grow 
 up with broader views than yours. Forgive me, dear, 
 but they do not answer in this work-a-day world. " 
 
 Mrs. Watson, gathering her wrap gracefully about 
 her, made a sign to her coachman, and was soon driven 
 
 ii i 
 
I' 
 
 V I 
 
 1 SEPARATE SCHOOL-BOY. 
 
 to that aristocratic portion of the town in which a pros- 
 perous marriage had domiciled her. 
 
 Two months later, Paul Rowan entered a Catholic 
 Boys' Academy, and George Watson began the autumn 
 term at . 
 
 II 
 
 " What a comfort that young man is to his mother ? " 
 said Paul Rowan's employer, pointing to where the 
 latter was walking on the opposite side of the street, 
 with his mother beside him. 
 
 The old gentleman, as he spoke, sat near the open 
 window of his library, in conversation with a friend. 
 
 " This Rowan, " he went on, " is a treasure to us. 
 He has excellent principles, his honesty is incorruptible, 
 and he has had a splendid training in Arithmetic. " 
 
 " You are enthusiastic, " said the friend, quietly. 
 
 " And well I may be. The boy has worked himself 
 up in the course of ten years to be our head man. 
 Why, if he continues, he's bound to be in the firm before 
 long. " 
 
 " Is he married ? " 
 
 " Not he. His mother was left a widow some years 
 ago and he keeps a roof over her, and sends two or 
 three sisters to the Convent. " 
 
 " He seems young. " 
 
 " Twenty-five ; but he made a good start. A word 
 in your ear, my friend : There's something in these 
 Separate Schools after all. I mean to employ youths 
 educated there, and no others. " 
 
 " They may not all turn out so well. " 
 
A SEPARATE SCHOOL-HOY. 
 
 55 
 
 '* True, but they have a better chance. The system 
 is better, and I'm not going to have any of these free- 
 thinking chaps about me. " 
 
 " I hope the fellow doesn't talk religion." 
 
 *' Never a word. But I know that he attends his 
 church regularly and his ' religious duties,' I think they 
 call it. " 
 
 The worthy man was rather vague as to what these 
 duties were. He could not have explained that Paul 
 was a monthly communicant, being a member of the 
 League, and he belonged to a parochial society as well. 
 
 " What does he do with his evenings?" asked the 
 friend; he inquired thoughtfully, as one working out a 
 problem. 
 
 " Oh, they're all right. He belongs to some kind of 
 a society for young men, not a secret society. I abhor 
 those. It's an affair got up by his clergyman, the 
 parish priest Rowan calls him, and, by Jupiter, it keeps 
 a lot of lads out of mischief." 
 
 " You are half a Papist, my dear sir." 
 
 " I am a whole one for business purposes. I want 
 Separate School-boys for clerks, and I'd like them all 
 to join their church societies." 
 
 Ill 
 
 " Paul, dear, be careful," said Mrs. Rowan, following 
 her son to the door ; " it is such a wild stormy night." 
 
 " I'm always careful, mother dear," laughed Paul, 
 '' and I would't go out to night, only I promised to look 
 into a business matter for the firm." 
 
 I shall be anxious till you come back." 
 
 u 
 
5G 
 
 A SEP A RA TE SCIIO OL-liO Y. 
 
 I 
 
 " I have given you a lot of anxiety, I am afraid," 
 sain Paul, looking half earnestly, half merrily at his 
 mother. 
 
 " You have more than repaid me, dear," said the 
 mother, warmly. 
 
 And if God spares me, I will try to repay you more 
 and more. Goodnight and good-bye, little mother !" 
 
 Crossing the track that dark lowering night, Paul 
 Rowan saw a train coming on. He made a hasty leap 
 on to the other track, and as he did so felt a sudden 
 wrench. His foot had caught in a frog. The effort he 
 made to extricate it only tightened it the more. The 
 whistle of a locomotive, followed by the flash of a light 
 around a sharp and not very distant curve, awakened 
 him to a sudden and awful sense of his peril. He cried 
 aloud for help, buc the howling of the wind and the 
 rolling, clattering noise of the dashing train drowned 
 his voice even had any one been there to answer. The 
 worst had come. In the j.wift realization of his approach- 
 ing end, his life flashed before him as in a mirror — 
 home, only a few paces distant, — sisters — his mother, 
 — till eternity seemed to open and his thoughts hurried 
 to his God. There was no long dark void to be filled 
 up between them. He had been to his monthly com- 
 munion of Atonement the Sunday before. But he had 
 learned in his school days the supreme importance of 
 prayer and the act of perfect contrition in case of acci- 
 dent, and summoning all his energies, he asked with a 
 fervor intensified by the awfulness of the moment, that 
 the Sacred Heart through Mary might give him that 
 grace — one good heartfelt act of contrition such as he 
 often made in his life. 
 
 In spite of natural terror, his faculties seemed to con- 
 
A SE ['ABATE SCHOOL-BOY. 
 
 57 
 
 centrate themselves marvellously. How strong is faith 
 — ! And all the while he relaxed not in his struggle for 
 life to loosen his foot. Another cry — a whistle — and 
 on came the terrible engine of death, its light flaming 
 like the eye of some great beast. " Jesus, Mary, 
 Joseph," — the cowcatcher struck him and hurled his 
 mangled l)ody beside the track. Eager hands lifted 
 him tenderly, willing i jt sped swiftly for a doctor ; but 
 the dying man with returning consciousness said only :— 
 
 " A priest ! quick I " 
 
 How graces accumulate around the dying just 1 The 
 priest came, his own dear parish priest. A suppliant 
 glance of the eye and motion of the hand, the unmistak- 
 able confession of a penitent heart was followed by 
 absolution. Then came Extreme Unction, and a last 
 
 message. 
 
 " Tell my mother that I thank her for my Christian 
 faith and education. Tell her how I died." 
 
 IV 
 
 " My dear, " said Mrs. Watson, when she came to 
 make a visit of condolence, some two months after her 
 friend's affliction, " you need not sorrow for Paul. " 
 
 "That's what our good parish priest tells me," said 
 Mrs. Rowan sadly, "and I try hard to be resigned ; but 
 when I kneel at his grave, if it were not for the daily 
 Mass and my Communions, I feel as if I could not live. 
 Ah, such a son ! " 
 
 " Yes, that's just it, such a son ! As for mine " — Mrs. 
 Watson paused, then added hurriedly, " I wish from my 
 heart that I had been a little more bigoted, for my 
 
 m 
 
58 
 
 .1 SEPARATE SCIIOOL-liOY, 
 
 I 
 
 
 't ] 
 
 wretched boy is a failure even in worldly affairs where 
 Paul was a success." 
 
 ** Seek first the Kingdom of God and His justice, and 
 all else will be added," thought Mrs. Rowan, but she 
 only pressed her friend's hand warmly. There was a 
 sorrow deeper than her own. 
 
 "Good-bye, Emily," said Mrs. Watson, departing. 
 '* You were right, there is nothing so miseraole as a bad 
 Catholic." 
 
 Going upstairs, Mrs. Rowan paused before her picture 
 of the Sacred Heart. On it were inscribed the Promises, 
 and opposite to the first the mother had written — Paul's 
 dying message. That was the fulfilment thereof for him 
 and for her. " He was their secure refuge in life " and 
 above all for him *' at the hour of death." 
 
 ' 
 
HOW PEACE CAME TO THE DOYLES. 
 
 Mrs. Sadlier. 
 
 I. 
 
 ^WENTY years ago there lived, and probably 
 lives still, in a small town in mid-Canada, some 
 6—;—?^ miles west of the border line between Ontario 
 and Quebec, a family whom we shall call Doyle, 
 prosperous, well-to-do people as any in the county. 
 The father and founder of the family had begun life as 
 a railroad-laborer, but had risen by good conduct and 
 steady industry to be the possessor of a large well-tilled 
 
 farm, then of a thriving general store in F , and, 
 
 finall}'', of a private residence in the outskirts of the 
 town. 
 
 So far, all had gone well with the Doyles. The father 
 and, later on, the mother had passed away in a green 
 old age, leaving a good name, a good position and ample 
 means to their three sons and two daughters. In most 
 respects, the second generation of the Doyles was not 
 unworthy of the good parents who had so well provided 
 for their children. As yet none of them were married, 
 and the farm, and the shop, and the dwelling were all 
 common property, the business skilfully managed by 
 the three brothers for the benefit of all, while the sisters 
 kept the house, the home of the family, thriftily and well. 
 
I 
 
 III 
 ' I 
 
 I ' 
 
 I I 
 
 no 
 
 now PEACE CAME TO THE DOYLES. 
 
 The Doyles would have been the envy of their less 
 successful neighbors, had it not been for one fatal draw- 
 back to the blessings they enjoyed, which in the opinion 
 of the old and wise and God-fearing, wenc far to counter- 
 balance all. Amid so much prosperity and apparent hap- 
 piness, peace and harmony were wanting. The brothers 
 were hot-tempered, quick to take offence, much given to 
 fault-finding and complaining one of the other and all of 
 their sisters, who were, nevertheless, as gende and amia- 
 ble as their brothers were irrascible and prone to anger. 
 
 The sisters were sincerely pious and faithful to all 
 their religious duties. The brothers were of that class 
 of people who think that going to Mass on Sundays and 
 holy days, and making their Easter duty, is all that can 
 reasonably be expected, especially from men who have 
 business to attend to. Every Sunday and feast-day of 
 obligation saw the three brothers, John, William and 
 James, duly seated at High Mass in the family pew, and 
 they never failed to make their annual confession and 
 communion somewhere within the Paschal time, thus 
 barely escaping the sentence of outlawry pronounced by 
 the Church on her rebellious children who fail to comply 
 with that solemn precept. 
 
 In vain did Kate and Sarah remonstrate with the 
 young men on this laxity in regard to their religions 
 duties. It only ended in a scene, not unfrequei'^"* 
 calling forth a storm of abuse from the brothers; a 
 which threatiL of " breaking up the house " were sure co 
 be made by one or other of them. This, as they well 
 knew, had always the effect of silencing the girls, whose 
 whole desire it was to keep the home for the family as 
 long as they could and while their brothers remained 
 unmarried. 
 
 > ' li 
 
1 
 
 no W P EA CE GA ME TO THE DOYL ES . G 1 
 
 But it was not only with their sisters the Doyle young 
 men quarrelled on every imaginable pretext. Amongst 
 themselves there was a continual bickering kept up, and 
 such being the case, it was a matter of supreme wonder 
 to the intimates of the family that the flourishing busi- 
 ness, built up so solidly and well by old Jerry Doyle, 
 had not long since gone to pieces. The truth is that 
 his sons were capital business men, steady and clear- 
 headed, and far from deficient in industry or application. 
 They loved their sisters and even each other after a 
 fashion of their own, and were rather fond of their home, 
 although their own ill-temper and the frequent 
 altercations to which it gave rise made it, for the most 
 part, anything but a happy one. Even the presence of 
 guests under their really hospitable roof did not always 
 prevent these ebullitions of temper, in which John, the 
 elder brother, generally led the way. 
 
 Many a secret consultation was held between the 
 sisters as to what was to be done under these deplorable 
 circumstances. Long and fervent were their prayers 
 for the sorely-needed change of heart in the brothers, 
 who, apart from that one lamentable fault, were kind 
 and generous to them, and strictly honest and honorable 
 in their dealings with others. 
 
 " They are father's own sons in most ways," the sisters 
 would say one to the other, '' but if they only had his 
 quiet, even temper ! Maybe if some of them got married 
 and had homes of their own, they wouldn't be always 
 fighting and squabbling about every little thing that 
 comes up, as they now do." 
 
 iiiii 
 
^i 
 
 ! I 
 
 ii: 
 
 M!i 
 
 if 
 
 l! J 
 
 II 
 
 I 
 
 62 110 W PE 4 CE CA ME TO WE D YLES . 
 
 II. 
 
 Alas ! the specific, failed of its eftcct. William in due 
 time took to himself a wife, and a year or two after 
 James followed his example. But even to their new 
 homes the old and evil habit accompanied both, and it 
 so happened that the wives they had chosen were not 
 by any means models of patience and forbearance like 
 pool Kate and Sarah. They wouldn't put up with it, 
 not they ; and they told tneir respective husbands so 
 very plainly, adding furthermore that if their sisters 
 spoiled them by giving in to their overbeariiig ways, t/uy 
 wouldn't do it. 
 
 When the husband raised his voice in anger, the wife 
 followed suit, and, as she boasted to her fellow-champion 
 of woman's rights, gave him as good as he brought, and 
 paid him honestly back in his own coin. So matters 
 grew worse instead of better. The only difference was 
 that three homes were then made wretched instead of 
 one. William and his help-mate kept up the strife, 
 James and his wife did likewise, and John went on 
 scolding and brow-beating his gentle sisters without 
 stint or measure. 
 
 A few more years had passed in the same dreary 
 round. Children were growing up in the homes of the 
 married brothers. John and his two sisters had settled 
 down into middle-aged people. Quiet they would have 
 been, and peaceful, but for John's stormy temper and 
 contentious spirit. And still the sisters prayed, and 
 hoped, and suffered in patient silence, offering up the 
 manifold trials they had to undergo every day and 
 ^:very hour for the conversion of their relatives and the 
 
now PEACE CAME TO THE DOYLES. 
 
 63 
 
 establishment of peace amongst them. In humble hope 
 and assured faith they waited, hoping that the dawn 
 would soon break and the shadows flee away, and that 
 the tear moistened bread they daily and hourly cast 
 upon the waters would sooner or later return to them 
 laden with God's sweet mercy. 
 
 " Where are you off to now ? " said John Doyle one 
 day to his sisters as he saw them preparing to go out. 
 " To church, I'll be bound ! It would be fitter for you 
 to stay at home and attend to the affairs of the house ! " 
 
 "And so we do, John," replied Sarah, meekly; 
 " there's not a thing we don't see to in or about the 
 house, and you nee"ln't grudge us the little time we can 
 spaie for God. To-day it's the Mission that's opening, 
 and we want to be there in good time. " 
 
 John gave a grunt of dissatisfaction, but said nothing 
 more. An inward voice told him that he ought to make 
 the Mission himself, that he needed it far more than his 
 sisters did, but he would not give in. So they went, 
 and he remained moodily at home intent on his usual 
 avocations. 
 
 When Kate and Sarah returned they were naturally 
 fu.i of the Mission, the zeal and eloquence of the 
 preacher, the crowds of people that filled the church to 
 overflowing, and how Nellie and Bessy, their two sisters 
 in-law, were there with their older girls and boys. 
 
 " Humph ! " said John, "it's a wonder Bill and Jim 
 weren't there too ! The whole family will soon be as 
 crazy as yourselves about religion. " 
 
 " O, John, John ! " cried Kate. *' If you'd only come 
 yourself and listen to even one of the instructions, I 
 know you'd get into the spirit of it and wouldn't want 
 to miss any of them ! " 
 
t 
 
 ill 
 
 64 
 
 now PEACE CAME TO THE DOYLES. 
 
 A scornful laugh was the answer as John left the 
 room, banging the door after him. 
 
 Next day, John was somewhat taken aback when his 
 sisters told him that both his brothers were at the even- 
 ing sermon and had announced their intention of 
 making the mission with their wives and children ; 
 *' And, John, there are to be great doings about the 
 Sacred Heart, " added Kate with breathless eagernes"^, 
 " The new League is to be established at the close of 
 the Mission, and Father Barry is to be the Director, 
 and there are to be Promoters and Centres, and devo- 
 tions every first Friday of tne month, and a monthly 
 Communion of Reparation. The missionaries explamed 
 it all to us. " 
 
 " And I suppose Bill and Jim and the whole jing-bang 
 of you will be in the thick of it ! " said John. 
 
 *' Just come with us to-morrow to either the morning 
 or evening exercise, and leave the rest to God. " 
 
 " Fm not going, that's all about it. There's enough of 
 you there without inc.''' 
 
 But he did go all for that. Great waf, the joy of his 
 good sisters when they found him reavdy bright and 
 early on the following morning to accompany them to 
 church. Nor did it at all lessen their satisfaction that 
 he kept grumbling all the way about the absurdity of 
 his going to the mission. They knew that the grace of 
 God was pursuing and would overtake him then and 
 there, for ho was not a bad man, only rough and domi- 
 neering and somewhat careless about his soul's interest. 
 
 M 
 
no W PEACE CAME TO THE DO YLES. 
 
 05 
 
 III 
 
 Two more years had gone by, uneventful years in the 
 Doyle family, to all outward seeming, and yet they were 
 marked within the circle by many and great changes. 
 Where all had been bitterness and contention in the 
 three households, there was now good humor, harmony 
 and peace. The fathers and mothers between them- 
 selves, the boys and girls as they went and came in the 
 daily round of merry child-life, and John, the head of 
 the family, in the old paternal homestead — all were 
 changed as though an enchanter's wand had waved over 
 them one and all. 
 
 Kate and Sarah, too, where changed, but in a far 
 different way. With them it was that the wan, care- 
 worn look had vanished from their faces. The over- 
 strained minds and the weary hearts were now at last 
 reposing after the long, long years of patient suffering. 
 It IS true that each sister had long since seen amongst 
 her dark brown tresses " that first foot-mark of time," 
 the " mute mementoes " of departed youth and coming 
 age ; yet neither gray hairs nor faded cheeks might dim 
 the happy light of assured peace and joy and gratitude 
 that beamed in the calm earnest eyes of Kate and Sarah 
 Doyle. 
 
 Three pews were now rented by the Doyle families in 
 the parish church, and there on Sundays and holy days 
 they might all be seen assembled, while on days of spe- 
 cial devotion, and notably on the first Friday of the 
 month and the Sunday of the general Communion of 
 Reparation, not only all the women of the family with 
 such of the children as were old enough, but the three 
 
t i 
 
 I 
 
 ■i!j; 
 
 
 I I'ihl 
 
 m 
 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 I, 
 
 66 
 
 now PEACE GAME TO WE D GYLES. 
 
 brothers were seen approaching the Holy Table toge- 
 ther. Truly a most edifying sight, and one that called 
 forth many an expression of surprise and admiration 
 from the rest of the congregation. 
 
 " Did you ever see such a change as there is in the 
 Doyles ? " would one neighbor say to another, on their 
 way home from mass. " From being so cross-grained 
 and cantankersome, sure it's good-natured and easy- 
 tempered they arc now, and not a bit proud or stuck up' 
 for all they have such fine houses, and horses, and bug- 
 gies, and money to no end." 
 
 " I declare to you, Tim," observed another, " I used 
 to be afeard to go into John's store if himself happened 
 to be there ! Now he's as civil-spoken a man as you'd 
 want to see, and has ever and always a kind word for 
 every one. Ay ! and he's so ready now to help any one 
 that's in need of a friend, and never pushes people that 
 are in his books as he used to do. God be praised, but 
 it's a happy change entirely ! " 
 
 " What in the world brought it about ? " some one 
 would ask, 
 
 '• Well ! that's more than any of us can tell," was the 
 general reply. 
 
 But to Kate and Sarah and, indeed, to the whole 
 family the change was no mystery, and the ruby lamp 
 that burned day by day in each of the three dwellings, 
 before a handsomely framed picture of the Sacred 
 Heart, told the whole simple story. And in the long, 
 winter evenings when the Rosary of the Blessed Virgin 
 was said in each house before that domestic shrine, in 
 the fulness of peace and calm content, how every heart 
 throbbed with grateful love as all eyes turned to the 
 tiny frame inclosing the Divine Promises to Blessed 
 
 ^■ 
 
 •1 
 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 «■ 
 
i 
 
 no W PEACE CAME TO WE DO UES. 
 
 Margaret Mary, and 
 
 some one repeated aloud the 
 
 second of thosegracious pronouncements of our Bless 
 
 Lord .' — 
 
 ed 
 
 " I WILL ESTABLLSH PEACE IX rilEIR FAMILIES." 
 
 if 
 
\\t 
 
 1: 
 
 I i 
 
 f. ' 
 
 Mai 
 
 i J' 
 
 TWO NEW YEARS. 
 
 Anna T. Sadlier. 
 
 pi^T was New Year's time, the season of good cheer, 
 ^15) of good hope, of good resolution. Christmas had 
 passed, with its memories, its associations, the 
 green of its holly and the glow of its fires. Christmas 
 with its holy Hioughts and suggestions, bringing the 
 beauty and r^randeur of the Incarnation mystery once 
 more to mind. Christmas with its story of promises 
 fulfilled and of a Saviour revealed to men. 
 
 It was New Year's eve. Marion Phillips sat alone in 
 her apartment. The room was fairly littered with costly 
 trinkets. The air was heavy with perfumes. Luxury 
 prevailed, and extended even to the figure of the young 
 girl recHning in an easy chair in her rich dressing gown. 
 She had just finished reading a letter from a friend 
 absent in Europe, and was still pondering its contents. 
 She was thinking, too, how this friend, young, rich, 
 accomplished, whose talents and whose beauty had 
 delighted society since she had left the convent, should 
 be, as Marion Phillips put it to herself, so eccentric. 
 She had married a wealthy man, and was what people 
 called a social leader. Nevertheless, her delight was to 
 labor among the poor and ignorant and afi^icted. She 
 rarely missed the daily Mass, she belonged to various 
 charitable associations, she was a frequent communi- 
 cant. 
 
 V4' 
 
 , 
 
 'S 
 
 I ; 
 
TWO NEW YEAHS. 
 
 ()9 
 
 e 
 
 
 
 e 
 s 
 
 " Carrie Bolton might as well have been a nun at 
 once, " said Marion Phillips to herself, with irritation. 
 " That's what comes of shutting girls up in convents. 
 Now, I am as good a Catholic as any one, but I say, if 
 you live in the world you must be like other people. " 
 
 She referred to the letter, and read in her friend's fine 
 clear hand : " Be assured, my dear, that wordliness is 
 heathenism, and that we must be in the world withou: 
 being of it. " She tossed the letter impatiently aside . 
 and rising wearily, looked out upon the streets, covered 
 with snow lying white in the clear starlight. There was 
 a tap at the door. It was Miss Phillips' maid, Mary 
 Farley. Now, Mary had received some education, and 
 by an unhappy coincidence had been, like her mistress, 
 at a secular school, for the sole reason that one met " a 
 better class of pupils there. " Mary was sharp, intelli- 
 gent, tidy, — in fact, as her mistress said, '' considerably 
 above her station. " To her as to Miss Phillips it was 
 a matter of much surprise that Mrs. Bolton should be at 
 once rich, fashionable and a devout Catholic. Mary 
 was full of the subject just now. 
 
 " You would never believe, miss, " she began, ^'that 
 Mrs. Bolton has written Bridget a letter, Bridget down 
 in ihe kitchen. " 
 
 " Written Bridget a letter?" echoed Miss Phillips. 
 
 " Yes, miss. You see, Mrs. Bolton belongs to some 
 society. She is what Bridget calls a ' Promoter ' what- 
 ever that means, miss. So she just wrote Bridget a 
 letter and sent her a little pamphlet. 
 
 '* Indeed ! " said Miss Phillips, thinking with more 
 repugnance than ever of the " preachy letter" she had 
 herself received. " By the way, that Bridget is a tire- 
 some person. She brought my breakfast this morning, 
 
 ■ir 
 
ill \ W I 
 
 ? ii 
 
 fiilf ; :| j 
 
 ! I 
 
 ;? i 
 
 ; 5i 
 
 ifl I 
 
 70 
 
 tuy; Mir yA';4/f5. 
 
 and began to speak of some Mission. Really, Mary, 
 you must not let her come near me again. I am as 
 religious as any one, and people should g-"> to church on 
 Sunday and that, if they feel able, but — why, you are 
 pulling my hair, how clumsy of you ! " 
 
 When Mary had gone, Miss Phillips remained seated 
 in her arm-chair, staring into the fire which burned 
 upon the hearth. She was handsome, young, an heiress. 
 The world lay stretched before her, a fairy prospect. 
 Her parents had sent her to a fashionable school in 
 England. She was heard to boast that her parents had 
 left her free to choose her own religion, hoping that she 
 would elect to remain a Catholic, which she did. 
 
 At school she had been taught to keep religion as 
 much out of sight as possible. Discussion was out of 
 the question. Since leaving school she had followed 
 the same rule, and left religion practically out of her life. 
 
 As she lingered in her easy-chair, the sound of the 
 New Year's bells, the solemn bells of that midnight 
 which divides the old from the new, fell upon her ear. 
 The sound made her uneasy, and like words set to 
 their music, she heard the counsel of her friend, 
 "worldliness is heathenism; we must be in the world 
 but not of it. " 
 
 " I hope God will give the master and mistress and 
 Miss Marion, too, a happy and prosperous New Year, " 
 said Bridget down in the kitchen, the next morning. 
 She had just come in fresh and rosy from church. 
 " They're too happy and prosperous, " snapped Mary 
 Farley, viciously. She had lain awake the night before, 
 revolving the old problem, why she had not been born 
 rich and a lady. '' Things is badly managed in this 
 world, I can tell you. " 
 
 a 
 
 ) 
 
 if 
 
 I 
 
i 
 
 TWO NEW YEARS Tl 
 
 " They're managed as God pleases, " said Bridget, 
 cheerily ; '* and all's well if we save our souls. Did you 
 go out to Mass, this morning ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I didn't, " said Mary. " I leave that to 
 you. " 
 
 " It's a bad way to begin the year. " 
 
 " As good a way as preaching. " 
 
 " Did you hear the bells, last night?" asked Bridget, 
 changing the subject. *' Those New Year's bells do 
 give me a queer turn, for I keep thinking, there's 
 another year gone, and may be it's not many more of 
 them God will give me to work for His glory. " 
 
 '•Where did you learn all that fine talk?" sneered 
 Mary. 
 
 '' Well, it was little schoolin' I got at all, by reason 
 that I couldn't stay at school, but that little was with 
 the Presentation nuns in Ireland." 
 
 " Thank heaven they didn't preach so much where I 
 went to school. We learned more grammar and arith- 
 metic and less prayers. But there's the bell, she's 
 gettin up, at last. About time." 
 
 And so another year had dawned for Marion Phillips, 
 5,nd she avoke to consciousness that it was New Year's 
 Day. 
 
 II. 
 
 Another New Year's eve, drizzling and dreary, with a 
 cold sleet falling, and a wind which pierced even the 
 thick walls of the Phillips' dwelling on the most fashion- 
 able street of the Upper Canadian citv. 
 
Ti 
 
 TWO NEW YEARS. 
 
 I 
 
 u 
 
 iii: 
 
 J 
 
 " Madam, if you know my errand you will offer no- 
 further opposition to my entering the sick room." 
 
 It was a priest who spoke, and he was addressing that 
 elegant and refined woman of the world, Mrs. Phillips. 
 
 " But really, sir, I am afraid of the effect your 
 appearance might have upon the child. I know your 
 errand, for I am a Catholic ; but the case is not 
 pressing. The doctor tells me there is no danger." 
 
 "How can any one give such assurance in so deadly 
 a disease ?" said the priest. 
 
 ** I assure you — " 
 
 •* Assure me of nothing unless you can safely assure 
 me of your daughter's salvation." 
 
 " Why, she has led a most exemplary life, though not 
 what one would call devout She was the best pupil at 
 the Institute in England, and — " 
 
 "Has she been to the Sacraments lately ?" interrupted 
 the priest. 
 
 *' Well, no, I can hardly say — " 
 
 " The case is more urgent even than I thought," said 
 Father Moore. " Kindly permit me to pass." 
 
 He entered the room. It was bare and stripped of 
 its ornaments. The air was heavy with desinfectants. 
 Upon the bed lay Marion Phillips, her features distorted 
 by disease, her eyes closed. A kneeling figure arose 
 and advanced to meet the priest. 
 
 " Sure, Father, I'm glad you're come. I counted 
 every minute an hour since I left the message for you. 
 It's my belief she's going fast." 
 
 " Why was I not sent for before ?" 
 
 The priest scarcely listened to the explanation. He 
 was bending over the dying girl ; she was unconscious 
 He turned to Bridget. 
 
 1' 
 
 4(j 
 
 4i. 
 
 f 
 
TWO NEW YEMtS. 
 
 73 
 
 
 m 
 
 " Surely she has not been left alone ? — Where is the 
 mother ? " 
 
 " She's in weak health, and though her grief's heart- 
 rending, she can't stand the air of the room." 
 
 " We will say the prayers for the dying, Bridget," said 
 the priest, kneeling down. 
 
 While they prayed there was a slight stir in the bed, 
 and Marion Phillips opened her eyes. 
 
 "* Who is there?" she asked, faintly. 
 
 " A priest, my child." 
 
 A slight shiver passed through her. 
 
 " Is there any one else ?" she asked, again. 
 
 " Sure, it's me, Miss Marion ; it's Bridget ; don't you 
 know me?" 
 
 " Bridget, I thought you had gone ; where's Mary !" 
 After a pause : " I remember, she went away when I 
 took ill." 
 
 Father Moore now tried gently to tell the young girl 
 of her critical condition. 
 
 " I am not dying," she shrieked. *' I will not die. I 
 am so young, God would not be so cruel." 
 
 She raised herself in the bed, but only to fall back 
 helplessly. Vainly did the priest strive to calm her or 
 to induce her to think of preparation for death. He 
 could only wring from her a reluctant consent to his 
 returning. 
 
 '• In a day or two I shall feel better," she said, " and 
 then I may think of confession. It is four years since 
 I was there last, and I cannot collect my thoughts all at 
 once." 
 
 " How came you, dear child, to be so long away from 
 the Sacraments?" 
 
 " I was at a school where I could not easily see a 
 
74 
 
 TWO NEW YEA US. 
 
 u 
 
 :'% 
 
 priest, and since I came home I have been so occupied, 
 and sometimes my health has been poor." 
 
 •' Will you not try for our Lord's sake to make your 
 preparation now," urged Father Moore ; " I shall come 
 back in an hour." 
 
 " Impossible," said the dying girl, "there is no hurry, 
 I feel too weak ;" then, with a faint smile, "do not be 
 distressed, I won't die without the Sacraments. But 
 death is far off, I shall be out in a fortnight." 
 
 " So you shall, my dear Miss Phillips, " said a 
 cheerful voice, '' that is, if you do not over exert 
 yourself" 
 
 It was the doctor who spoke, a most liberal-minded 
 man who, though not a Catholic himself, \ A the 
 greatest respect for the priesthood. Nevertheless, he 
 was peremptory with Father Moore just then. 
 
 It was absolutely necessary that the patient should 
 be kept quiet. The heart was weak. Excitement might 
 be fatal. The young lady did not desire any religious 
 ministrations, and her mother was fearful of the result. 
 And there was no danger. 
 
 "After all," concluded the doctor, pleasantly facetious, 
 " she is one of your own flock, you know, Mr. Moore, 
 and an excellent Catholic." 
 
 " One of my own flock," said the priest to himself, 
 sadly, as he walked homewards, " how much greater 
 may be the chance of salvation for those other sheep 
 who are not of the Fold." 
 
 'i 
 
 [J 
 
\ 
 
 TWO NEW YEMiS. 
 
 75 
 
 III 
 
 It was midnight on that New Year's eve. The bells 
 were tolling from every steeple the old, old message 
 that another year was dead. Bridget knelt, beads in 
 hand, beside Miss Phillips' bed. The night nurse had 
 fallen sound asleep. Marion Phillips herself, to all 
 appearance, slept, too. 
 
 " God bless her," said Bridget, rising and stealing 
 near, " she is having a beautiful sleep, if the bells don't 
 wake her." 
 
 No ; Bridget, neither those New Year's bells nor any 
 sound of earth shall ever wake Marion Phillips more.! ! ! 
 Something in the deathly pallor of the face startled the 
 faithful watcher. She touched the still face, and by her 
 scream awoke the nurse 
 
 '' Heart failure," said the doctor, half an hour after- 
 wards ; '' the disease often takes such a course. But, my 
 dear Mrs. Phillips, it was a most merciful death. Abso- 
 lutely painless and peaceful." 
 
 *' It is the punishment of my sin," cried the mother, 
 in an agony of grief. " I gave her a high education. 
 She had every accomplishment, but she had forgotten 
 her catechism. They taught her everything but her 
 religion. I neglected sending for the priest, and when 
 he was brought I did not want him to see her." 
 
 Her husband entering the room, she took his arm 
 and led him to the bedside. 
 
 '' We have killed her soul," she. said hoarsely, and 
 her husband made no reply. 
 
 ^i^ 5^^ r\^ »[S 'fC *^-» •^^ 
 
 In a dancing hall, Mary Farley was meantime 
 
 !ii 
 
76 
 
 TWO NEW YEARS. 
 
 
 dancing away the first hours of the new-born year. In 
 answer to a remark made concerning her former mis- 
 tress, she cried flippantly : — 
 
 *' I'm never sorry for them sort of people. It's time 
 they had their s'nare of suffering But there's no justice, 
 she'll get well, and be the same as ever. It's made me 
 pretty much give up my religion, seeing the poor down- 
 trodden as they are. I hate that Marion Phillips, any 
 way." 
 
 '" Ii's New Year's morning again," said Bridget to 
 herseh"; "thank God for another year of life. But my 
 heart is heavy for the master and mistress, and poor 
 Miss Marion. God rest her soul ! Oh, if she had lived 
 more for God, what a happy New Year this 'ud be for 
 her." 
 
 Mrs. Phillips found that morning in her daughter's 
 writirg desk the letter in which Mrs. Bolton had said, 
 that "worldliness was heathenism, and that we must be 
 in the world but not of it," 
 
 " Oh, if I had sent Marion to the convent with Carrie 
 Bolton," moaned Mrs. Phillips ; " how she would bless 
 me for it now ! " 
 
 The jingle of sleigh bells sounded merrily. The 
 snow was upon the house-tops, the branches sparkled 
 merrily with hoar-frost. It was an ideal Canadian New 
 Year's day. But no echo of the joy and merriment 
 reached the dead. Marion Phillips had gone into that 
 world which her education had taught her to ignore, 
 where her accomplishments, her talents and the advan- 
 tageous acquaintances she had formed at school availed 
 her nothing. 
 
 ^"*1 
 
tM^^diiM^- 
 
 THROUGH DARKNESS LIGHT. 
 
 I'vl 
 
 Mrs. J. S.vDTiER 
 
 NESTLING in the shadow of a lofty hill, one of 
 the grand Laurentian chain, sheltered from 
 the Northern breeze by a grove of tall pines, 
 stands a plain substantial dwelling, originally a farm- 
 house, but recently converted into a somewhat hand- 
 some villa. It was pointed out to a small party of 
 tourists one breezy day in mid-autumn some three 
 years ago, as the home of Jasper Williams, a successful 
 lawyer in the neighboring city. The name was not 
 unknown to the travellers, who belonged to one of the 
 sister provinces away westward. 
 
 " You remember, Hubert," said an elderly lady, the 
 mother of the two young people, a son and daughter, 
 who, with iheir father, a bluff, good-natured English- 
 man, m'ide up the party, " You remember, this Jasper 
 Williams married a daughter of old Baptiste Leduc, of 
 L . They nay he has turned out a fearful bigot." 
 
 " Begging your pardon, ma'am," put in the city 
 carter, whose attentive ear had caught the words. 
 " Bigot is no name for him. Sure, he persecutes his 
 poor wife, ay ! and his daughters too, on account of 
 religio!!, and makes their lives miserable. And a real 
 lady Mrs. Williams is, and very good to the poor about 
 here, everybody says. The young ladies are just like 
 herself; but the father— you'll excuse me for sayin' it, 
 ma'am, but he's the Old Fellow all out. He hates 
 

 78 
 
 WnOUG/I DARKNESS LIGHT. 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 ! I 
 
 Catholics as he hates poison, and the one son he has is 
 nearly as bad. I'm thinking it's a hard life poor Mrs. 
 Williams has between them anyhow." 
 
 " I had heard something of this before," said Mrs. 
 Ransom to her husband. " Poor Leonore ! I was u,t 
 her wedding, and a very pretty bride she was, too ! I 
 should like so much to pay her a visit as we are so near 
 her house," Her husband made no objection, so they 
 drove up to the door. 
 
 Mrs. Williams and her daughters were at home, and 
 the visitors were most cordially received. The husband 
 and son were at their ottice in the city, and although 
 nothing of the kind was said, if seemec' matter of rehef 
 and satisfaction that they were absent. The travellers 
 were easily prevailed upon to stay for lunch, and the 
 meal was thoroughly enjoyed by all, as the eiders were 
 very old acquaintances, and the young people were 
 soon perfectly at their ease with each other, and chatted 
 away gaily on all manner of topics. Young Ransom 
 was a graduate of one of our principal Catholic colleges 
 and his sister a pupil of a convent-school in one of the 
 Western cities. They v/ere much pleased with Adele and 
 Lina Williams, who were bright and intelligent, although 
 somewhat grave and quiet for girls of twenty and eighteen. 
 It was easy to see they had little of the lightsome gaiety 
 of their age, and displayed in all their words and actions 
 a seriousness that was plainly foreign to their nature — 
 especially in the case of Lina, the younger. 
 
 As for the mother, she looked v/an and care-worn, 
 with prematurely wrinkled brow, hair sprinkled with 
 gray before its time and 
 
 -faded eyes that long had wept,"' 
 
i 
 
 ;«i,.^-4iV.>iSJ»il«if' 
 
 mk 
 
 Tfin 1 Gil DA R KNESS LIG IIT. 70 
 
 although they had evidently once been fine and the face 
 passing fair to look on. All this Mrs. Ransom sadly 
 remembered. Indeed, Mrs. Jasper Williams was but 
 the shadow of her former self, and a blight seemed to 
 have fallen on her whole being. 
 
 As soon as the two elder ladies were alone together, 
 Mrs. Ransom asked in a voice of deep emotion : — " In 
 the name of God, Leonore, what has come over you 
 since I saw you last ? Excuse the freedom of an old 
 acquaintance — I might almost say friend, — but I really 
 cannot help it. I should not have known you if I met 
 you in the street." 
 
 " I can well believe you, EHzabeth, for at times I 
 hardly know myself, " was the faltering reply, and the 
 oppressed heart suddenly found vent in tears. " My girls 
 and myself are suffering a species of torture every day 
 of our lives." 
 
 •* Why, Leonore, you shock me. What does it all 
 mean ?" Mrs. Ransom partly guessed what the matter 
 was, but she refrained from saying so. 
 
 '* It means simply this, Elizabeth !" said the other in 
 broken accents, " that my husband, although from an 
 early period of our marriage inclined to jeer and scoff at 
 my religion and its observances, has of late years become 
 a furious bigot, through the influence of his own family, 
 and especially since our boy began to grow up and has 
 taken sides with him against me." 
 
 "And the girls ? I see you have succeeded in keeping 
 them." 
 
 "Th^nk God, I have ; and, indeed, I don't know at 
 all how I did it, seeing that their father wouldn't let 
 them go to a Catholic school. I held out firmly against 
 sending them anywhere else, and at last Williams con- 
 
 it • 
 
E 't ' 
 
 80 
 
 TllH 1 7.1 // JJ A n KNESS L I G II T. 
 
 sented to have a governess in the house, — a Protestant, 
 of course. This, however, gave me a chance to teach 
 them my own reHgion and implant it in their minds, as 
 the dear girls are happily devoted to me, and all their 
 sympathies are with me. The governess is gone a year 
 ago, and I have them all to myself. They make no 
 secret of being Catholics, and their father can only take 
 it out in railing against our religion, throwing all the 
 obstacles he can in our way and encouraging Dick to 
 do likewise. Oh ! dear friend, my heart is breaking, and 
 there are times when I almost despair and all is dark 
 before my eyes. The worst of it is, Elizabeth," she 
 added in a tremulous voice, " that the fault is all my 
 own. My son has drifted away far beyond my control, 
 and my poor girls as well as myself are separ;"»ted from 
 father and brother alike. Oh ! God help me ! What 
 am I to do ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you what you'll do, Leonore," said her sym- 
 pathetic friend, as a sudden inspiration came to her. 
 What she told her excited Mrs. Williams' earnest atten- 
 tion and had the effect of drying her tears. 
 
 II. 
 
 i! 
 
 ; 
 
 When the Ransoms drove away that afternoon they 
 left their hostess somewhat more cheerful, and Mr. Ran- 
 som left a message for Mr. Williams, that he and his wife 
 would look forward to the pleasure of a visit from him 
 and his family at Elm Grove, his home in Ontario, 
 before the close of autumn. 
 
 " Humph I" said Jasper William when, on his return 
 that evening, the message was conveyed to him by his 
 
 I i- 
 ! t 
 

 rilHOUGU DARKNESS UGIIT. 
 
 SI 
 
 they 
 Lan- 
 wife 
 him 
 
 lario, 
 
 iturn 
 (y his 
 
 wife. "Catch me taking any of you to /lis house for a 
 visit ! I know Ransom well by report as an out-and-out 
 Papist, and he'll look long before he sees my shadow on 
 liis threshold." 
 
 :*s * * ^< * 5(: :|: * * :»: 
 
 For some little time matters went on much as usual in 
 the house beneath the mountain. Mrs. Williams and 
 her daughters, at the cost of much suffering and in the 
 face of stormy opposition, heard mass on Sundays and 
 holy days, and approached the Sacraments once a 
 month, at least. Jasper Williams and his son went 
 once in a while to the nearest Protestant church, more 
 from opposition to the female members of the family, it 
 was plain to see, than for any other motive. Indeed, 
 neither father nor son professed any special form of 
 religion. Like so many others, their religion consisted 
 in hating Popery, as they called it, with a fierce hatred, 
 but for positive religion they had little or none. Still 
 the sorely tried mother and her daughters kept steadily 
 on in their dolorous path of duty. 
 
 So the last autumn days passed. The woods flushed 
 and faded, then grew bare and brown. The great river 
 of Canada and its tributary stream? and all the fair land 
 were again covered with the ice nnd snow of the long 
 dreary winter. Spring came agaai, the fleeting spring 
 of the Northland, and soon it was summer, all bright- 
 ness and bloom, with radiant skies and smiling earth. 
 
 June v/ith her mantle of roses made all the region 
 glad, and robed even the hoary mountain with richest 
 verdure. In the city rear by, the Sacred Heart devo- 
 tions of the month were carried on with great fervor and 
 with much solemnity evening after evening. Mrs. 
 
 W'illiams and her daughters found it no easy matter to 
 
 6 
 
f I 
 
 Ml 
 
 TfinOVGlI DARKNESS LIGHT. 
 
 be present at these services, but somehow they did 
 manage to do it, although there was much scolding and 
 grumbling, at first, about taking out the horses, taking 
 up the man's time, and so forth. Anyhow, the storm 
 usually passed, and even the low mutterings that 
 succeeded died away in sullen silence. 
 
 Before the month was over, Mr. Ransom was one day 
 agreeably surprised to receive a characteristic letter 
 from Jasper Williams, announcing that he and his family 
 were about to pay a visit to Elm Grove before the sum- 
 mer was over. •' That is, " he jocosely added, " if 
 you'll promise to let me alone about religion, for I won't 
 stand anv nonsense of that kind. You know what / 
 am, and I know what you are. So let us agree to leave 
 religion aside while we stay with you, and I'm your man 
 for a whole week with my good Protestant son and my 
 Papist wife and daughters—not so bad in their way, I can 
 tell you, if they do swear by the Pope and the Jesuits. " 
 
 III 
 
 So the visit was made, to the blank amazement of the 
 Ransom family and, indeed, of Mrs. Williams and her 
 daughters. Nothing was said on the subject of religion, 
 and all went on so smoothly that blustering Jasper 
 Williams could not refrain from telling his host one day 
 what a fine thing it was, after all, to see a whole family 
 living in peace together and all united. 
 
 *' You're a happy man, Squire Ransom, " he added ; 
 " and I vow I almost envy you. Now, in our house, 
 we hardly ever know a quiet hour, and it's all cross 
 purposes we're at from morning till night, pulling one 
 against the other. " 
 
THROUGH D.mKNESS LIGHT. 
 
 83 
 
 ftlie 
 her 
 
 rion, 
 
 isper 
 day 
 imUy 
 
 Ided; 
 iouse, 
 cross 
 one 
 
 Ransom smiled. *' I could perhaps tell you the 
 reason of all that, my good sir," he said pleasantly, 
 " but you might not like it if I did, so I'll keep my own 
 counsel and say nothing. " 
 
 " All right, Ransom, all right ! I see you're bound 
 
 to keep the agreement. " And Williams turned on his 
 
 heel and walked away, whistling " the Boyne Water. ' 
 
 That same afternoon he surprised his wife no little by 
 
 telling her — " Lennie, why don't you and the girls go to 
 
 church in G this evening with the Ransoms? I hear 
 
 they go every evening this month, and I told them they 
 must not think of staying at home on our account. " 
 
 " But, Jasper, " said his wife in a hesitating way, 
 " we could not think of leaving you and Dick here all 
 alone in a strange house. " 
 
 " Oh ! never you mind that," replied her husband, 
 " I feel as much at home here as though I had been in 
 it for years. And, besides, I'm going to take Dick to 
 see an old friend of mine. Jack Lucas, you remember, 
 who lives about two miles from here, as Ransom tells 
 me. So don't mind us — Tce're all right." 
 
 •' God bless you, Jasper," cried the so long brow- 
 beaten wife in a burst of joy and gratitude. " If you 
 only knew how it lightens my heart to hear you talk 
 like that ! It almost makes me feel young again." 
 
 " Well ! well ! say no more about it, Lennie ! It's a 
 long lane has no turn. You've been travelling a pretty 
 hard road, little woman ; but maybe the worst is past. 
 Who knows ? " 
 
 Mrs. Williams could hardly believe her ears, but she 
 made no further remark, well content with the point she 
 had gained. 
 
 I 
 
 i'l 
 
84 THli OUGH DAR KNES S LIG I IT. 
 
 IV 
 
 The days passed rapidly at Elm Grove, for, as Moore 
 once sang — 
 
 " Never does Time travel faster 
 
 Than when his way lies among flowers." 
 
 All too soon the visit of the Williams family came to a 
 close. They set out on a bright sunny morning for 
 their distant home, cheered by a promise from the Ran- 
 soms to return the visit in the early autumn. Some 
 whispered words were exchanged between the two 
 matrons while the men where occupied about the i)re- 
 parations for departure. 
 
 " Thank God and you, my dear Elizabeth," said Mrs. 
 WiUiams, " a blessed change has already come for me 
 and the girls. Jasper seems a different man of late, and 
 my boy is more gentle and submissive. What a relief 
 it is to us ! " 
 
 " There's a good beginning made," returned her 
 friend in the same low tone ; " let us go on hoping and 
 praying till we meet again. Good-bye till then, my 
 poor Leonore !" So they parted. 
 
 All was glad expectation in the home by the mountain 
 during the last days of summer, and with the last week 
 of September came the Ransom family, the young and 
 the old of both families well pleased to be again together 
 though the visit was to be a short one. Mr. Ransom 
 had important business to attend to at home, which 
 necessitated his return thither by the first days of 
 October, 
 
:i-^9.^\-tx:i}^i£AJ±^tAsiiSiSiTS£:. 
 
 TllliOVGU DARKNESS LIGHT. 
 
 85 
 
 
 The few days spent together by the two families were 
 days of unalloyed happiness. The dark cloud had 
 vanished from the still handsome face of Mrs. Williams, 
 and her girls were as gay and light-hearted as their 
 young friends could wish. Where the sullen gloom of 
 discontent and a dreary state of unrest had so long 
 prevailed in that beautiful home by the St. Lawrence, 
 all was now peace, if not joy. Jasper Williams was still 
 brusque and somevv^hat rough at times, but that was of 
 small account to his wife and daughters, so long as he 
 left them free in religious matters. No more sneering 
 or sarcasm about Catholic devotions ; no more obstacles 
 thrown in the way of complying with religious duties. 
 Mr. Ransom appeared not to notice the change, but he 
 saw it and rejoiced exceedingly. 
 
 When the dreaded hour of departure came he shook 
 the hand of Jasper Williams with the warmth of an old 
 friend. "God-bye, Williams," he said, "you must really 
 allow me, now that we are about to part, 
 
 " It may be for years and it may be for ever,' 
 
 to congratulate you on the happy change I see in your 
 family. Go on as you're doing and you'll find yourself 
 a much happier man !" The other answered m the 
 same kindly spirit, and the two men parted. 
 
 Meanwhile the wives sat together on the verandah in 
 front of the house while the carriage was brought round, 
 and Mrs. Williams asked her friend : 
 
 *' How did you bring it all about, Elizabeth? " 
 " Simply by putting a very special petition for an 
 afflicted family in the Intention-box of the League in our 
 church in G , these last months, and having your 
 
 lUl 
 
 11 
 
m 
 
 Tim UG II DA n KiVESS L I G 11 T. 
 
 name and those of Ad61e and Lina enrolled as Associates, 
 as I said I would. You got the badges I sent you?" 
 
 " Indeed I did, a thousand thanks for your kindness. 
 We fulfill all the conditions regularly." 
 
 *' Well ! now we must have your Thanksgiving put in 
 the box for the special favor graciously bestowed, and 
 you must at once become a Promoter here in your own 
 city and form a circle of your own. The Sacred Heart 
 of Our dearest Lord has fulfilled one of His gracious pro- 
 mises in your regard. He has indeed consoled you in all 
 your afflictiofis. May the Sacred Heart of Jesus be 
 everywhere loved ! " 
 
 " Amen," Mrs. Williams fervently answered as her 
 friend extended her hand at parting. 
 
 
THE CRIMINAL. 
 
 Anna T. Sapi.ikk. 
 
 I. 
 
 ^OW gloomy and dismal was that goal in the 
 brightness of a spring morning. Frowning 
 walls, spike-topped iron bars, through which 
 haggard faces peered out at the sunshine and the 
 budding leaves, looking longingly upon those who 
 seemed full of life and happiness in the warm, soft air. 
 
 '* The prisoner in yonder cell is incorrigible," said one 
 visitor to another, as they passed through the prison 
 corridor. " A hardened scoffer ; he mocks at the idea 
 of a God, sneers at all goodness, and declares that when 
 the end comes he will die like a dog." 
 
 " Can we have speech with him ?" 
 
 The gaoler smiled grimly when the question was 
 repeated to him. 
 
 " You can talk to him if you like, but 1 expect you 
 won't get much out of him." 
 
 When the cell-door was unlocked, there was seen the 
 figure of a man crouching, animal-like, at the window. 
 His face was pressed close against the iron-bars, as 
 though he had a fierce heart-hunger for the world with- 
 out, lying beautiful under the spring sun. He turned 
 slowly when his visitors spoke, staring at them with sullen 
 
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 TUE CRIMINAL 
 
 ferocity, but no word passed his lips then nor during 
 the interval that followed. But when they had passed 
 out of the cell, a mocking laugh, horrible in its disson- 
 ance, grated upon their ears. 
 
 " The worst case we have ever had, " said the gaoler. 
 
 " And he is condemned ? " 
 
 " Yes, without any chance of a respite, either. " 
 
 '' For murder ? " 
 
 The gaoler nodded. 
 
 " Has any clergyman visited him? " 
 
 " Scores of them. " 
 
 " And he will not listen ? " 
 
 " He listens and laughs. " 
 
 11. 
 
 Scarcely a fortnight later, within that self-same cell, 
 sat an old man, humble of aspect, clad in rusty black, 
 a man of God. His hand rested kindly upon the bent 
 head of the prisoner, whose strong frame was shaken by 
 sobs. He had just finished the story of his life,— the 
 old sad tale of neglectful parents, disobedient sons, a 
 piece at a ten-cent show during the progress of which a 
 man had sat beside the growing youth destined to be 
 his ruin ; he brought him into bad company, he lent 
 him dime novels and other literature of the sort. The 
 descent was slow. The lad's parents were respectable 
 and, after a fashion, religious. First, sacraments were 
 neglected, then Sunday Mass was abandoned, and 
 religion went altogether. The terrible ending to the 
 life which followed was told by the prisoner in words 
 strangely solemn, unconsciously dramatic. 
 
WE CRIMINAL 
 
 89' 
 
 '' Father, it was that man I killed, the one who sat 
 beside me at the show, who introduced me to evil com- 
 panions and lent me bad books." 
 
 " How infinite has been the mercy of God in your 
 behalf," the old man was saying ; " it is the realization 
 of that promise of our Divine Lord, that * sinners shall 
 find in His Heart the source and the infinite ocean of 
 mercy. For, at first, I slipped into your clothing a 
 medal ; next, I persuaded you to accept a badge of the 
 Sacred Heart ; and finally, that picture." 
 
 The priest pointed, as he spoke, to where the spring 
 sunshine lighted up as with a smile the image of the 
 Divine Master, showing His Heart. 
 
 '' Then you seemed to melt, you spoke a little of 
 your past life, you consented to read a book in which 
 was the story of a great sinner who had done penance. 
 You sent for me of your own accord. The rest has been 
 easy. As your fall was gradual so has God's mercy 
 followed you step by step." 
 
 " But only my death can make expiation. Father 1 " 
 cried the prisoner, suddenly raising his head. 
 
 " You will meet death bravely, then, my poor boy," 
 said the priest slowly. 
 
 " Joyfully, Father, for it will make me hope that my 
 sins are forgiven." 
 
 " May I tell you, then?" said the priest, taking the 
 criminal's hand gently in both his own. 
 
 " Whatever you like, Father," said the young man, 
 firmly. 
 
 " The pardon — even the respite — has been refused," 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Human nature is 
 weak. 
 
 " It is best so, Father ; a pardon might be my ruin.*' 
 
ml I 
 
 <J0 
 
 THE on J MINI L. 
 
 " Brave heart," said the priest, warmly. " Generous 
 soul ! How brightly shall that sacrifice shine for eternity ! 
 When your sins are washed away in the Blood of the 
 Lamb, your soul shall wear the marriage garment." 
 
 " I have but one regret," said the prisoner, thought- 
 fully, " my parents are in a very respectable position, 
 and my death must bring shame upon them. But, oh 
 Father, if they had only taught me better ! " 
 
 " God himself has been your teacher in the path of 
 repentance," said the priest; " through much misery he 
 has brought you to true knowledge, through sorrow and 
 ignominy to a happiness which shall be eternal. You 
 have sinned deeply, indeed, but you have found the 
 ocean of mercy which the Heart of Jesus offers to 
 sinners." 
 
 A smile lighted up the sin-stained face. 
 
 " Kven for such as I, that mercy," he said softly. 
 
 " Though thy sins are as scarlet," answered the priest, 
 solemnly. 
 
 Hushed and still was the air without, save where dis- 
 tant voices came faintly through the grated window. 
 
 " How far off seems the world of sin and wretched- 
 ness," said the prisoner, " and yet this is but a gaol." 
 
 " The soul is free," said the priest, " no prison-bars 
 can hinder its flight to the highest. And now, my son, 
 I am going ; do not forget your little prayer, * Sweet 
 Heart of Jesus, I implore that I may ever love Thee 
 more and more ! ' Say it often during the day, and 
 when you wake at night add to it, ' Sweet Heart of 
 Mary, be my salvation 1 ' You have need of that good 
 Mother's help." With a kind good-bye the priest went 
 away, his bent old figure robed in rusty black, winning 
 reverence from all whom he encountered. His presence 
 
THE CniML\AL. 
 
 91 
 
 nerous 
 
 ernity 1 
 
 of the 
 
 t." 
 hought- 
 
 )Osition, 
 
 But, oh 
 
 path of 
 lisery he 
 rrow and 
 lal You 
 bund the 
 
 offers to 
 
 ,oftly. 
 iihe priest, 
 
 where dis- 
 
 jindow. 
 wretched- 
 It a gaol." 
 
 irison-bars 
 
 Lv, my son, 
 er, ' Sweet 
 llove Thee 
 day, and 
 Heart of 
 that good 
 liriest went 
 Jk, winnmg 
 lis presence 
 
 4 
 
 was as a benediction in that abode of lost hopes and 
 lost innocence. How the sj)iritual rises above the 
 material ! A prison may be the abiding place of peace 
 and hope, and faith and heroism. And that old man, 
 so insignificant in worldly eyes, was sublime in his self- 
 command, his self-forgetfiilness, his holiness ! 
 
 HI. 
 
 '* He was a plucky one," said the gaoler, discoursing 
 of a recent execution to the two gentlemen who, a 
 month previously, had visited the gaol ; " and its victim 
 smiled as if he was going to a merry-making, gentle as 
 a lamb. You've seen him for yourselves, before that 
 priest got hold of him, the worst case we ever had in 
 here, fierce as a tiger, sulky as a bear, using the worst 
 language, giving all the trouble he could. But, after- 
 wards, he got to be cheerful and obliging, encouraging 
 all the others that he came across, begging pardon of 
 us — fact, I assure you, he did that — for the bad example 
 he had given us, and praying all his spare time." 
 
 " He died a beautiful death," said the priest, who 
 came up at that moment, and to whom the two visitors 
 now addressed themselves. " The poor fellow had been 
 led astray by bad theatres, bad company and bad books, 
 but he was a sincere penitent, saintly in his fervor, 
 touching in his humility, heroic in his courage. On his 
 way to the scaffold he repeated over and over again 
 that promise of the Divine Heart in relation to sinners, 
 and his last earthly act was to show me his medal and 
 badge. There was a smile upon his face just then, and 
 
 I'i 
 
I 111' 
 
 Ml 
 
 92 
 
 TflE CRIMINAL 
 
 I knew that he was renewing the cheerful offering of his 
 life, which he did so often during the last dark days." 
 
 So the spring sunshine can shine brightly sometimes 
 upon the frowning walls of a goal, and even upon a 
 grave in a prison yard wherein a criminal has been 
 buried. And as the priest passes from cell to cell, he 
 tells the story of him who lies there, and who, burdened 
 with many sins, found in the Sacred Heart " a source 
 and ocean of infinite inercyy 
 
OUR LADY'S MAY-DAY GIFT. 
 
 Mrs. J. Sadlier. 
 
 SfiuS^T was a very humble home that in which little 
 ts}^m>ii-{ yi^j.y Lacy sat sewing on a fine spring morning, 
 some ten years ago, while her grandmother, aged, 
 but still hale and healthy, bustled about from one thing 
 to another, making the little house neat and tidy for 
 the day. The dwelling had but one story, divided into 
 a kitchen, which was the living-room of the r^mall family, 
 and two sleeping-rooms at one end. The furniture was 
 of the plainest, none too much even at that ; but still 
 there was a look of comfort and cleanliness all about, 
 that, with the spring sunshine streaming in through the 
 small window, made the place home-like and restful. 
 Conspicuous amongst the furniture of the half-kitchen, 
 half -sitting-room, where Mary sat, was a picture of Our 
 Lady of the Sacred Heart, about nine by twelve inches, 
 — nothing to boast of as a work of art, and framed in 
 common dark wood, yet evidently highly prized by the 
 dwellers in that cosy littly home. A bracket, fashioned 
 by some rustic hand, was under the picture, and on the 
 bracket some of the earliest blossoms of spring, from 
 field and meadow, bloomed fresh in a glass of water 
 before the sacred images of the Mother and Son. 
 
 " Granny," said Mary, a fair, pretty girl of seventeen 
 or thereabouts, as she suddenly dropped her work on 
 her knee, and looked up, " Isn't it very lonesome here 
 
 ii| 
 
 1! 
 

 11 4 
 
 94 
 
 OUn LADY'S MAY-DAY GIFT. 
 
 since Willie left us ? I can't feel as I used to do, and 
 I'm always, always thinkin' about him, and wonderin' 
 what he's doin', and if he often thinks of us here, all 
 alone by ourselves." 
 
 " Well ! it is lonesome, Mary," the old woman replied, 
 as, having finished her morning house work, she took 
 her knitting and sat down in her usual place. " 1^'s a 
 folly to talk, but I do miss Willie more than I ever 
 thought I would." 
 
 " Somehow or another," said Mary, in a dreamy 
 voice, a far-away look coming into her soft eyes, "I'm 
 a'most sorry he ever left us." 
 
 '' Come, come, Mary," said the old woman, with an 
 effort to appear cheerful, " you mustn't let down your 
 heart that way. You know Willie would never come to 
 anything if he staid here all his life long as his poor 
 father did before him, an' wc all thought it best for him 
 to try what he could do in the city. A bright, smart 
 boy like Willie, an* with the good schoolin' we gave 
 him by dint of savin' and pinchin' and hard work from 
 your father, God rest his soul ! and all of us, — he ought 
 to be something better than a commoa day-laborer. 
 And so he will, please God ! " she added, hopefully. 
 '' Mind my words, Mary; he will." 
 
 "God grant it!" said the girl, wearily; "But do 
 you know, granny, I do be thinkin' at times that may 
 be he'd have been better with us after all." 
 
 " Nonsense, child, nonsense ! You'll make me angry 
 with you, if you go on like that," said her grandmother, 
 in an impatient tone. " It's thankful you ought to be 
 when you know that your brother is already earnin 
 good wages as a clerk in a store, and it's able to help 
 you and me he'll be in no time at all. That's what he 
 
 i i 
 
OUIi LADY'S MAY-DAY CI FT. 
 
 !>■> 
 
 said, you know, in his last letter, and a beautitul letter 
 it was, too ! " 
 
 " Well, but, granny," said the gentle, pleading voice, 
 " it's about his soul I'm fearful. You see, he's amongst 
 Protestants, and he says himself he doesn't go to church 
 as regular as he did at home. And he hasn't been to his 
 duty since he left us six months ago." 
 
 A serious look came over the old woman's face. 
 " Well, Mary, there's truth in what you say. It's a bad 
 thing for a boy of his age to be thrown amongst Protes- 
 tants. It's a bad thing," she repeated, shaking her head 
 slowly. '* May be you ought to write to the priest to 
 look after Willie. You're a good scholar yourself, and 
 I'm sure you could write that letter." 
 
 " Wellj I suppose I could, granny," said Mary, 
 brightening up at the thought, " and it's lucky that 
 Willie told us in one of his first letters the name of 
 the priest in the parish where he is. I'll do it this 
 very day." 
 
 II. 
 
 So the letter was written carefully by Mary, " with the 
 skill the good Nuns taught her" in the Parochial 
 School to which the girl had walked two miles each way 
 for all the days of her short school-life, — was duly posted, 
 addressed to " His Reverence Father White," in the city 
 and parish where Willie dwelt. 
 
 In due time the answer came, and it was so far from 
 being satisfactory that it cast a deep gloom over the little 
 home of Granny Lacy. 
 
 '• I am sorry," said the priest, " that I have no very 
 good account to give of your brother, William Lacy. At 
 
 I 
 
96 
 
 OUIi LADY'S MAY-DAY GIFT 
 
 first he came regularly to mass, and I noticed him there 
 as having such a good, honest countenance — a fine look- 
 ing lad altogether — and having made some inquiries 
 about him, I learned that he had no relatives in the city 
 and was thrown exclusively amongst non-Catholics. So 
 I made it a point to see him, and asked him to come and 
 see me at my house. He came two or three times and 
 I talked with him each time. He promised me from time 
 to time to come to confession ; but, I regret to say, he 
 has not yet done so. Let us hope and pray, for there is 
 much reason to fear." 
 
 This was sad news for the two lonely women. At first 
 they could only weep and lament. All at once, however, 
 Mary started up, a bright smile lit her tear-stained face 
 — " Why, granny," she cried, with nearly all her wonted 
 gaiety, " what are we crying for this way like a pair of 
 fools ? Didn't the priest tell us to hope and pray, and 
 we're doin' neither one nor the other. Haven't we the 
 Sacred Heart of Our dear Lord and Our own Lady of 
 the Sacred Heart to look to for help ? And while there's 
 life there's hope, you know ! See Our Blessed Mother 
 up there, how she's smiling down on us, and Our Lord 
 Himself as well." 
 
 The old woman dried her eyes and brightened up in- 
 stantly. "Well, glory be to God, child, it's you that has 
 the good thought ever and always. Sure, I often heard 
 it said from my young days up — ' All's not lost that's in 
 danger.' We'll begin a Novena this very day to Our 
 dear Lady of the Sacred Heart. Isn't she our Mother 
 and WiUie's, too?" 
 
 So the daily work was resumed in the house and the 
 Novena began that very day. 
 
OUR UDY'S MAY-DAY GIFT. 
 
 !)7 
 
 ere 
 ok- 
 ries 
 city 
 So 
 and 
 and 
 time 
 y, he 
 2re is 
 
 up in- 
 liat has 
 heard 
 lat's in 
 to Our 
 Mother 
 
 III. 
 
 Meanwhile, Willie Lacy was so much engrossed with 
 the duties and the pleasures of his new life, and the 
 friends, so-called, with whom his leisure hours were 
 spent, that he thought but seldom of the waiting ones at 
 home whose every thought was given to him far away. 
 
 Being a good-humored and good looking young fellow, 
 Willie was somewhat of a favorite among the young men 
 of the large store wherein he was employed and the many 
 others with whom they made him acquainted. He had 
 fair wages, too, and as he persuaded himself that he had 
 none to spare for sending home to Granny and Mary, he 
 had always some to spend with his gay companions. He 
 had been several times to the theatre with one or another, 
 had attended Sunday lectures, in some of which the usual 
 covert attacks were made on Romanism, Old-World 
 Superstition, etc., etc. At first, Willie resented these 
 attacks and resolved to keep away from such lectures in 
 future ; but, when his friends laughed at his objections, 
 which they treated as a capital joke, he soon began to 
 laugh himself at what the others called his narrow- 
 mindedness and his old-womanish notions, generally, and 
 was easily persuaded to go his way as before — not, indeed, 
 rejoicing, for deep down in his heart there was a voice 
 ever saying that the way he was going was the wrong one. 
 
 Of course, if poor Willie had been in the old-time 
 habit of approaching the Sacraments once a month or 
 so, and attending Mass on Sundays and holydays, this 
 would never have come to pass. But these helps were 
 wanting, — not only were the Sacraments neglected from 
 the first, as the priest had written to Mary ; but, after a 
 
 
 in 
 
- ■■-'■•— ^■■■'■•J^f^'' 
 
 tj 
 
 w 
 
 OUn LADY'S MAY-DAY GIFT. 
 
 while, the Sunday mass was rarely, if ever, attended, and 
 so Willie was, perhaps, unconsciously drifting away in^o 
 the dreary regions where religious indifference and world- 
 worship alone prevail. Even his morning and evening 
 prayers were no longer said as of old, for he found it 
 more than he could do to kneel down and bless himself 
 before the three others who occupied beds in the same 
 room. When he did attempt it, missiles of various kinds 
 were thrown at him and roars of laughter greeted him. 
 Not only that, but his " devotions " were made the subject 
 of continual amusement for the other young men in the 
 house, who described them before him in the most 
 ludicrous way, so that at length he himself joined in the 
 laugh, and was f^iin to content himself with an " Our 
 Father " and " Hail Mary," said low to himself when, 
 half asleep, he stretched himself on his bed. Fortunately 
 he kept even so much of his home-life and home-training.. 
 Had Willie been possessed of more moral strength or 
 stamina of character he would either have held his ground 
 against all odds, as many other young men do, or sought 
 safety amongst his co-religionists, as the priest advised 
 him to do ; but he was not morally strong, and could 
 not bring himself to seek a more congenial home. So 
 things went on from bad to worse and v/illie Lacy, — the 
 son of pious. God-fearing parents, brought up in a 
 thoroughly Catholic atmosphere where the simple faith 
 and heart-warm fervor of his race were the rule of life 
 all day long and every day, — was gradually changing in 
 the deadly blight of evil communication into a very 
 indifferent Catholic. 
 
 The days of the Novena passed on peacefully and 
 hopefully in the lonely abode of the Lacys. Mary had 
 sought the powerful aid of her former teachers and 
 
OUR LADTS MAY- DA)' GIFT. 
 
 9t> 
 
 ind 
 
 n»o 
 
 rld- 
 
 ung 
 
 d it 
 
 nself 
 
 iame 
 
 Linds 
 
 him. 
 ibject 
 in the 
 
 most 
 in the 
 
 '' Our 
 
 when, 
 inately 
 
 aining. 
 
 gth or 
 
 ground 
 sought 
 
 advised 
 could 
 
 lie. So 
 ,y,-the 
 p in a 
 le faith 
 e of life 
 ging in 
 a very 
 
 \\x\\y and 
 [ary had 
 lers and 
 
 constant friends, the dear Nuns, who eagerly promised 
 to join in the prayers of the Novena. '* And it will just 
 end on the first day of May," said Sister Rosalie, " so 
 you see, Mary, we begin it in a good time." 
 
 IV. 
 
 It was the last day of the Novena, the ist o'" '^'ay, so 
 dear to the lover of ancient song and story. L jning 
 had come, and the twilight shades were gathering while 
 the pale crescent of " the young ^Tay moon »vas saili'^^, 
 up the eastern sky. 
 
 Granny i>acy and her pretty grand-rhild were 
 knt< 'ing before the beloved picture. The Rosary was 
 finished — the Joyful Mysteries, for the day was Thurs- 
 day — and Mary was just reading the Litany of Lorotto 
 from a prayer-book, her grandmother fervently making 
 the responses. 
 
 Suddenly another voice joined in the oft-repeated 
 " Pray for us ! " Through the open door a figure entered, 
 a shadow fell on the faint moonlight on the floor ; some 
 one knelt beside Mary, and an arm was thrown around 
 her neck, and another around the old woman's. Their 
 hearts told them who it was. The wanderer had come 
 back to them. 
 
 " Go on, Mary," said Willie, soft and low, and Mary 
 went on and the Litany was finished, Willie joining 
 more fervently in the responses than had been his wont 
 in his boyish days. 
 
 The prayers being over, the joy of the meeting was 
 given free vent to. 
 
 " Thanks and Draises be to God, Willie ! " cried Mrs. 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
100 
 
 OUR LADTS MAY-DAY GlbT. 
 
 Lacy, while Mary held her brother's hand and gazed 
 with moist eyes upon his beaming face. " What does this 
 mean ? How did you get here, and in time for the close 
 of our Novena, too ? " 
 
 " And just because of the Novena, granny ! — I see it 
 all now/' said the young man, with unusual solemnity. 
 *' For some days past I began to feel restless and uneasy. 
 Night and day the thought of Death and Judgment and 
 Hell was continually in my mind, and the words that I 
 so often heard in the Mission were constantly running 
 through my head — * What doth it profit a man to gain 
 the whole world and lose his own soul ? ' — Then I began 
 to see what a dangerous way I was in, and what do you 
 think I did? All at once this picture of yours — of ours 
 — came into my mind, and I prayed as I never prayed 
 before to Our Lady of the Sacred Heart and she heard 
 my prayer." 
 
 " Glory be to God 1 "— *' And to Our Blessed Lady ! " 
 cried the listeners in one breath. " And what did you 
 do then, Willie, dear?" 
 
 '' Well ! I just went straight to Father White and 
 told him all. He took me into the church and I went 
 to confession then and there. He advised me to leave 
 Moore & Armstrong's employment, and said he knew 
 of a place I could soon have in a good Catholic house. 
 So I just came home, like the Prodigal Son, to rejoice 
 with you here over my conversion — for conversion it 
 is. I'm ashamed now to recall how far I had already 
 gone in the way of indifference. And it frightens me, 
 granny, indeed it does, to think of the precipice over 
 which I stood. From this time forth I'm resolved, with 
 the help of God and Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, to 
 turn over a new leaf." 
 
OUR l-ADrs MAY-DM GIFT. ,„, 
 
 And he kept his woM \f^ 
 home, he we't bacUolhetS' TfJ"^ ^ '^^ ^'^^ ^' 
 new place and the new h„, ^^ ^^'' ^^""''^ ''^^ 'he 
 he entered at once on h nit?' '°"" ^" -='<'y- -d 
 old way of his earlier youth t ^'"^' !.' ""'" °" ^^ 
 after that, some ofhisearnL. ""'""' '" ^''^ 'hat. 
 'o Granny and Mary! ^ ""' '"^ulariy sent home 
 
 When next he visf^w k; l 
 ■oving hearts of the delronl^r-'' "^''^ S^d the 
 'hat he had no, on y become aV^"' "" "^ "^^P^ -- 
 of the Sacred Heart burrr °"^" "^ 'he League 
 
 . i ■ \ 
 
 \\\ 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 i 1 
 
 
 ! 
 
 ( i 
 
^'w iWiiu J 1. 1 L tj' i u ii .m — a— 
 
 III 
 
 I 
 
 A BUNCH OF JUNE ROSES. 
 
 Anna T. Sadlier. 
 
 '^^^gpi^ bunch of June roses, heavy with fragrance, 
 'f^ rich, ruby red in coloring, stood upon a table 
 in a gorgeously-appointed drawing-room. 
 Their perfume filled it with exceeding sweetness, mingUng 
 with the odorous breath of flowers and trees, which came 
 in through the windows opening on the veranda. Costly 
 trifles were everywhere displayed about the room, 
 Turkish rugs covered the parquetted floor, and reclining 
 upon a couch, propped by luxurious cushions, was a 
 woman, whose wasted form and pallid face bespoke, one 
 would fancy, the near approach of death. Her eyes were 
 closed, yet she seemed to listen to the words spoken by 
 a man, who sat in an armchair close by. His voice was 
 grave, and his face wore an expression of anxiety, even 
 of suffering. 
 
 " Isabel," he said, " you can hardly fancy the pain it 
 gives me to tell you that my resolution is unalterable. I 
 must refuse your request." 
 
 " You have the heart to refuse me 7iow, Maurice, to 
 refuse me nowP said the woman, opening a pair of 
 beautiful violet eyes, and fixing them upon his face, 
 " when death is probably so near me, when I shall be 
 leaving you for ever ; and after all, it is but a trifle." 
 
 " A trifle ! My God, Isabel, can you call such a matter 
 a trifle ? Heaven knows I am, I have been indifferent 
 
A BUNCH OF JUNE ROSES. 
 
 103 
 
 aiice, 
 table 
 room . 
 
 . came 
 Costly 
 room, 
 
 lining 
 was a 
 e, one 
 s were 
 en by 
 ce was 
 [', even 
 
 )ain it 
 Ible. I 
 
 [ice, to 
 
 )air of 
 
 face, 
 
 iiall be 
 
 e." 
 
 matter 
 fferent 
 
 enough. But this is a case wherein my conscience will 
 not allow me to yield. Our daughter must and shall 
 remain a Catholic." 
 
 " Must and shall, Maurice," she repeated, awed never- 
 theless by his earnestness. " These are strong words. 
 Now, as far as I am concerned, I have no deep-rooted 
 religious opinions, but it would be decidedly more 
 advantageous, socially, at least, for Beatrice to be 
 brought up in the Church of England. She can be as 
 High Church as you please, and then her aunt will 
 leave her her fortune." 
 
 ** To sell my child's soul for a fortune, for respecta- 
 bility ! no, Isabel, never ! " 
 
 She looked at him curiously, as he went on : 
 
 *' I am not a religious man, I have given you, I fear, 
 very poor example ; but oh, Isabel, it grieves me tc the 
 heart to hear you talking in such a manner, when, there 
 is no disguising the fact, you are in actual danger of 
 death. Can I do nothing, Isabel ? Is there no way I 
 can help you from this darkness into light ? " 
 
 He was surprised at himself. Long afterwards, he 
 was wont to ascribe his fervor upon this occasion to a 
 Badge of the Sacred Heart which his sister, a nun, had 
 lately made him promise to wear. His wife lay quite 
 still, looking at him with the same half-wondering 
 expression. Handsome, gay and worldly, a favorite at 
 clubs, on the race-course, in ball-rooms, at the dinner 
 table, this Protestant wife, whom he had married, never 
 dreamed of the deep current of living faith which had 
 remained under the cover of an apparently callous 
 worldliness. She had heard Maurice excel in witty 
 repartee, in the refined badinage of the drawing-room, 
 in the good story at the dinner table, but she had never 
 
I in 
 
 II 
 
 104 
 
 A BUNCH OF JUNE ROSES. 
 
 heard him speak with such force and feeling and direct- 
 ness before. These Catholics were curious people, she 
 reflected, and something like a half-formed wish arose 
 in her heart that Maurice had talked this way sooner 
 and oftener; a half-formed wish that she, too, could 
 believe and feel. 
 
 The sound of a light pattering step upon the threshold 
 and over the floor, and Beatrice stood beside her glowing 
 with excitement, her childish face flushed with pleasure^ 
 her blue eyes actually dancing with delight. 
 
 *' I have been over to the nuns, and they were so kind, 
 and they gave me this for you. They said for you to put 
 it on, and that perhaps it would make you well, or that 
 anyway it would make you love the Sacred Heart." 
 
 She thrust into her mothers hand as she spoke a tiny 
 Badge of the Sacred Heart, at which the sick woman 
 looked long and earnestly, without speaking. 
 
 "Oh mamma, I wish you could see the chapel today,"" 
 continued Beatrice, fairly breathless in her haste to de 
 scribe the beauties she had seen ; " it is so lovely. It is 
 the I St of June, and so there are lots of flowers and 
 lights, and a red lamp burning before the altar and a 
 picture of God — the Sacred Heart. And the nuns were 
 singing there a hymn to the Sacred Heart, and everybody 
 was saying prayers, and — " 
 
 The child's eyes, roaming restlessly around the 
 room, caught sight of the roses in the bowl upon the 
 table. 
 
 " Now, I would like to bring some of those roses over 
 to the chapel and put them before God's picture," she 
 said earnestly. " They are red, just like the Heart ia 
 the picture." 
 
 •' Bring me the bowl, dear child," said the mother. 
 
■4flWCT0/-^OT£/(0S£5. 
 
 gently, and she chos^ ,h^ """ '"' 
 
 «-e them to Bea'dcl! '"°'' "^^•"'■^"' ^'"«er, and 
 
 Take them over tn tu^ 
 'hem to put the rose efo'e the "''" '"' '''"' " '"^ '^11 
 of" ''"'"P'«"^eyouaresofond, 
 
 The child, kissing her mmh. j 
 '° fu'fiii the weiconfe comLS, rf T °' ""^ -°™ 
 'tttentively observed al' thaThJn ' '^"''^^' '"^'^ '"d 
 
 " Js-tbel, would you reall '"'^P^^ed, said quietly .- 
 a Protestant ?» ^ ''"'^ '"* '^at child to become 
 And his yff'ifQ ^r.^^ ^ 
 
 money go." ^' '' ''■ ^^^ Will Jet her aunt's- 
 
 U. 
 
 t^f^^^::^:zi^:^:z::^'^^ she .y 
 
 ''er little one had conjured .m , f I "''^"^ which 
 
 ^h'ld's face as she spoke The cTmm' '"'" "P°" '"e 
 P."^e and true, had added a .1 "* ""^S'-^'on, so 
 
 8;vento.hecrudesk:fctf sutl'h' 'r^^P^' -'i 
 The chapel, with its lights and fl"^ """^ '^"thfulness. 
 
 wherein these people incL ■,""■'' ""' Tabernacle 
 
 believed that a God repotd « ;?"''^"<' »"'' -^h-'d 
 
 -d the picture of the Sacred He rf 'l 7 '"^ '"°'' '■ 
 
 what she would. She looked ^,T ■ ''""'^'^ ''er, do. 
 
 'he water-colors, engravt/l'! ""'""■' °" '"e walls, 
 
 ^"chanamountofmonirsh trV^'"'' ''" -^ 
 »"d decorations, at the cu;;. u"^ "' ">« «^vi„gs 
 - •■■- Venetian Mirror The" "m ""' "' ""= "^ <=h.na, 
 "ery land under the sun Th v 'T''"'"^ '"'"°^' 
 
 They remmded her of morn- 
 
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 106 
 
 A BUNCH OF JUNE HOSES. 
 
 ings in Rome, of sunsets in Florence, of dawns upon 
 the Alps, of moonlight nights on the Lagoon at Venice. 
 They told their tales of journeyings in Palestine and 
 sails upon the Bosphorus, of ancient Spanish cities and 
 of drives in the Bois de Boulogne. But they told her 
 nothing of that world towards which she might be 
 hastening — the world, to her so dark and mysterious, 
 beyond the grave. A strange anxiety took possession 
 of her, and at the same time an intense desire to see that 
 convent chapel and the picture of the Sacred Heart. If 
 €ver she were well enough — but there was little chance 
 — she would go there, she would hear the nuns singing 
 and watch the people praying. The scent of roses would 
 somehow be inseparably connected henceforth with all 
 that the child had told her, and she felt a curious satis- 
 faction that some roses sent by her were actually breath- 
 ing out their fragranee, spending their sweetness, as it 
 ■were, over there in the convent chapel. 
 
 HI. 
 
 June was at its close. Its warm, bright days and soft 
 exquisite nights were presently to give way to sultry 
 July. Its roses, its sweet sounds and sights and smells 
 would soon be of the past. In the gorgeously-appointed 
 drawing-room were gathered once more together husband 
 and wife and child. Isabel, no longer reclining upon 
 the couch, move'' about the room, with just enough of 
 the languor of an invalid to serve as a reminder of her 
 late serious illness. Great changes had taken place in 
 that little family. The husband, once so worldly and 
 •careless, had become an earnest, practical Catholic. 
 
A BVNCll OF JUNE HOSES. 
 
 107 
 
 Ever since the memorable conversation upon the sub- 
 ject of their child's religion he had striven to impress 
 his wife by the strongest of all arguments, — good 
 example. He had become a regular frequenter of the 
 Sacraments, had caused his name to be inscribed as an 
 Associate of the League, at the same time asking prayers 
 for his wife, and had proudly displayed his Badge 
 whenever opportunity offered. Meanwhile, the lessons 
 of that first afternoon of the month of the Sacred Heart 
 had sunk deeply into the wife's heart. It had forcibly 
 impressed her, that her husband, so worldly and careless, 
 should upon a question of faith be willing to make so 
 great a sacrifice. She knew it had pained him to refuse 
 what she then had believed to be her dying request, — 
 he who had never refused her anything. 
 
 Then the child had come with so sweet an expression 
 upon her face, and had told her that simple child-story 
 which had so lingered in her imagination. She had 
 pondered over the strangeness of it all, that this child of 
 •hers, who had never been anywhere, who had lived her 
 whold life in Canada and spent her time principally with 
 her Catholic governess and the nuns, should know many 
 things of which she, the accomplished, the travelled 
 mother, was ignorant. 
 
 Then there had been the episode of the roses repeated 
 every day, a bunch of most beautiful crimson ones being 
 sent each afternoon for the altar of the chapel ; and the 
 wearing of the Badge. She had worn it, and to its appli- 
 cation, as well as to the constant prayers offered up by 
 the nuns, and to the prayers of the League, both she and 
 her husband ascribed the change which shortly took 
 place in her health. 
 
 On this particular morning, the Feast of the Sacred 
 
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 A BUNCH OF JUNE ROSES. 
 
 Heart, the invalid had gone out, almost for the first time^ 
 and had knelt with her husband and child at the altar^ 
 in the convent chapel, to receive her First Communion* 
 Some changes had been made in the drawing room as 
 well. A statue of Our Lady had replaced one of the 
 finest bits of sculpture, and where the choicest water- 
 color had hung was a picture of the Sacred Heart, before 
 which Isabel had just placed, where the sunlight brought 
 out their warm red color, a bunch of June roses. 
 
 'Hi '( 
 I 
 
A TRYST IN THE SACRED HEART. 
 
 Mrs. J. Sadlier. 
 I. 
 
 dE pallid sun of early November was shining 
 its brightest on the gray walls and vine-wreathed 
 windows of a southern convent some years ago 
 in the tender radiance of the fair Indian summer. The 
 girls of the school were in the full enjoyment of holiday 
 leisure, for it was Reverend Mother's feast, and every- 
 thing that loving kindness could dictate was done by the 
 dear Sisters of the community to make it a bright and 
 happy day for their pupils. 
 
 Yet the light-hearted gaiety of the hour was not with- 
 out a cloud to dim its brightness. That very day, — nay, 
 in a little while, the best loved of all the graduating 
 class, Helena Weston, was to leave the abode of four 
 happy years for her far-off home away north in the old 
 Granite State. And the cause of her going made it all 
 the sadder. Early that morning had come a telegram 
 announcing that her father had been suddenly stricken 
 with apoplexy, and lay, it was feared, at the point of 
 death. 
 
 At this sad news all her girlish ambition to win the 
 honors of the school, all her eager desire to attain pro- 
 ficiency in the several branches of study, all her bright 
 hopes of success, — all vanished like the morning dew. 
 
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10 
 
 A TRYST IN THE SACRED HEART. 
 
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 The one thought of her father's danger, the one fear that 
 he might die without her seeing him, hearing his dying 
 words, or receiving his last blessing, took entire posses- 
 sion of her loving heart. To get away — even from that 
 peaceful convent-home, so justly dear, — to find herself 
 on the way to that still dearer home where her beloved 
 father might even then be passing away ; where her 
 mother and sister and brother were counting the hours, 
 till she should join the anxious group of watchers around 
 the bed whereon the head of the family lay, perhaps 
 unconscious, or, it might be, asking faintly for her, the 
 absent one ; — that was all she thought of. 
 
 Her few preparations were quickly made by the 
 Sisters, and after a hasty meal — at which poor Helena 
 could only be persuaded to take a biscuit and a cup of 
 tea, — the little convent rockaway was brought round, 
 and while her trunk was being carried out and her 
 other little " belongings " disposed of in the carriage, 
 the last farewells were exchanged with her fellow-pupils 
 and then with her beloved teachers where they stood, 
 a dark-robed, sympathetic group, on the broad verandah 
 in front of the convent. 
 
 Helena was already descending the steps when the 
 Mother Superior detained her a moment while she said : 
 " Helena, my poor child, a word before you go ! A 
 thought has just come to me. It is a long and perilous 
 journey you have before you. You are going all alone,, 
 without any earthly protector. Now, I want to place 
 you specially under the loving care of the Sacred 
 Heart, and this I do most earnestly and confidently. 
 This evening, just before the Angelus, we here will say 
 the Rosary of the Sacred Heart for your intention, and 
 you will join us in it. Remember — before the Angelus !"■ 
 
A TRYST IN THE SACKED HEART 
 
 lit 
 
 In a voice choked with tears Helena promised. She 
 entered the carriage and was driven rapidly towards the 
 Railway station some two miles away. Many a loving 
 prayer went up for her at that sad moment from those 
 she left behind — for how long, no one knew. 
 
 II. 
 
 Meanwhile, the hours passed slowly and sadly in the 
 northern home of Helena. The last sacraments had been 
 administered to the father and husband of the Weston 
 family, a man who but two days before was in the flower 
 of his years, a successful merchant who had done well 
 for his family, and a fervent convert from some one of 
 the many sects, to the Catholic faith. He was still 
 conscious and fully resigned to die, but yearning for the 
 sight of his eldest and best-beloved daughter before he 
 closed his eyes in death. His voice, but late so full and 
 sonorous, was already growing faint and feeble, and it 
 was only by leaning over him and listening intently that 
 his sorrow-stricken wife could catch his words : 
 
 " I am willing to die, " he murmured, " if God so 
 pleases — I have tried to serve Him — I leave you all to 
 His holy keeping — but I want to see — Helena — I want 
 to hear her voice." 
 
 *' She is on her way now, Richard ! — she left in the lo 
 o'clock train and it is now 2 o'clock. We may look for 
 her about 7." 
 
 The sick man heaved a weary sigh — " So long," he 
 said, " so long — my God ! let her come in time ! Oh t 
 if she were — too late I " 
 
 Oh ! how earnestly the watchers looked and prayed 
 
112 
 
 .1 TliYST IN THE SACREI) HEART. 
 
 ! I ' 
 
 li 
 iiiiii 
 
 for the absent one's speedy return ! Many an anxious 
 glance was cast at the clock on the mantel-shelf and 
 thence to the pallid face among the white pillows on the 
 bed. He was holding out wonderfully, everyone said. 
 ■God was dealing tenderly with him in giving him so 
 many hours of life contrary to all expectation. But as 
 the time of Helena's arrival drew near, his anxiety 
 seemed to increase and his failing eyes were ever and 
 anon turned to the time-piece. 
 
 At last the hand on the dial reached 7, and yet Helena 
 came not. 
 
 " There — it is 7 o'clock — and she is not here. Must I 
 go without seeing her ? " 
 
 " Be patient, Richard, be patient ! " whispered his 
 wife. '* You know it takes ten minutes to get here from 
 the station." 
 
 But ten minutes passed — twenty — and still she came 
 not. Then young Weston stepped softly to the door 
 whence some one without had beckoned to him. Before 
 he could close the door after him, his sister followed him 
 and heard him say to their own coachman who stood 
 there with a scared look on his white face — " What did 
 you say, Peter ? — an accident to the Baltimore Express. 
 Many people killed ? My God ! did you say that ? " 
 
 '' I did, Master William ! — the Lord help us all this 
 day ! — I did say just that ! " Miss Weston clung to her 
 brother in speechless terror. 
 
 " You went to the tram to meet my sister? " 
 
 " I did, sir, and waited till after 7, but there was no 
 train there, only crowds of people waiting, everyone 
 wondering at the delay. Then news came in all of a 
 
 . sudden that the bridge at N was open and no lights 
 
 • up and — and " 
 
.1 TflYST IN THE SACHED UEMIT. 
 
 tl.l 
 
 " And what — can't you go on ? " cried the young man, 
 excitedly. 
 
 " And then — the cars went right down in the middle 
 of the river." 
 
 " Is the carriage at the door ? " 
 
 " It is, sir, it is ! " 
 
 " Well ! I'll go at once to the station and see what can 
 be done. Not a word now, Carrie, not a word ! and 
 mind ! — no screaming or crying if you would not kill 
 father instantly. Say nothing to mother — if - if the worst 
 has happened, she will know it too soon. Go in now, 
 and try to ook as if nothing were wrong. If mother 
 asks why I came out, say I went to meet Helena. That's 
 all ! " 
 
 " Oh ! William, is there any hope ? — do you think 
 there is ? " and the poor girl grasped her brother's arm 
 and looked up into his face with a look that wrung his 
 heart. 
 
 " How can I tell, Carrie? — You have heard what Peter 
 said. We can say that God is good, and pray that — thnt 
 we may still have a sister 1 Go in now to poor mother." 
 And he hurried away after the faithful Irish servant who 
 had already gone back to his horses. 
 
 Within the room there was solemn silence. The shadow 
 of the death-angel's wing seemed already falling over the 
 sick bed and its scarcely breathing occupant. Even the 
 one last lingering trouble, the one last feverish desire, 
 had well nigh disappeared at the near approach of death. 
 The mother raised her head as her daughter entered 
 and cast a look of eager inquiry on her face ; startled 
 by what she saw there she could hardly repress the cry 
 of terror that rose to her blanched lips. But knowing 
 
 well what the consequence of any sudden alarm might 
 
 8 
 
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 114 
 
 A THY ST IN Tim SACRED HEART 
 
 be, she mastered her emotion, bent her head again over 
 her husband's face, and said within herself : *' Thy wilU 
 not ours, be done ! " Her hope now was that /le might 
 die without knowing. 
 
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 III. 
 
 Two hours later, while the desolate mother and daugh- 
 ter were prostrate in silent prayer beside the bed whereon 
 lay the motionless form of him who seemed already dead 
 to all the world, steps were heard on the stairs, the door 
 was gently opened, and young Weston entered. He 
 glanced at the bed, then inquiringly at his mother, wha 
 shook her head sorrowfully. 
 
 " O mother, is he gone ? " broke from the young 
 man's lips in a half-stifled cry. At the sound, the 
 father opened his languid eyes and looked up at his 
 son. His lips moved, and he spoke more audibly than 
 before. 
 
 '' Is she dead? " — he faintly articulated — " I know — 
 what — happened ? " 
 
 " No, father, not dead — but safe and well ! " cried 
 Helena herself, who, left by her brother at the door, 
 could bear it no longer. In her delight at finding her 
 father still alive and hearing his dear voice again, she 
 forgot the possible danger to him of the sudden shock, 
 and rushing in she threw herself on her knees beside 
 the bed, and seizing the cold, clammy hand her father 
 tried to hold out, she bedewed it with her tears. The 
 others waited in silence, fearing the worst result from 
 Helena's indiscretion. It was very different from what 
 they sadly expected. Mr. Weston's eyes grew brighter 
 
.1 TRYST IN THE SAC BED HEART. 
 
 115 
 
 er 
 
 reon 
 dead 
 door 
 He 
 , whO' 
 
 /oung 
 L, the 
 at bis 
 than 
 
 aow — 
 
 cried 
 door, 
 Licr her 
 111, she 
 Ishock, 
 [beside 
 father 
 The 
 It from 
 [n what 
 brighter 
 
 and his voice stronger, while words of joy and grati- 
 tude canie from his lips, so lately colorless. '* Thank 
 God ! oh ! thank God ! " 
 
 Just then the priest entered the room. Having so 
 lately prepared Mr. Weston for death, his first glance 
 was at him, whom he expected to find dead, — then his 
 eyes fell on Helena, and he exclaimed — 
 
 " How is this ? — Mr. Weston still alive and better, I 
 see, than when I left him ; and you here, Helena ! I 
 heard of the terrible accident to the Baltimore Express, 
 and knowing that you were coming by this train, I 
 feared the worst, and — in fact, I came here expressly 
 to break the news to some of the family and keep it 
 from your father, in case he still lived." 
 
 " Accident ! — what accident ? I thought something 
 had happened ! " 
 
 It was Mr. Weston who spoke, and the others shrank 
 from telling him — all but Father Casey, who said 
 cheerily : 
 
 '' You may tell him, Helena ! — joy will not kill him — 
 I verily believe it has brought him back to life. But let 
 your father rest a little while — he will be all the better 
 for it, and when you have had your tea come in again 
 and tell us all. Go to tea, all of you, and I will stay 
 with Mr. Weston till your return. I have some of my 
 office to say yet, and he will keep quiet and try to sleep 
 while I say it. No, thank you, Mrs. Weston," in answer 
 to a whispered request from that lady to go and have 
 tea with the family ; she would remain with her hus- 
 band,—" No, thank you, I have had tea hours ago. Do 
 not mind me 1 I will wait, for 1 want to hear about the 
 accident and how Helena escaped unhi rt." 
 
 
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 116 A TRYSr IN THE SACRED HEART. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In the silence of the sick-room Mr. Weston slept a 
 refreshing sleep while Father Casey read his breviary, 
 the light of the lamp carefully shaded from the patient's 
 eyes. 
 
 A very little while and the small family were again 
 assembled round Mr. Weston's bed. All were eager to 
 hear what Helena had to tell, and when she said to 
 Father Casey in a hesitating voice — " Do you think it 
 will do father any harm to hear it ? " the patient smiled 
 as he looked at his daughter, saying in a whisper — 
 '• Good, not harm, my child. " The priest nodded 
 encouragingly, and Helena began her account. She 
 told of her departure from the convent in the early 
 afternoon, of what the Mother Superior had said to her 
 the last thing, and how her fear of the long railroad 
 journey all alone and its possible dangers, all disappeared 
 fro-m her mind, and she began to look forward hopefully 
 to reaching home in time to see her father alive and 
 perhaps not so low after all. 
 
 The dear Sisters had provided her with a book, in 
 case she felt inclined to read, and in her more hopeful 
 state of mind she gladly beguiled the tedium of the way 
 by reading. It was Miss Star.'s beautiful volume 
 '* Patron Saints," and she soon became so deeply interest- 
 ed in its pages that the hours passed almost unnoticed. 
 The short November day passed — night fell, and the 
 lamps were lit in the Pullman car ; laying down her 
 book, Helena began to think of her sick flither and all 
 the dear ones at home whom she was so soon to see. 
 Then her thoughts went back to the scarcely less dear 
 
.1 TliYSr IN THE SACRED HEART. 
 
 117 
 
 ones she had left behind, and the parting words of 
 Mother Augusta stood out in strong relief from all the 
 rest : " We will say the Rosary of the Sacred Heart for 
 you just before the Angelus — and you will join us in it." 
 
 She looked at her watch, and started to find that it 
 wanted but twenty minutes of the time. Instantly 
 taking out her beads she crossed herself with them, to 
 the evident amusement of the few other passengers in 
 the drawing-room car who were chatting away merrily 
 at the other end. Helena, little heeding their derisive 
 remarks or amused glances, began low to herself the 
 beautiful prayer of St. Ignatius, usually prefixed to the 
 Rosary of the Sacred Heart — " O good Jesus, hear me ; 
 within Thy wounds, hide me ! " She had reached the 
 last invocations of the Rosary — " Sacred Heart of Jesus ! 
 have mercy on us ! — Immaculate Heart of Mary, pray 
 for us !" when a tremendous crash was heard; it seem- 
 ed, as Helena described it, as though heaven and earth 
 were coming together — a sound of crashing timbers, — 
 the roof above was rent asunder as were both sides of 
 the car, and in the twinkling of an eye that half in 
 which the merry party of travellers were seated disap- 
 peared from Helena's horror-stricken gaze, while their 
 despairing cries made her heart stand still. Wonderful 
 to relate, the portion of the car in which Helena sat 
 remained firm on the edge of the yawning chasm where 
 the black river rolled for below.* 
 
 On the instant, and while Helena, stunned ard bewil- 
 dered, could scarcely articulat'2 a prayer, and unable to 
 realize what had happened, the Angelus rang out from 
 
 »• 
 
 * This incident is literally true. Many still living will remember reading the 
 account in the journals of the time. Indeed, the major part of the story is all 
 
 true, including the spiritual tryst mentioned. 
 
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 118 
 
 A TRYST IN THE SACRED HEART 
 
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 the tower of a neighboring church. The Sacred Heart 
 whose tryst she had kept with her far off teachers had 
 saved her from a fearful death where so many others had 
 perished ! 
 
 Helena could tell nothing more, and never knew how 
 she found herself in her father's carriage supported by 
 the strong arm of her delighted brother who had just 
 reached the scene of the disaster. 
 
 But the Sacred Heart had done more than save Helena. 
 From that happy hour Mr. Weston began to recover, and 
 was soon restored to his former health and strength. 
 
 Next day a telegram from the Maryland convent asked 
 — " Was Helena saved ?" 
 
 " Saved by a miracle," was the reply — '^Jusf before the 
 Angelus ! " 
 
THE WIDOW'S ONLY SON. 
 
 Anxa T. Sadi.ier. 
 
 jE must be very near the place now," said 
 Mr. Wallace to his wife and a friend who 
 •^ accompanied them ; " it was a few miles 
 from the town of B which we passed some time ago." 
 
 " We are both very curious to see this wonderful spot," 
 observed the wife, smiling, " for it made such an impres- 
 sion on you, Henry ! Let me see, it must be fully twenty 
 years since you were here." 
 
 " Add five to that and you will be nearer the truth," 
 said Mr. Wallace. " The house with its pretty garden 
 was so quaint ; its mistress so cheerful and obliging, 
 and she had such a fine little boy. Do you know, 
 Mrs. Layton, I had serious thoughts, from time to time, 
 of adopting the lad." 
 
 '* What did you say to that, Mary ? " said Mrs. Layton, 
 addressing her friend. 
 
 " I negatived the proposal," said Mrs. Wallace, half 
 laughing, half serious. *' In the first place, we might not 
 have made him so happy as he was in the idyllic home 
 which Mr. Wallace describes, and then, the care, the 
 responsibility, the anxiety." 
 
 " There was a huge apple-tree before the door," soli- 
 loquized Mr. Wallace, •'' and Why, there it is, laden 
 
 with fruit as I saw it more than twenty golden years ago 
 Driver, stop, stop, this is the place ! " 
 
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 The carriage stopped and the party alighted. Mr. 
 Wallace looked around him with that half melancholy 
 air with which one returns to a spot hallowed by past 
 association. He looked half wistfully at the great tree^ 
 its wide-spreading branches falling over the fence of the 
 pretty garden, full even now of late flowers marigolds, 
 poppies, pansies and golden-rod. He smelled, again, 
 the familiar scent of honey, mingled with the odor of 
 boiling maple sugar, so characteristic of Canadian 
 country districts. He looked unconsciously for the 
 figure of a litle lad, rosy-cheeked, with brown curls 
 protruding from a torn, straw hat. He listened for the 
 merry laugh. 
 
 " I spent avery, pleasant summer, here," he said to hi<v 
 companions, repeating the oft-told tale with emphasis. 
 
 " I do not wonder," said both the ladies together, as 
 they looked around them admiringly. 
 
 " And I was actually looking about for the little 
 chap," said Mr. Wallace, pulling himself together, and 
 laughing ; " he must be a great, sturdy man, now, if he 
 is alive." 
 
 At this moment the door opened and a woman 
 appeared, curtseying to them, but regarding Mr. Wallace, 
 like the rest, with a blank look of non-recognition. 
 
 " Alas ! for the flight of time ! " sighed Mr. Wallace, 
 " have you altogether forgotten me, Mrs. Lalor r* " 
 
 " It seems to me, sir," said the woman, hesitatingly, 
 *' that I have seen your face before and heard your 
 voice, too, but — 
 
 " Twenty five years have done their work, I suppose,'* 
 said the gentleman, cheerily, " and you have had time 
 to forget the summer of — and the lodger, who had the 
 end room overlooking the garden." 
 
THE WIDOW'S ONLY SON. 
 
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 the 
 
 Mrs. Lalor's face brightened into more than recogni- 
 tion, into positive pleasure : 
 
 " Is it you then, Mr. Wallace ? " she said heartily, 
 '* then, it's myself that's proud and glad to see you 
 again," and with a quiet glance at the two ladies, she 
 added, singling out Mrs. Wallace, " and this beautiful 
 young lady is your wife ? " 
 
 Both husband and wife felt a curious gratification at 
 the homely compliment, while they were surprised at 
 the readiness with which she had hit upon the truth. 
 
 " Come in, sir, come in, and the ladies, too, God bless 
 them ! " said Mrs. Lalor, warmly, and in they went, to the 
 self-same little parlor which Mr. Wallace had so often 
 and so glowingly described. There was the smell of 
 lavender and sweet-scented dried plants, mingling with 
 the fragrant odors from without ; there was the apple-tree 
 nodding in at the window, and in its shadow were the 
 gravelled garden paths ; and there was the home-made, 
 rag-carpet, with its stripes of yellow and red, grown 
 somewhat faded now, and the stiff-backed wooden chairs, 
 and the odds and ends of curious crockery or glass and 
 the religious pictures. Over the mantel, as Mr. Wallace 
 presently noted, was a new picture of the Sacred Heart, 
 an engraving, differing much in quality from the other 
 rude prints, with which he had been familiar. 
 
 " There, from that window," said Mr. Wallace to the 
 ladies, " is the view of which I have so often spoken." 
 
 It was, indeed, an enquisite view, pine-clad moun- 
 tains, overtopping each other, their monotony varied 
 by clusters of fiery red maples, and the trickling of a 
 limpid, moimtain stream. 
 
 " How lovely," whispered Mrs. Layton, " quiet and 
 beautiful as a poet's dream 1 " 
 
 ::i 
 
 
 
Il 'I 
 
 122 
 
 IHE WIDOW'S ONLY SON. 
 
 And whilst they admired the views and even strolled 
 out, passing the limits of the garden and v/andering a 
 little amongst the wooded slopes above, Mrs. Lalor 
 busied herself with hospitable cares. Upon their return, 
 despite all protestations, they were forced to sit down 
 at table, where awaiting them was a veritable rustic 
 feast. There was a delicious cup of coffee, with home- 
 made bread and cake, butter of Mrs. Lalor's making 
 and thick cream, with the inevitable accompaniment of 
 grated maple sugar. 
 
 '' And what about the little lad,? " said Mr. Wallace, 
 when they were all seated to enjoy the good things- 
 " Do you know, Mrs. Lalor, I have never tired enter- 
 taining my friends with his pranks, his queer sayings 
 and his bright promise." 
 
 " Oh, he's not a very little lad now, sir," said Mrs. Lalor? 
 with her genial laugh ; " but before I tell you all, sir, I'm 
 going back, by your leave, to a conversation we had 
 about him when you were here. You mind, sir, that his 
 poor father was still living, that time ? " 
 
 " I do ; and I never heard of his death," said Mr- 
 Wallace, with some emotion, for he, too, had been part 
 of the picture of that by-gone summer, a stout, stirring 
 typical farmer, strong of frame, bronzed of face, and 
 with a l.earty if somewhat coarse manner. " When and 
 of what did he die ? " 
 
 '■ It was five years after you left, sir ! He got pneu- 
 monia, and it carried him off inside the week. Lord be 
 merciful to him, but it was a sudden call ! He was in 
 his full strength on the Sunday, and that day week he 
 was buried." 
 
 '* Poor fellow/' said Mr. Wallace, " poor fellow ! " 
 
 " Well, sir," went on Mrs. Lalor, "do you recall a 
 
I 
 
 THE WIDOWS ONLY SON. 
 
 123 
 
 •oiled 
 
 ing a 
 
 Lalor 
 
 eturn, 
 
 down 
 
 rustic 
 
 home- 
 
 naking 
 
 lent of 
 
 ''allace, 
 things- 
 . enter- 
 sayings 
 
 3. Lalor. 
 
 sir, I'm 
 we had 
 
 hat his 
 
 id Mr- 
 en part 
 stirring 
 ce, and 
 len and 
 
 »t pneu- 
 
 .ord be 
 
 was in 
 
 reek he 
 
 Iv ! " 
 
 recall a 
 
 conversation we had together, yourself, the poor man 
 that's gone, and myself ? It was about them public 
 schools. You warned us against them, and you begged 
 of us whatever came or went that we would send our 
 Johnny to a Catholic school. For a time we did our 
 best, — there was a little village school taught by a 
 Catholic, — and kept him there till, at last, some men 
 from town got around Michael and myself, for the 
 matter of that. They said we were wronging so bright 
 a boy to keep him at such a school, and that he could 
 
 easily take the train every morning and go into B , 
 
 where, a stone's throw from the station, was the public 
 school. They flattered our foolish pride by teUing us 
 he'd be pushed on there, and that there was no telling 
 what high station might be in store for him." 
 
 Here Mrs. Lalor broke off in her discourse, to replen- 
 ish her visitors' cups with coffee, and otherwise busy 
 herself with their comfort. At length, at her visitors' 
 request, she continued. 
 
 " To make a long story short, we did send him to the 
 public school." 
 
 " Vou with your staunch, old Irish faith," cried Mr. 
 Wallace ; *' if anyone else had told me I wouldn't have 
 believed it." 
 
 " You may well say that, sir," signed Mrs. Labor; 
 " it was a poor day when any of my stock, or of 
 Michael's either, was brought to do such a thing. Well, 
 all went well for a time. Johnny was forward in his 
 studies and he got fine prizes, and he seemed to grow 
 smarter like every day. But the first thing that opened 
 my eyes to what we were doing was, when I heard him 
 call dear old Father William, Mister, and he kept his 
 hat on talking to him, and it was all one, as if it was a 
 
 i i: !: 
 
 
 !! 
 
 I! 
 
l'.>4 
 
 THE WIDOWS ONLY SON. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 i; i 
 
 
 Protestant minister or any other man for the matter of 
 that. Then I spoke to Michael, and I told him I was 
 afraid the boy would lose his faith. At first he made 
 light of it, but it wasn't long till /us eyes were opened, 
 too. But, mebbe, I'm wearying the ladies with the long, 
 story." 
 
 " Not a bit of it," cried Mr. Wallace, while the two 
 ladies begged that they might hear every detail of it. 
 
 " We both began to notice the difference in his beha- 
 vior to us, and a way he got into of talking of religious 
 matters and his conduct in the church. And in a history 
 he had, he showed me how everything was turned wrong,, 
 as it seemed, about the church. I'm not much of a 
 scholar myself, but I knew enough to know all wasn't 
 right in t/iaf book. At last the boy began to stay in 
 town of an evening, not very late, but late enough tO' 
 frighten us. One night as God would have it, his father 
 was kept late in the town ! where he had gone to buy 
 grain, and in the railway station, he saw Johnny, with 
 seven or eight other lads." 
 
 The woman paused as if the recollection were painful 
 to her, and rested her head on her hand a moment, 
 while only the ticking of the old clock in the corner 
 broke the silence. 
 
 " Michael saw at a glance that the boy had been 
 drinking." She presently resumed, "• beer, or mebbe 
 something stronger, and he was talking of his father, 
 the poor man that was so fond and proud of him, as ' 
 the " stingy, old governor," and he was boasting, God 
 forgive him, it was the ignorance of a child, — that he 
 supposed he was a Catholic, but he'd take good care 
 not to go to confession to a man like himself, and that 
 one religion was as good as another. I won't weary 
 
^"f: »'Dons any soy. ,„ 
 
 VCMvith all that followed "arin. ., 
 -ay l,er tears," but the n'e.t davlhf I'' ^''"' ''''"'''^ 
 a boarder to the nearest r ,k r ^°^ "'^"' "ff- « 
 
 sore sacrifices to keep-:, 2, -"••■«- ^Ve n,ade 
 'he old house would have ,n ' i" °"' "'"'^"•^ ^^^^d 
 and .ha„k God, it was no tootie r '" '''""' ''"^' 
 he became the same dutif ,1 t • ''•'"''' "f "'"e, 
 been before, and .T^l'^T''''' '"" "^ "^^ 
 "■'>i' his lessons. ""^ ^ood as he was quick 
 
 "'^t:wr;:;;:tr-'r';'^^'^-^^^"-- 
 
 ;--'have;::::L;t::;;,rr, 
 
 The woman smiled at all h« "^"""^ ^^''- Layton. 
 shea^nswered their questions '"'""°"'--". ■" '"rn, as 
 
 « "°"vir"„l:'d7";;°7,f^^ »^;shboring town, ■■ he 
 
 'ng. if I may make so bold r | rL " '''"' ""■' """- 
 
 She unfolded a letter w,'-. '' '"'" '^ "^'^ "^ '■'■' 
 
 in speechless interest " ^■'^""^ '^'^'" f°"vard 
 
 " My dearest Mother, 
 
 parish duties. Even the 'cLT ^l """^ '''^ "'" '"'h mv 
 his hands full, and late,; I ^t" '"^^ ^ P-ish ha!, 
 addition to my work r h "^ S'"'"" l'"' « happy 
 
 League of the'sacrld hITT" "^'^ "'"'""^ "^ "' 
 -«d not tell you what thltmeans'^B? T "''""'''' ' 
 ■no'her, I am never tired of r^^ ^ ' "''' *"^ "^'"^ed 
 yo- and my poor father, I need 'It" "T "'"=" ^ °'^^ 
 h,s soul every day in my mass w, ^^ '" ^ '"™^'"'^^f 
 of ™e had I not U that god Ls!^":^"""''^-^'^-™- 
 '•" a great sacrifice you sentt^, I' '" "'"^^ ^' »■« 
 "'e there, but surely the re' ^1 " '^°"^^'= ^"^ ieft 
 
 /'■le result has repaid you." 
 
 
 I 
 
 III; 
 
 ! 
 
 "In 
 
 ■I i 
 
 ll 
 
 • * 
 
 if : ^ 
 
uc, 
 
 THE WIDOWS ONLY SuN. 
 
 " A priest," cried Mr. Wallace, ''glorious, my fine 
 curly headed philosopher, a priest. Ciive nie your hand, 
 Mrs. Lalor. 1 shall go to see him if I have to travel five 
 hundred miles." 
 
 "• I think. I have already seen him," said Mrs. Lay ton. 
 *• Is he not stationed at Church ? " 
 
 " He is, dear lady, he is." 
 
 " And are not his initials, J. F. ? " 
 
 *• They are, indeed." 
 
 '* Then, to him I owe the happiness of being received 
 into the Church ; and let rpp. tell you, Mrs. Lalor, mine 
 is not an isolated case. Many, many more have been 
 brought to the truth through his indefatigable labors. 
 His name is a synonym for zeal. His charity to the 
 poor, the great good he does amongst them, the edifying 
 example of his own life, and his great solicitude for 
 
 Christian education, are common talk In . He is 
 
 a real apostle. 
 
 The tears were streaming down the mother's face. She 
 was thinking of the long years, after her husband's death 
 had left the whole burden to her, during which she had 
 sold the poultry and the eggs, the butter and the cream, 
 the apples and the honey, adding always to the little 
 store set apart for her son's education. She was thinking 
 of the constant privations, hew she had deprived herself 
 of all but the barest necessario'". for his sake. But well 
 was she then repaid, even in a material sense. For her 
 son, as she told her guests, out of his small salary, 
 and also by means of some literary work which he did, 
 contrived to send her every year a sum, which with 
 her own efforts, was sufficient to keep her in comfort at 
 the old home. 
 
 •' I must show you my Promoters Cross," said Mrs. 
 
THE WIDOWS ONLY SON. 
 
 {•:7 
 
 She 
 death 
 
 had 
 ;ream, 
 
 little 
 iking 
 lerself 
 .It well 
 ^or her 
 salary, 
 
 e did, 
 
 with 
 
 ifort at 
 
 Layton, smiling, " which I got only last June from Father 
 Lalor's own hands." 
 
 The mother looked at it, as if it were a relic. 
 
 " He is sodevotul to the Sacred Heart, "said Mrs, 
 Layton," that many people consider that to be the secret 
 of his succes in the ministry." 
 
 But time was flying. The sun was beginning to dip 
 behind the mountains and to cast a gold-colored haze 
 over the wooded slopes. So the little party, again, got 
 into the carriage and drove away, waving salutations to 
 Mrs. Lalor, who stood at her door, until a turn of the 
 road, hid the carriage from their view. 
 
 " What a charming bit of history is now associated 
 with your favorite spot," said Mrs. Layton, addressing 
 Mr. Wallace. 
 
 Say with our favorite spot, '* broke in Mr. Wallace," 
 henceforth, we shall all have a share in it, garden, 
 orchard, apple tree, dainty house and warm-hearted 
 mistress of it. 
 
 " But to think of my curly-haired philosopher," mused 
 Mr. Wallace, my prattling guide companion and friend, 
 become a priest. It's too good altogether. Who knows 
 had I adopted him, all might have gone wrong, and the 
 widow's only son, might never have become the apostle 
 of the Sacred Heart. 
 
 ih 
 
 d Mrs. 
 
JTTVUiJVTrt 
 
 THE INTENTION-BOX. 
 
 JHE General Intention for the month of Novem- 
 ber given by the Sovereign Pontiff himself for 
 the prayers of the League throughout the 
 world — the Sons and Daughters of Ireland — recalled to 
 my mind something that takes the form of a little story, 
 which I am going to tell the readers of our Canadian 
 Messenger. It will while away an hour some of these 
 long winter evenings, in the homes of our far-stretching 
 Dominion where the Messenger pays its monthly visit. 
 
 Among the steerage passengers of one of our great 
 ocean steamers, boand for Montreal, in the early summer 
 days, some three years ago, many remarked a blithe, 
 good-looking young man who seemed to be a general 
 favorite with his fellow-passengers. Full of life and 
 health, bright, active and intelligent, Manus O'Donnell 
 seemed well adapted to make his way successful in the 
 new World where he was about to seek his fortune. 
 His apparel was that of a young townsman, and his 
 speech had no trace of what is call facetiously " the 
 brogue," from which indeed the tongues of the northern 
 Irish are usually free. Manus was in fact a pupil of the 
 Christian Brothers in an Ulster town, and knew well 
 how to speak and write correctly, with many other 
 things likely to advance him in that far-off El Dorado 
 
 I !i i:uiiM"' I 
 
THE INTENTION-UOL 
 
 Vl\) 
 
 ovem- 
 elf for 
 at the 
 .lied to 
 I story, 
 nadian 
 if these 
 etching 
 ily visit. 
 
 where others of his name and lineage had already made 
 their way successfully. 
 
 There was a young Irish priest on board who had 
 been spending a few months in his native land to recruit 
 his health, much impaired by the wear and tear of parish 
 duty in a small Canadian town where his pastoral charge 
 was a peculiarly trying one. This reverend gentleman 
 had noticed, from the first day of their passage, his 
 young fellow-countryman, O'Donnell, and having made 
 his acquaintance, soon began to take a lively interest 
 in him- 
 
 " What do you propose to do, Manus. when you 
 reach I^Iontreal ? " asked Father Sheehan one day as 
 they stood on deck together. 
 
 " Well, indeed, your reverence, that's more than I 
 can tell you," the other replied with a pleasant smile. 
 *' I suppose I'll get something to do as well as another. 
 I can turn my hand to almost anything to earn a living." 
 
 "Do you write a good hand ? " 
 
 '• Yes, I think I do," and he smiled again. 
 
 '* And keep accounts ? " 
 
 " Well ! I ought to be able to do that,'" said Manus 
 laughingly, " for I learned book-keeping, both single 
 and double entry, at school." 
 
 " That is well. I am sure you will easily iind en.|>' y- 
 ment, for you seem smart and active. Only be steady 
 and sober and keep clear of bad company. Above all, 
 be faithful in the practice of your religion and all will 
 go well with you, even if you have your little trials at 
 first." 
 
 '• Oh ! as for that. Father," said Manus cheerily, •' I 
 
 am an associate of the League — my badge is here with 
 
 my scapulars," laying his hand on his ])reast. " My 
 
 9 
 
 ^i^ 
 
 
".Jill 
 
 ! i 
 
 130 
 
 THE INTENTION-BOX. 
 
 mother is a Promoter at home, and she put an intention 
 in the box for me, at the end of last month, that I night 
 get employment out here. Then I'm young and strong 
 so I'm not the least afraid." Then he added, '' I forgot 
 to tell your reverence that I have a cousin here some- 
 where that's doing very well, they say. If I can make 
 him out, I know he'll help me along. 
 
 " Well ! God bless you, my young friend," said the 
 priest in a voice full of emotion, •' you are in the right 
 way for success. May the Heart of Jesus be your aid 
 and prosper you in your undertakings ! " 
 
 On the following day Father Sheehan said to Manus 
 when they met : " We are now entering the Gulf of 
 St. Lawrence, so the end of our voyage is drawing near^ 
 Before we leave the steamer I will give you my address, 
 for I want you to write and let ne know how you are. 
 getting on." 
 
 " Many thanks to your reverence ; it's just what I was- 
 going to ask you for. I'll write very soon, and I hope 
 in God I'll have good news for you.'' 
 
 The priest smiled somewhat sadly as he looked at the 
 beaming face of the young man. He had been long 
 enough in Ameiica to know how many disappointments 
 and hard trials come to damp the ardor of youthful 
 emigrants at the outset of their career in the Western 
 world. But of this he breathed not a word, and he 
 himself was indeed sanguine as to the success of Manus 
 O'Donnell. 
 
 II. 
 
 The glorious sun of August lit up the wooded slopes 
 of our guardian mountain and all the hither and farther 
 
THE INTENTJON-DOX. 
 
 131 
 
 shores of the great river — the fair and fertile plains 
 stretching away southward towards the distant highlands 
 of Vermont and the shadowy Adirondacks dim on the 
 horizon. It shone on the burnished roofs and tapering 
 spires of the fair " Queen City of the "N'orth," our own 
 Ville Marie, and high on the mountain slope, on the 
 dome of a vast cross-crowned edifice, the Hotel-Dieu, 
 wherein the devoted Hospital Sisters of St. Joseph 
 minister year after year, as they have done for ages 
 long, to the suffering and sick of the flock of Christ. 
 
 In one of the men's wards where some of the convales- 
 cents were sitting near their beds, wrapped in loose 
 light coats provided for their comfort, the windows all 
 open wide to admit the balmy mountain-breeze that 
 gently fanned the snow-white curtains, a young man 
 reclined in a cushioned chair, his eyes closed, and his 
 thin hands folded on his chest. The pallor of long and 
 wasting illness was on his sunken features and his lips 
 were colorless as those of a corpse. It seemed as though 
 the lamp of life burned dimly, indeed, in that wasted 
 foriii and pallid face. 
 
 It was hard, indeed, to recognize our engaging young 
 rniig). nt, Manus O'Donnell, in that poor invalid. And 
 yet he it v^ a ; ! How came he to this condition in so short 
 a time would be ihe natural question. Ah ! it was the 
 old pitiful story, so common in this New World, of 
 disappointed hopes — the unavailing search for employ- 
 ment — no vacancy anywhere — no work — nothing to earn 
 — and yet, board and lodging to be paid for — money 
 dwindling day by day till nearly all had vanished 1' 
 Til ^', when hope died out at last, and cruel anx.ety 
 bt gar. to crush the heart but late so gay and lightsome, 
 the robust health gave way — the vigourous frame was 
 
 i: 
 
 i I 
 
fi ( 
 
 i 
 
 THE INTENTlON-nOX. 
 
 stricken with disease, and a slow consuming fever set 
 in. 
 
 Thus suddenly prevented from continuing his efforts 
 to obtain employment, and with little nieans to defray 
 expenses, it would have gone hard indeed vvith poor 
 Manus had not his kind friend. Father Sheehan, to whom 
 he wrote at the beginning of his illness, come into the 
 city himself anu nad him removed to the Hotel Dieu, 
 where, it is need' rs to say, every caie and attentionhad 
 been lavished upi i ... Now the worst was over. The 
 patient was at lengtn . the way of recovery, and the 
 doctor declared that " building up " was all he required ; 
 he would soon be himself again. 
 
 A little while after, when the Ward-sister came along 
 and stopped near O'Donnell's chair, the young man 
 opened his eyes and spoke, in a voice very unlike his 
 old blithesome tones : 
 
 " I'm not asleep, Sister ! — I was Just thinking of some- 
 thing. Can you wait a minute till I tell you what it is ? " 
 
 " And what is it, poor fellow ? " she asked in a com- 
 passionate tone. 
 
 " 1 want to ask, Sister, if you have an Intention-box 
 in the chapel below ? " he jould see down into the Sane 
 tuary from where he sat. 
 
 " An Intention-box. What is that ? " the religious 
 asked in surpiise. 
 
 " Why, the box for putting the Monthly Intentions in 
 for the prayers of the League. Of course, you have the 
 League here — the League of the Sacred Heart, you 
 know?" 
 
 *' No Manus, we have not." 
 
 " Nor the Intention-box ? " 
 
 The good religious shook her head. 
 
THE INTENTION-BOX. 
 
 133 
 
 r set 
 
 fforts 
 efray 
 
 poor 
 A'honi 
 [O the 
 
 Dieu, 
 311 had 
 r. The 
 nd the 
 quired ; 
 
 e along 
 ng man 
 like his 
 
 )fsome- 
 
 it IS? 
 
 a com- 
 
 lion-box 
 lie Sane 
 
 [eligious 
 
 Uions in 
 
 lave the 
 
 irt, you 
 
 " Well ! now, that's odd," said O'Donnell musingly. 
 ** Why sister, we have the League all over Ireland. All 
 the churches and chapels have got Intention-boxes, and 
 in almost every parish we have Circles and Promoters 
 and regular meetings and the Monthly Communion of 
 Reparation. You know, Sister, all Ireland " — he added 
 with a proud smile — " all Ireland was consecrated to 
 the Sacred Heart by the Bishops and Archbishops years 
 and years ago. 
 
 " O yes, I know all about that," said the Sister quickly 
 her Irish blood all a-glow at the recollection, " and I 
 know by heart McCarthy's beautiful poem about that 
 consecration. Well ! Manus, I have heard of the League 
 being established at the GesCi — that's the Jesuits' Church 
 here in the city, and I'll ask Reverend Mother to let us 
 have it here in the house." 
 
 " And will you send an Intention for me, Sister, to be 
 put in the box in the church where you say it is, for I 
 know the box is sure to be there too ? — my mother put 
 one in the box for me at home before I left ; but I want 
 a Thanksgiving put in now for my recovery, and also to 
 ask prayers again that I may get something to do. If 
 you would kindly write them for me. Sister, I'd be for 
 ever obliged to you, as I'm not able yet to write myself" 
 
 The Intentions were written and placed in the box. 
 
 A little later, and the League was duly inaugurated 
 in the great hospice on the mountain-side, and several 
 circles formed in the house, to the great joy of Manus 
 O'Donnell. 
 
 i 
 
I 
 
 ill: 1 
 
 !l ililil 
 
 ii! I 
 
 I i,' 
 nil I 
 
 il) 
 
 THE INTRNTlON-nOX. 
 
 III. 
 
 It might be two weeks after the petition was put in the 
 box. The young man was progressing favorably. Health 
 was slowly but surely returning to his attenuated frame, 
 and the deadly pallor was fast disappearing from cheek 
 and brow. Already poor Manus began to think what 
 he was to do when the doctor declared him sufficiently 
 well to leave the hospital. His funds were all but 
 exhausted, and he dreaded to start again on the weari- 
 some quest which he had found so hopeless. 
 
 " But I'll nci. dtapair, Sister," he said one day to the 
 good sister who had shown so kind an interest in the 
 lonely stranger, sick and poor in a foreign land. " We 
 say at home, ' All's not lost that's in danger,' and I know 
 the Sacred Heart will not fail me now in my worst 
 need." 
 
 " Surely your faith will be rewarded, Manus," said the 
 compassionate religious, with tears in her kind eyes. 
 *• But truly your case is a hard one. Have you no rela- 
 tions — or friends — in these parts ? " 
 
 " Well ! I have a first cousin somewhere in Lower 
 Canada, but I haven't his address. It's a couple of years 
 since we heard from him. I wish I could see Father 
 Sheehan -that's the priest that got me in here. He 
 m'""^:. advise me what to do. Sister, if you'll be so kind as 
 to get me pen, ink and paper, I think I'll write to him." 
 
 The letter was written and sent, but before an answer 
 could arrive from Father Sheehan his aid was no longer 
 needed. 
 
 The faith of Manus O'Donnell and his confidence in 
 the Sacred Heart were fully justified. 
 
THE INrENTlON-UOX. 
 
 135 
 
 IV 
 
 n the 
 ealth 
 rame, 
 cheek 
 
 what 
 :iently 
 .11 but 
 
 weari- 
 
 idence m 
 
 Poor Manus was pacing the ward to and fio that 
 same afternoon with the uncertain step of early con- 
 valescence, when one of the Sisters came to tell him 
 that some one was asking for him in the parlor. 
 
 " For me ? " the young man cried in surprise. " Why, 
 who in the world would be asking for mc ? " 
 
 " He's coming up anyhow, and here he is." And as 
 the religious moved away, a tall well-dressed man entered 
 the ward and approached Manus, who was pointed out 
 to him at the door. Manus looked at the visitor, but 
 without any sign of recognition. 
 
 " Are you Manus O'Donnell from the county Donegal, 
 Ireland ? " 
 
 "That is certainly my name," replied O'Donnell !" and 
 I come from Donegal too, — I wish I was there now," he 
 added drearily. 
 
 *' Don't say that Manus, my boy ! " cried the new- 
 comer, his honest Milesian face beaming with warm 
 emotion, and he grasped the other's hand cordially. 
 ^* You'll have a different story ere long. Tell me, now, 
 did you ever hear of one Philip Hughes, a cousin of 
 yours by the mother's side, that came out here to Canada 
 some fifteen years back?" 
 
 " Hear of him ? " gasped poor Manus," why, to be sure 
 I did, many's the time. Wasn't it in the hope of finding 
 him that I came to Montreal ? We heard he had done 
 well in Canada, and my mother thought he might help 
 me at the start. And are you Phil ? " 
 
 " Phil and no other, Manus ! and your mother, my 
 good old aunt Peggy, was about right. I am both able 
 
 I > 1 
 
 • ■( 
 
136 
 
 THE INTENTION- BOX. 
 
 and willing to help you, my poor fellow ! You'll come 
 now to my house, where my wife will be right glad to see 
 you, and to give you a home as long as you care to stay 
 with us. Sure, she's from the door with us at home, a 
 daughter of old Dan McQuillan of the Cross Roads. 
 She's a capital nurse, is Susie, and she'll soon have yoii 
 well and strong again, I'll go bail. And whenever you're 
 able for it, Manus, I have a good situation ready to your 
 hand. I'm a contractor myself, and am just in want of a 
 smart fellow to assist me in keeping my accounts and 
 such like work. Father Sheehan told me you could do 
 that well." 
 
 " Father Sheehan ? then it was he that put you on my 
 track ? " 
 
 " Indeed it was. I know him well, but I hadn't seen 
 him for some time past when, as luck wo'ild have it, he 
 came into my office about some repairs he wanted done 
 out at his place, and he asked me point blank if I wanted 
 a clerk, an honest, smart young man, that I could trust 
 with all I was worth. Then he told me your name — how 
 he came out in the steamer with you, and all about 
 your disappointments and your sickness. I told him I 
 guessed you were a cousin of my own, and asked him- 
 where I could find you. He lold me of course, right 
 glad you may be sure, and so here I am, and as soon as 
 the good Sisters can let you come with me, we'll be off."" 
 
 " Well, glory be to God, Phil ! and thanks and praises 
 to the Sacred Heart ! " cried Manus in a voice quivering 
 with joyful emotion. 
 
 An hour later Manus O'Donnell was comfortably 
 seated in a large arm-chair in his cousin's cosy parlor, 
 while the kindly housewife busied herself in preparing 
 a room for his reception. 
 
THE INTENllON-noX. 
 
 u uismaj. And this was fully reahVeH }.„ .k 
 
 J ! 
 
 ■fl! 
 
 .1 ■ ; J 
 
 H 
 
 i iU 
 
 M 
 
 ; I 
 
FATHER SHEEHAN'S PARISH. 
 
 Mrs. J. Sadlier. 
 
 I. 
 
 IHEN Father Sheehan reached his home after 
 ^ that voyage across the Atlantic in which he 
 ^Tgfv^iJv'^ had made the acquaintance of Manus O'Don- 
 nell, his heart was filled with anxious forebodings. It 
 is true he was returning to his parish much improved 
 in health by a three months' sojourn in Ireland, his 
 native land. His going there was a matter of actual 
 necessity, prescribed by his physician and sanctioned by 
 his bishop, who had kindly sent a brother priest to 
 replace him durmg his absence. Now that he was 
 nearing the end of his journey, his parochial cares, laid 
 aside for a time in obedience to authority, began to 
 weigh again upon his mind. He remembered what 
 had, indeed, struck him at the time, that the accounts 
 he had received of parochial affairs in the letters of his 
 friend Father Daly, during his absence, were somewhat 
 vague and by no means re-assuring. 
 
 Father Sheehan's parish was one, be it observed in 
 passing, that required even an unusual amount of zeal, 
 energy and patient forbearance on the part of its pastor, 
 together with sound health and great determination. It 
 -consisted of a small town where certain factories had 
 
r 
 
 FATHElt S II EE HAN'S PAlilSH. 
 
 139 
 
 been established some years before, which fact, tegether 
 with the advent of a dozen or more " shanty men," who 
 had lately been attracted thither by the prospect of 
 steady employment all the year round in the factories, 
 had more than a little demoralized the working popula- 
 tion of the place, and changed — not for the better — the 
 quiet simple character of its people. A more wordly 
 spirit had gradually assumed the mastery, and the old- 
 time piety and respect for authority that had been wont 
 to distinguish them was lapsing into careless indifference 
 and insolent self-sufficiency, — the prevailing spirit of 
 the times in which we live. As a consequence of this 
 •change, vices before almost unknown were of late years 
 becoming but too common, and resisted all the efforts 
 of the priest to eradicate. 
 
 Such had been Father Sheehan's experience, and this 
 it was that, together with the ordinary work of the holy 
 ministry, at all times arduous and laborious, had under- 
 mined his naturally good constitution, so that absolute 
 rest and change of air had been found expedient to ensure 
 his recovery. To all his enquiries, while in Ireland, as 
 to how matters stood at home, his friend Father Daly 
 had usually given evasive answers, evidently trying to 
 make the best he could of it. On all this Father Sheehan 
 reflected with a sinking heart as he journeyed homeward. 
 From Montreal he had a railway journey of a few h''\i i, 
 then a short distance by stage, and lo ! there was Father 
 Daly waiting for him at the door of his little presbytery. 
 Home again ! Deo Gratias / 
 
 ti 
 
 •■i 
 
MO 
 
 FA THE n SHEE HAN'S PAHISn. 
 
 II. 
 
 I '8 
 
 ■ ii 
 
 1 
 
 ll<t'' 
 
 After tea on that first evening, Father Shechan, with 
 some hesitation. apj3roached the subject nearest his heart. 
 
 " And now, Father Daly, that I have given you all the 
 news from home, tell me how things are going on here. 
 Is there any change for the better ? " 
 
 Father Daly shook his head. " So far from it, that I 
 really pity you coming back to such a place. I have 
 tried very hard to get the men into the Father Matthew 
 Society you got up last year, but my efforts have been 
 for the most part a lamentable failure. Only six or 
 eight have taken the pledge since you left, and the 
 taverns are more flourishing than ever. Then the Sacra- 
 ments are but little frequented, and even the Sunday 
 Masses thinly attended." 
 
 Father Sheehan sighed wearily. Then he asked : 
 " And what about the Confraternity ? " 
 
 " Well ! that is not so bad. A good many women and. 
 girls have joined lately, and the meetings are sdmewhat 
 better attended. Still, even there the progress made is 
 not very considerable, and, indeed, the general outlook 
 is far from encouraging. That turbulent spirit of insu- 
 bordination is still rife among the men, and I see little 
 before you, my poor friend, but trouble. I wish I had 
 a more cheering account for you on your return, and 
 that I could give you back your parish ever so little 
 improved ; but alas ! it is very, very far from being so. 
 By the way, you remember Tom Barry ? " 
 
 ''The blacksmith! — of course I do, to my great 
 sorrow. He is one of the hardest cases we have in the 
 parish." 
 
FATHER SUEEflAN'S PA HIS II. 
 
 141 
 
 great 
 In the 
 
 " Of course he is. Well ! I'll tell you something 
 •characteristic about ///;/;. You must know he lost his 
 wife some five or six weeks ago." 
 
 " A good liddance for her, poor woman ! " put in 
 Father Sheehan — " that is, if she were well prepared." 
 
 '* Oh ! she was, indeed, I'm thankful to say, for sorrow 
 and trouble had done their work in her regard, and she 
 turned to God with her whole heart." 
 
 " What a life she had of it for the last two or three 
 years, since Tom took to drinking. If ever any one 
 died of a broken heart, it was she." 
 
 " Not a doubt of it. But, knowing that, you will be 
 able to appreciate what I am going to tell you. I was 
 just preparing for bed about lo o'cloc' , one rainy night, 
 about two weeks after her death, when a messenger came 
 in haste to say that I must go immediately to Tom 
 Barry's. ' And who am I wanted for there? ' I asked. 
 
 * Oh ! for Tom himself, your reverence 1 He wants to 
 see you mighty bad entirely ! " With some misgiving I 
 went, I must confess, knowing Tom's habits, and fearing 
 it might be an attack of delirium tremens he had. I 
 found him stretched at full length on his bed in his usual 
 attire, apparently much at his ease. ' Well ! Tom, my 
 poor fellow,' I said, approaching the bed, and no little 
 relieved to see him so quiet — ' You sent for me, did you 
 not ? ' — ' I did, then, your reverence,' he replied. * What 
 is the matter with you } You don't appear to suffer 
 much." ' No, it isn't that I'm sick at all. Father Daly,' 
 was the answer, 'but I just wanted to shew you that' 
 And, raising himself on his elbow, he pointed to a large 
 ■wooden cross painted black that l/jng over his head. 
 
 * But what has that to do with your sending for me ? ' I 
 asked in no small surprise. 'Just look at it now,' was 
 
 ^r 
 
li'2 
 
 FATHER SIIEEIJAN'S PARISH. 
 
 the answe: > ' I want you to take a good look at it.' 'I 
 have done so, Tom, but what then ? Why did you send 
 for me ? ' ' Well ! I'll just tell your reverence,' he coolly 
 answered." I got that cross made to put over poor 
 Nora, and sure I knew you'd be glad to see it before 
 it was laken to the cemetery above.' 'And that was 
 why you sent for me on such a night as this, and just 
 when I was about to retire to rest ! ' 
 
 " I tell you, Father Sheehan," the priest went on, 
 " it was as much as I could do to keep my temper, 
 seeing the fellow regarding the cross and myself alter- 
 nately with a half-drunken smile of maudlin complacency 
 as he lay thc'^ comfortably on his bed. I merely told 
 him, however, to be more careful another time how he 
 sent for a priest on such a fool's errand, and started for 
 home through the darkness and rain." * 
 
 Preoccupied as he was. Father Sheehan could not 
 help laughing at this extraodinary " sick call " of Father 
 Daly's, and the latter joined merrily in the laugh, though 
 it was at his own expense. But alas ! the situation was 
 too critical for mirth, tor, unhappily, Tom Barry was but 
 one of many drunkards who were the cause of much 
 sorrow to the pastor and much scandal to the whole 
 parish. Temperance meetings and Temperance sermons 
 were rJike ineffectual in reclaiming any considerable 
 number of these publi':: sinners. And, unfortunately, 
 there were other scandals of old standing that were, if 
 possible, still more grievous. 
 
 The tv/o priests talked long and earnestly over these 
 matters, but without arriving at any practical decision, 
 
 * This incident is literally true^ and actu;\l!y occurred in Montreal to a »ealous 
 Irish priest, well known to the writer, who was at the time a riember ot the 
 Seminal y < f St. Sulpice, and attached lo St. Patrick's Church. 
 
FATHER SHEEIIA.VS PARJSJL 
 
 143 
 
 ;.' 'I 
 
 send 
 Dolly 
 poor 
 efore 
 was 
 . just 
 
 it on, 
 jmper,. 
 : alter- 
 xency 
 ;ly told 
 new he 
 rted for 
 
 lid not 
 Father 
 though 
 lion was 
 Iwas but 
 ff much 
 whole 
 ;ermons 
 jiderable 
 inately, 
 were, if 
 
 ter these 
 lecision, 
 
 nber ot the 
 
 on that last evening they were to spend together for 
 some time, as Father Daly was to leave on the following 
 day to report himself to his bishop. 
 
 III. 
 
 alone once mor; 
 
 take 
 
 the heavy burden he 
 had reluctantly laid aside for a brief season, Father 
 Sheehan set himself face to face with the many difficul- 
 ties that lay in his way. In addition to all those he 
 had discussed with Father Daly, there was the heavy 
 debt on the church, — a new one built by his predecessor 
 in the parish, at whose death, a few years before, it was 
 sti;] unfinished, although so far advanced by his zeal and 
 perseverance as to be fit for divine worship. To complete 
 the church and at least reduce the debt, Father Sheehan 
 had established a Building Society, which as yet had 
 produced but scant results. Then there was the Paro- 
 chial School — English and French — which it was the 
 dearest wish of his heart to see in active operation ever 
 since his appointment to the parish — but low, alas ! 
 very far in the future, as far as human probability went. 
 And here was the pastor back again among his people, 
 full of gratitude for restored health and full of zeal to do 
 something solid and tangible for the glory of God and 
 the lasting good of the souls placed in his charge. Next 
 morning when he offered up the Holy Sacrifice, it was 
 not only in thanksgiving but with the special intention 
 of making reparation for the sins of his people, and 
 obtaining aid from on high to bring the sinners to 
 repentance and increase the number of the good and 
 well-disposed. 
 
 .1 '! 
 
 1,1 S 
 I 
 
 li' 
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 I I 
 
144 
 
 FATHER S/IEE HAN'S PAPlSff. 
 
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 li; :i!i' 
 
 iiiiin; ' ! 
 
 To work he went meanwhile with renewed energy 
 and devotion, to do his share for the attainment of the 
 end he had in view. He made a general visitation of all 
 the families, called meetings of the different associations 
 existing in the parish, and left no means untried to 
 excite a better spirit among his parishioners. Alas ! 
 his persistent efforts were attended with h'nle or no 
 success. Only the few responded to his call, the 
 many were sunk in apathy and the stolid indiffer e 
 that follows on the utter neglect of religious duty. \ ice 
 walked abroad unblushingly, waxing bolder as time 
 went on. Even the priestly instructions and admoni- 
 tions were scoffed at and set at naught by the scandalous 
 sinners whose evil example and influence were making 
 such havoc amongst the working population of the 
 place. 
 
 So matters went on for some time longer, when Father 
 Sheehan received a letter from his grateful young friend, 
 Manus O'Donnell, telling him of the marvellous results 
 of his application, through the Intention Box, to the 
 prayers of the Holy League. As the priest read, a 
 sudden access of jcy and hope thrilled his heart. A 
 flash, as it were, of lightning illumined his mind, and 
 revealed in letters of flame a divine promise spoken 
 ages before to the virgin Saint of Paray-le-Monial in the 
 mystic silence of the cloister. 
 
 *' And I never thought of it before ! " he cried within 
 himself in a reproachful spirit, as he proceeded without 
 a moment's delay to prepare for a visit to Montreal. 
 " But it is never too late to do good, and that Fountain 
 of Mercy is never closed ! Courage, my soul, courage ! 
 Who knows but the dawn of a new day is at hand ? " 
 
 :illil 
 
 I 
 
FATHER SUEEUAN'S PARISH. 
 
 10 
 
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 the 
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 time 
 moni- 
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 laking 
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 Father 
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 IV. 
 
 There was a great commotion in the town some days 
 later, when Father Sheehan announced from the pulpit 
 that a mission was to be given during the following 
 month in that church by Fathers from Montreal. 
 
 " The Mission will last for two weeks," he said, 
 " which will give you all ample time to make your peace 
 with God. Nov/, I want every man and woman in my 
 parish to attend this Mission ; and as there are only a 
 small number of you here present compared with the 
 whole population of the place, let everyone make it his 
 or her business to tell the good news to friends and 
 neighbors, and try to get them all into it. Remember 
 that my blessing and the blessing of God will rest upon 
 every one that induces others to avail themselves of 
 what may be for many^ and certainly will be for some, 
 the last opportunity of saving their souls. Now, mind, 
 you are all invited to make this Mission, — no parish 
 needs it more, and woe to him or her that rejects tiie 
 means of grace now offered." 
 
 Many grumbled and declared that they wouldn't make 
 the Mission, — not they, indeed ; many more were glad 
 of the opportunity, and made up their minds to profit 
 by it. Grace was already knocking at their hearts, pre- 
 paring the way for conversion. 
 
 The Mission was opened. At first the attendance was 
 slim indeed. Little by little, however, more people came, 
 some impelled by curiosity, some with a half formed 
 resolution of trying to mend their ways. At the end of 
 three days the church began to be crowded, the sermons 
 we'c heard with attention, — the mission was talked of 
 
 10 
 
W'i 
 
 140 
 
 FATHER SJJEEHAN'S PARISH, 
 
 ill :!; 
 
 ":i' '■ 
 
 eyerywhere, in shops and factories, as well as in the 
 homes of the people, and in the church the priests were 
 kept busy hearing confessions all day long. The Mission 
 promised an abundant harvest, and very many were the 
 souls brought back to God. But, alas ! a certain number 
 still hung back, obstinately refusing to make the Mission 
 which they knew would necessitate a change of life, and 
 that was not to be thought of. They would not even 
 enter the church during the Mission, fearing for their pet 
 vices and darling sins. The relatives and friends in their 
 new-born zeal for souls mourned over them as lost ; but 
 the pastor said : " Courage, the end is not yet ! " 
 
 And behold ! at the end of the Mission, the League of 
 the Sacred Heart was preached with apostolic fervor ; 
 the story of Blessed Margaret Mary and the apparitions 
 and the Promises was told with touching simplicity, and 
 the hearts of the people were stirred with a new and 
 strange emotion. Then a Centre of the League was 
 formally inaugurated in the parish with Father Sheehan 
 as Director ; numerous Promoters came forward to form 
 Circles, and an outburst of holy zeal among the people so 
 lately callous to all religious influences was witnessed 
 with astonishment and even awe by those who had long 
 and vainly sighed for this blessed change ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Somewhat over a year had passed away. Father Shee- 
 han's parish presented a very different aspect. The first 
 Friday of every month was duly celebrated ', the old con- 
 fraternities were filled up and new ones established ; the 
 Building Society was in full operation, and it was cheering 
 
 V.'M 
 
FATHER SllEEHANS PARISH. 
 
 147 
 
 and most edifying to see the men who had so lately been 
 utterly indifferent to church matters and the interests of 
 relii^ion now coming regularly in with their returns, 
 happy and proud to make them satisfactorily, and so help 
 to lighten the burden for their beloved pastor. Then the 
 confessional was crowded, especially on the eves of great 
 festivals and of the First Friday, while at the altar-rails 
 were seen on those solemn days of devotion row after row 
 of men, women and children eager to participate in the 
 Divine Banquet, each and all wearing on their breasts 
 the precious little badge of the Holy League with its 
 glorious motto : Thy Kingdom come ! Very many of 
 both sexes had been invested with the Scapular of Our 
 Lady of Mount Carmel, and in the homes of the parish 
 it was no uncommon thing for the passer-by to hear the 
 Rosary being recited in the calm hours of rest after the 
 day's toils were over, where such far different sounds 
 had been heard not so very long before ! 
 
 " Well ! I protest it seems nothing short of miraculous, 
 the change in this parish of yours. Now that I have 
 seen with my own eyes what you have so often described 
 in your letters, I can hardly believe it to be the same 
 place that I almost gave up in despair while I was here 
 as your substitute less than eighteen months ago. Surely 
 the ways of God are wonderful ! How did it all come 
 about, — I mean, at the beginning ? " 
 
 " I'll tell you that in a very few words," Father Shee- 
 han replied with a happy smile. " It was neither more 
 nor less than a sudden inspiration that came to me soon 
 after you left, just when everything was dark around me 
 and my parochial affairs seemed to have reached their 
 worst. The words that flashed before me all of a sudden, 
 while I knelt sad and lonely before the Tabernacle, were 
 
 
I :: ' 
 
 lis 
 
 FATHER SliEEflAN'S PARISH 
 
 those of that Promise of Our Lord to Blessed Margaret 
 Mary : 
 
 ' Priests shall receive the gift of touching the most 
 hardened hearts^ and they shall work with marvellous 
 success if they are pefietrated with a tender devotion to 
 the Divine Heart of fesus. ' 
 
 " You may be sure I lost no time in acting on the sug- 
 gestion, and you yourself and all the Associates of the 
 League helped to bring about the blessed results you 
 now behold." 
 
 " I helped !" exclaimed Father Daly. " In what way ?" 
 
 " In praying for the success of a certain number of 
 * Missions ' on a particular day of the previous month, 
 and mine here was one of them. I see you are amazed, 
 you will be more so when I tell you that Tom Barry, 
 your old friend of the black cross, is one of my very 
 best promoters. What do you think of that ? " 
 
 " Why, what can I think or say but this, that the 
 Sacred Heart of Our Divine Lord is indeed changing the 
 face of the world and making the desert to blossom as 
 the rose ! " 
 
ST. JOSEPH'S CLIENT. * 
 
 Anna T. Sadlier. 
 
 'T was a night in the early part of March, dark, — 
 
 .Mm save when occasional glimpses of fitful moon- 
 
 wM?) . . 
 
 light shone out through scudding clouds. P'ather 
 
 Lewis, wearied after a long day's work, sat in his study 
 
 writing. As he leaned back in his chair from time to 
 
 time, struggling against the weariness which threatened 
 
 to overpower him, he could see the sanctuary lamp 
 
 shining out from the side windows of the church. Its 
 
 gleam fell full upon the statue of St. Joseph, as it stood 
 
 upon the altar, profusely decorated, because of its being 
 
 the month of March. 
 
 All was still. No sound of footsteps on the pavement 
 below, as the hour crept on to midnight. Only the wind 
 at intervals went sweeping up and down with a dismal, 
 moaning sound. 
 
 All at once, a loud summons at the door below told 
 the tired priest that his labors were not yet done. 
 Raising the window, he looked down. Standing out 
 clearly in the light of a street-lamp Father Lewis per- 
 ceived the figure of an old man. Something in the 
 apparition produced an indescribable sensation upon 
 the priest. The voice which replied to Father Lewis' 
 question was clear, full and vibrating. 
 
 ♦ The main facts of this story are true. 
 
■M* 
 
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 ii' 'if 
 
 
 150 
 
 ST. JOSEPHS CLIENT. 
 
 The priest was told that he must go to a certain street 
 — it was at a considerable distance — that he must follow 
 that street to the end, and would there discover a small 
 house completely detached from all others. 
 
 " You had better pilot me there yourself," said the 
 priest ; " if you wait one moment I will be with you." 
 
 He merely waited, to snatchcoat, muffler and cap, and 
 to procure what was necessary for his ministrations. 
 Descending to the door, he looked about for his guide. 
 The old man had completely disappeared. In fact, the 
 street was totally deserted. Father Lewis looked up and 
 down, and peered into the shadows of the doorways. No 
 trace remained of him with whom he had so lately 
 conversed. 
 
 Something like a shiver stole over the priest. He 
 knew not whether it was the touch of the icy wind or 
 an impulse of half-superstitious dread. He had no 
 resource, however, but to make his way, if possible, to 
 the address indicated. 
 
 He found the streiet at last, leading out, as il seemed, 
 into the country. It was full of the driftings of a late 
 snow-storm. The houses upon it were but few, of 
 wretched appearance, and isolated one from the other. 
 
 As Father Lewis pressed forward in the teeth of a 
 biting wind, he asked himself, could the sick-call have 
 been but a trap, and would it not be wiser for him to 
 give up the affair until morning. But no, the summons 
 had been imperative, the case was urgent, audit was his 
 clear duty to reach the place indicated if it were humanly 
 possible to do so. 
 
 He had left what appeared to be the last house behind 
 him. The street, where there was no longer the 
 semblance of a sidewalk, stretched out, as he fancied. 
 
ST. JOSEPH'S CLIENT 
 
 131 
 
 into illimitable distance. He was fast growing exhaust- 
 ed, and his heart sank at thought of the distance which 
 lay between him and home. 
 
 On a sudden he caught sight of a glimmer of light, 
 and presently he saw that it proceeded from a half- 
 ruinous house which stood almost buried in snow by the 
 roadside. The light of a solitary candle shone out upon 
 the gloom. The priest knocked at the door, and heard 
 a feeble voice which bade him enter. 
 
 On a low couch in ti , corner was the figure of a man, 
 — old, for his hair lay silver-white upon the pillow ; 
 emaciated, until the face had almost the appearance of 
 a corpse. His fading eyes pierced the semi-darkness of 
 the room, as the opening door made him aware of a 
 presence in the room. Father Lewis, advancing, in- 
 quired : — 
 
 " Did you send for me, my friend ? " 
 
 " Did I send for you? " said the man, with a hushed, 
 awe-stricken note in his voice. " No ; how could I send, 
 how could I send ? " 
 
 He tried to raise himself, as if impelled by excitement 
 or joy, or some hidden feeling. But the effort was vain. 
 Nature had all but exhausted the resources of a frame 
 once vigorous. He sank back on the pillow, silent an 
 instant, then he asked : 
 
 " And, sir, if I may make so bold, who are you? " 
 
 "Who am I?" said Father Lewis. "Why, a priest, of 
 course. I was directed to this spot for an urgent sick 
 call." 
 
 '• A priest ! " cried the man, " a priest for me. O God, 
 I give Thee thanks ! St. Joseph, I biess Thee." 
 
 Astonished at these utterances, the priest asked an 
 explanation. 
 
 ■ ; u 
 
 
!!! 
 
 I5-:i 
 
 ST. JOSEPH'S CLIENT. 
 
 "All my life," said the man, "when I bent the knee 
 at morning or at night, I prayed to the great St. Joseph 
 that I might not die without the Sacraments. Whatever 
 came or went, I never failed in that prayer. The years 
 went by, I grew old and poor. Relatives and friends 
 dropped around me like falling leaves. I was left alone. 
 At last I was reduced to this miserable shelter, where I 
 managed to keep body and soul together by working a 
 little whenever I was able. Feeble in body I could not 
 reach the church very often for long past. A month ago 
 I took to my bed, seized with a burning fever. Since 
 then I have dragged on the days and nights here alone, 
 and my strength is almost exhausted." 
 
 All this was told in a feeble, gasping voice. Father 
 Lewis asked had not the neighbors come in to give him 
 some help and to notify the priest of his condition. 
 
 *' The nearest are more than half a mile off," said the 
 old man, "and they are strange people who have come 
 there of late and scarcely know of my existence. No, 
 there was no one to send for the priest, though I knew 
 that Death was approachmg fast. Still, I felt that I 
 would not die without the Sacraments. My confidence 
 in St. Joseph was so great, that I knew that, if I had to 
 live on as I was for fifty years, a priest would come. 
 And you. Father, how did you get here ? " 
 
 " Providentially, as I believe," answered the priest, 
 solemnly. " A man of venerable appearance rang at the 
 bell, and informing me that there was an urgent sick 
 call, directed me clearly and explicitly to t'lis place. 
 When I came out of the house, he had gone, and there 
 was no trace of him in the street. I made so little delay, 
 that a man of his age could hardly have walked away so 
 quick." 
 
.ST. JOSEPH- S CLIENT. 
 
 153 
 
 '* [t was the good Saint himself," said the man con- 
 fidently. 
 
 •' Who can tell ? " said the priest thoughtfully, "though 
 indeed, the protection of St. Joseph may have shown 
 itself by inspiring some neighbor to come for me." 
 
 The man shook his head. 
 
 " The neighbors know nothing of me," 1 e said, '* and 
 most of them are a low and worthless set of people, who 
 think little of priest and religion. 
 
 '* Well," said Father Lewis, " whoever may have been 
 my guide, it remains for me to accomplish the work for 
 which I have been brought here. The time may be 
 shorter than we think." 
 
 '• It will be long enough for that, Father," said the 
 old man, the same confident smile passing over his face. 
 *' But, if you please, I will begin. I want to make a 
 general confession, and I have been preparing for it 
 this many a day." 
 
 The wind whistled moaningly about the house. It 
 rushed in through the crevices and crannies and under 
 the miserable door, threatening the life of the candle, as 
 Father Lewis continued his ministrations at the bedside 
 of the dying old man. 
 
 The dawn gleamed white and cold, streaking the sky 
 towards the East, as Father Lewis stood upon the 
 threshold of the open door and looked out upon a scene 
 of unexampled dreariness — a low, broad waste of snow, 
 unbroken by a human habitation, lying under a gray 
 sk}'. Chilled and exhausted he turned to gaze upon the 
 couch in the corner of the room, where lay the old man, 
 dead. There was something weird and solemn in the 
 repose of the figure, majestic despite its wretched sur- 
 roundings. 
 
154 
 
 ST. 'OSEPirS CLIENT. 
 
 As Father l^ewis passed out and closed the door, being 
 anxious to arrange about the funeral, he murmured 
 softly : " Amen, Amen. I have not seen such faith as 
 this in Israel. St. Joseph has heard his life-long prayer, 
 and a beautiful soul has this day i)assed into its Maker's 
 hands.'' 
 
 Mill 
 
 lililii 
 
ired 
 
 li as 
 lyer, 
 ker's 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S PRAYER. 
 
 Anna T. Sadi-ikr. 
 
 learned tha 
 Jesus, pray for 
 
 day, they 
 
 little prayer,and\vent home again with toddling, uncertain 
 feet. They lived but two blocks from the church, in a 
 small, wooden house. They were orphans, and their 
 grandmother, with whom they lived, but seldom stirred 
 out. She sat nearly all day in a rocking-chair, knitting. 
 The neighbors said her mind had grown as feeble as her 
 body during the long years that had passed since her 
 silvery locks were black. 
 
 In any case, she rarely spoke to the chidren, and they 
 lived their little life apart. An aunt, a middle-aged woman, 
 worked all day at a factory, and came home tired and 
 somewhat crossj cared for the children's clothing, put 
 them to bed at night, and woke them very early in the 
 morning. Having tidied up the house and given a very 
 early breakfast, she hurried off, with a caution to them 
 to keep away from the fire and to be good to grandma. 
 They were good to grandmamma in their own babyish 
 way. Two quaint little figures, in strong but ugly pina- 
 
' 'X: .ill 
 
 I", ;* ' :,| 
 
 [ I 
 
 :i I 
 
 /:i lii 
 
 < i I 
 
 iii 
 
 THE CIJILUREN'S PRAYER. 
 
 tores and long dresses, they hovered about her chair, 
 picked up her knitting-needles if she dropped them, and 
 askea her many qaescions. To most of these she 
 responded only by a smile and a shake of the head. 
 Her tired old brain refused to work out even their baby 
 problems. 
 
 They played mostly with bits of paper and string, a bit 
 of colored glass Francis had found m the street, and a 
 bundle of rags tied up for a doll, which little Mt:/ 
 fondled and caressed and put to bed in a v/ooden box 
 given lO her by the grocer's boy. 
 
 The church down the street was the children's great 
 marvel and delight. Their aunt brought them there on 
 Sunday, when she was not too hurried to dress them, and 
 she had taught them some simple prayers. She was a 
 good woman and anxious to do what was right, but she 
 was painfully hurried and worn with constant labor. So 
 she knew nothing of all the thoughts the two littk ones 
 had about the church. They conversed about it cons- 
 tantly with wonder and awe after their simple, baby 
 fashion. The stained windows, the altar where God was, 
 the great gilt candlesticks and the angels guarding the 
 sanctuary were endless sources of admiration to them. 
 
 Once, the nun who was arranging the altar spoke to 
 them, and told them that it was St. Joseph's month, and 
 gave them each a tiny picture with the prayer on it : 
 " Good St. Joseph, Foster Father of Jesus, pray for us." 
 After that the nun figured in their conversations as a 
 beautiful if somewhat mysterious lady, and they paused 
 every day before St. Joseph's altar, always saying the 
 little prayer. The kindly face of the Saint became as 
 something dear and familiar to them, and they wondered 
 if he looked like that up in heaven. 
 
THE CHILDREN'S PRAYER. 
 
 157 
 
 and 
 
 sVie 
 
 ead. 
 
 3aby 
 
 a bit 
 md a 
 Ut:/ 
 i box 
 
 great 
 sre on 
 [II, and 
 ; was a 
 DUt she 
 )or. So 
 iL ones 
 cons- 
 baby 
 od was, 
 mg the 
 them. 
 )oke to 
 th, and 
 on it : 
 for us." 
 is as a 
 paused 
 ang the 
 pame as 
 )ndered 
 
 One afternoon, they had just got home from their visit 
 to the church — it was still clear light, for their aunt had 
 told them never to stay out when it was dark, and they 
 would not have dreamed of disobeying her. They were 
 playing, as usual. Little Mavy sat on a tiny, wooden 
 stool, cutting up paper, and Francis was busy driving 
 an imaginary horse. They did not perceive the smoke 
 which began to pour in from the hallway through the 
 crevices of the door. The grandmother, indeed, was the 
 first to notice it. 
 
 ^'* Smoke," she said, and she laughed softly to herself 
 as if the notion pleased her. Perhaps it was because she 
 was able to remember its name, words not occurring 
 readily to her as a ger^ral thing. She pointed it out to 
 the children, repeating, "Smoke, smoke," with the same 
 childish chuckle. The little ones had at first no compre- 
 hension of the danger, until, instead of smoke, flame 
 began to make its way under and around the closed 
 door with a strange, crackling noise. 
 
 Then little Mary began to cry, and Francis said to her 
 that they must say their prayer to St. Joseph, and kneel- 
 ing down both together and clasping their tiny hands, 
 they prayed to St. Joseph, Foster Father of Jesus, saying, 
 " Dont let the fire catch granny or us ? " 
 
 At that moment a gentleman passing stopped before 
 the house and cried out to other passers-by that there 
 was a strange light shining from the window, and that, 
 in fact, the house was on fire. The neighbors quickly 
 took the alarm, knowing well how helpless were the 
 three inmates of the dwelling. In an instant, the door 
 was burst open, and the flames pent up in the narrow hall- 
 way poured out with a blinding mass of smoke. Brave 
 men rushed into the room into which the fire had scarcely 
 
ir- 
 
 IBHI 
 
 I - ; 
 
 li 
 
 I' 
 
 s. 
 
 '1 ' 
 
 •'■ I 
 
 158 
 
 WE CHILDREN'S PRA YER. 
 
 effected an entrance. They found the old grandmother 
 seated in her chair, childishly delighted, and the two 
 little ones kneeling in the middle of the room with 
 clasped hands. 
 
 The neighbors and the firemen thought it little short 
 of a miracle that the old woman and the children were 
 brought safely out, and women wiped their eyes when 
 they heard the children tell that " they weren't afraid, 
 because they had told good St. Joseph not to let the fire 
 catch granny or them." • 
 
 iih 
 
 
 I:; 
 
 i\ 
 
■ V 
 
 HOW IT CAME TO PASS. 
 
 Mrs. J. Sadlier. 
 
 »|ITTING in the cool shady little parlor of our 
 great Montreal Hotel- Dieu, one bright warm day 
 in he June of this present year, we heard with 
 thrilling interest from one of the Hospital Sisters of St. 
 Joseph the simple narrative of many marvels of grace 
 wrought among the patients from day to day by the 
 Merciful Heart of our Saviour God. Oneof these struck 
 us so forcibly that we told the Sister from whom we heard 
 it that we must make it known to the readers of the 
 Canadir.n Messenger, and she agreed with us that it is 
 too great a triumph for the Sacred Heart to be left 
 unpublished. It is substantially as follows : — 
 
 Only a few months since, a young Frenchman of good 
 family and ample means was admitted into the Hotel- 
 Dieu as a patient. He had been but a few days in 
 Montreal, whither he came from New-York in order to 
 be amongst French-speaking people, as English was to 
 him an unknown tongue. He was laboring under a 
 grave malady, the effect of long and reckless dissipation. 
 His story, gathered by the Sister in attendance on 
 him, from his broken and at times incoherent bursts of 
 confidence, was far from being an uncommon one. Ten- 
 derly and carefully brought up by a pious mother, still 
 living in La Vendue to bewail her son's ruined life and 
 his miserable career of vice and folly, he had, soon after 
 
ITiirtTT""^-'"'"'"""'— 
 
 i 
 
 •160 
 
 HOW IT GAME TO PASS. 
 
 leaving college, fallen into the toils of unprincipled and 
 irreligious companions, who helped him to dissipate much 
 of his fortune while leading him into the haunts of vice, 
 and drawing him from the paths of virtue and religion. 
 
 It was the old story repeated over and over again since 
 the world was young. The spoiled and cherished one, 
 the prodigal, taking his substance away from his father's 
 house and squandering it among worthless and vicious 
 companions in that "far country " where wanton waste 
 and wild extravagance run ever riot. His father had 
 •died while he was yet a child, and his widowed mother 
 was left to mourn in solitude the cruel desertion of her 
 still beloved son. At times, when he spoke of his mother, 
 there was a slight tremor in his voice, but he quickly 
 mastered his emotion and laughed witn unfeeling levity 
 as he recalled her wioC counsels and gentle admonitions. 
 The wicked world had taken such entire possession of his 
 heart and soul that no virtuous sentiment, no pure affec- 
 tion could find place therein. His one idea was regret 
 for what he called vanished pleasures and the little hope 
 there was of his ever '' enjoying " them again. 
 
 In vain did the patient listener, the Sister in charge of 
 that particular ward, endeavor to put in a word here and 
 there that might revive some hallowed recollection long 
 dormant in his soul, some thought oi' Heaven or Hell, — 
 of the after-life to which he was hastening, — of the mother 
 to whom he had been a curse instead of a blessing, the 
 mother whose prayers were going up to heaven for him 
 night and day. To all her entreaties, her efforts to bring 
 him back to better thoughts and desires, he turned a 
 deaf ear, renewing his lamentations for the " jolly times " 
 and the "gay comrades" of his past life. 
 
and 
 nuch 
 vice, 
 gion. 
 since 
 . one, 
 ther's 
 icious 
 waste 
 r had 
 nother 
 of her 
 lother, 
 quickly 
 y levity 
 [litions. 
 m of his 
 e affec- 
 regret 
 e hope 
 
 harge of 
 ere and 
 )n long 
 Hell,— 
 mother 
 mg, the 
 for him 
 to bring 
 urned a 
 times " 
 
 HOW IT CAME TO PASS. 
 
 II. 
 
 16t 
 
 ■i 
 
 i! 
 
 " It's no use, Sister," he would say with querulous im- 
 patience. " It's no use talking to me about the happiness 
 of serving God. That's not the happiness I want. Reli- 
 j/ion and virtue are stuff. I want to hear no such pious 
 twaddle." 
 
 " But suppose you were to die in those dispositions, 
 what do you think would become of you ? " 
 
 " Oh well ! that's my own look-out. I'm not going to 
 die now ; and even if I were, I couldn't go back to the 
 days when I believed and prayed. I have neither done 
 one nor the other for so long that I couldn't do it now, 
 even if I wished it, — which I do not." 
 
 " Oh, my dear young man ! " would the shocked reli- 
 gious cry, " do not say that — do not say that !— you !:now 
 you cannot help believing — even the devils believe and 
 tremble. You cannot but fear the terrible judgments of 
 God !" 
 
 " It's no use, Sister, — it's no use, I tell you ! " would 
 the miserable young man cry out, and then, fearing that 
 an out-burst of anger might prove dangerous in his 
 enfeebled state, his careful attendant was fain to desist 
 from her fruitless efforts, at least for the time being. 
 
 One evening, when the young Frenchman — whom we 
 will call Monsieur Lambert, — seemed worse than usual, 
 the Sister ventured to ask him if he would not let the 
 chaplain come and see him. " He is coming to adminis- 
 ter the last Sacraments to that poor man in the corner 
 yonder who is drawing near his end." 
 
 ** No ! " cried Lambert, in a voice so loud and strong 
 
 that the gentle religious was startled by the fierce energy 
 
 II 
 
I i! :ji 
 
 ¥ L 
 i| i! i 
 
 ua i 
 
 
 
 
 -Si 
 
 ]r 
 
 iie&B 
 
 lip 
 u I ; 
 
 !l!i 
 
 ill! 
 
 il!;; 
 
 in 
 
 162 
 
 HOW IT GAME TO PASS. 
 
 of his refusal. " I tell you I don't want a priest. None 
 of your * last Sacraments ' for me ! Last Sacraments, 
 indeed ! " And he laughed ironically. 
 
 Then fearing any further importunities, he turned his 
 face to the wall and would not even look in the direction 
 of the chaplain, when a little while after, he appeared at 
 the bedside of the dying man who calmly and reverently 
 awaited his coming. 
 
 Before the priest left the ward, he approached Lambert 
 and asked him how he felt. But no answer was vouch- 
 safed him, and after another unsuccessful attempt to 
 induce the sick man to speak, he made a sign to the reli- 
 gious in attendance to leave matters as they were for 
 the present. 
 
 Accompanying the chaplain to the door of the ward, 
 the Sister asked in a low voice — " Oh ! dear father, what 
 is to be done with him ? " 
 
 " Leave him to the Sacred Heart, Sister! " was the 
 whispered reply. " We can do nothing for him as he 
 is, you see." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Things remained so for a few days. Then Sister M. — ■ 
 took heart of grace and spoke to Lambert in a casual 
 way, as it seemed, of the devotion to the Sacred Heart. 
 The patient listened at first with his usual stolid indiffer- 
 ence, as though none of these things had any interest 
 for him. Nothing daunted, the religious went on to 
 speak of the wonders being wrought everywhere through 
 the Sacred Heart, how the sick were cured, the sorrow- 
 ful comforted, the sinful and erring brought back to God. 
 
now IT CAME TO PASS. 
 
 163 
 
 )ne 
 ats, 
 
 his 
 tion 
 id at 
 intly 
 
 ibert 
 Duch- 
 pt to 
 e reli- 
 re for 
 
 ward,, 
 •j what 
 
 ^as the 
 as he 
 
 ;r 
 
 M.— 
 
 casual 
 Heart, 
 ndiffer- 
 interest 
 X on to 
 hrough 
 sorrow- 
 to God. 
 
 *' That's enough about the Sacred Heart,'' cried Lam- 
 bert, losing patience. " I want to sleep now." 
 
 " Well, I'll go away and let you sleep," said the Sister 
 soothingly, as a sudden inspiration came to her. "But 
 will you take this little badge of the Sacred Heart from 
 me before I leave you ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I don't want it in the least," replied Lambert ; 
 " but you've been so kind to me, Sister, that I'll take it 
 just to please you. It will do me no harm, I suppose, 
 if it do me no good." 
 
 '• Thank you so much !" said the Sister with assumed 
 calmness, unwilling to let her eagerness appear. " Now, 
 as it might get lost about the bed, I'll just put it here ! " 
 and she fastened the badge to the breast of the patient's 
 night shirt. 
 
 " Well ! I call that a good joke ! " Lambert said, 
 regarding his new decoration with an amused smile. " If 
 only my old Parisian comrades might see me now ! " 
 
 " Never mind that, monsieur, but lie down and go to 
 sleep ! " and the Sister moved noiselessly away, breathing 
 an inward prayer to the Sacred Heart. 
 
 What the dreams of the sleeper might have been who 
 could tell, as he lay in the fading light of the summer 
 day. Were they of that far-off Vendean home, amid 
 whose pleasant shades his happy, because pure and inno- 
 cent, youth was passed among pious kindred and friends, 
 all deeply imbued with the Christian spirit of their heroic 
 forefathers and full of the ennobling traditions of that 
 glorious strife for faith and country that has made the 
 name of La Vendee for ever famous and for ever honored? 
 Or were they of scenes of wild revelry, of unhallowed 
 pleasures among the semi-pagan brawlers of the French 
 capital ? Not the latter surely, for when the sleeper 
 
mm 
 
 1G4 
 
 HOW IT CAME TO IWSS. 
 
 awoke in the late twilight, he looked around with a 
 wondering, dazed look as though but half-conscious, 
 then glanced down at the tiny badge reposing so calmly 
 on his breast, and a smile lit up his wasted features. He 
 looked around for the Sister, but she was not there. 
 Indeed, she was at that moment kneeUng before the 
 Blessed Sacrament in the convent-chapel, praying to the 
 merciful Heart of Jesus for all her dear patients, and very 
 specially for the lonely stranger from far La Vendee, sick 
 in mind as well as in body. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ! Ill 
 
 A few minutes later Sister M appeared and asked 
 
 Lambert how he felt after his sleep. 
 
 " Better," he replied ; " better — and — " he stopped 
 short, while the religious waited and wondered what was 
 
 commg. 
 
 " Sister," said the sick man, after a pause of some 
 minutes, *' what day is to-morrow ? I think you said it 
 was some feast-day ? " he added in a sort of shame-faced 
 way. 
 
 " Well, not exactly a feast-day, monsieur ! " the sister 
 replied with a beaming smile. She saw and felt that a 
 change had come over her patient. " It is simply a day 
 of very great devotion, the first Friday of the month. 
 Did you ever hear of the blessed Margaret Mary, the 
 Visilandine nun, her wonderful visions and the revel- 
 ations Our blessed Lord made to her in her convent at 
 Paray-le-Monial in your own France, concerning His 
 Sacred Heart ? " 
 
 Lambert passed his hand over his forehead, as though 
 
HOW IT CAME TO PASS. 
 
 165 
 
 a 
 
 IS, 
 
 ily 
 He 
 ;re. 
 the 
 the 
 /ery 
 sick 
 
 Lsked 
 
 Dpped 
 at was 
 
 some 
 said it 
 faced 
 
 sister 
 that a 
 
 a day 
 
 Inonth. 
 
 :y, the 
 
 revel- 
 Iveiit at 
 lig His 
 
 [though 
 
 trying to bring back some half-effaced remembrance. At 
 length he said slowly : — " Surely yes, Sister. I used to 
 hear my mother tell — oh ! so often — of — the Blessed 
 Margaret Mary — and Paray-le-Monial." 
 
 " And Our Lord's promises to that holy religious ? " 
 the Sister asked eagerly — " and what he said about 
 observing the first P'riday ? " 
 
 " Not so fast, dear sister ! " said the patient with a 
 faint smile. " I cannot say I remember all that. But 
 the names and the visions, oh yes ! I remember about 
 them. What did you say about the first Friday ? " 
 
 With an inward prayer that her words might reach the 
 poor wayward heart of her listener, the good religious 
 told simply and briefly the beautiful story of our dear 
 Lord's apparitions to the Virgin Saint of Paray-le- 
 Monial, His commands in relation to the first Friday of 
 each month and the observance of the Friday after the 
 octave of Corpus Christi as the annual feast of His 
 Sacred Heart. Then she told of the many gracious 
 promises attached by the Divine Master to the public 
 and private practice of devotion to that Heart of His 
 which, as He touchingly said, " has so loved men." 
 
 V. 
 
 The young man lay silent for a while, and the Sister, 
 unwilHng to disturb the course of his reflections, moved 
 about among the other patients, smoothing a pillow here, 
 administering some medicine or a cooling drink there, 
 and everywhere speaking words of comfort and encour- 
 agement. 
 
 At last she came back to the young Frenchman's bed 
 and found him anxiously awaiting her return. 
 
mm 
 
 ■iMi 
 
 166 
 
 now IT CAME TO PASS. 
 
 ill 
 
 " Sister," he exclaimed as she came within hearing. 
 ** Do you think Father C — will come here this evening ?" 
 
 " I do not know, monsieur ; but if you wish to see 
 him he will come. Why do you ask ? " 
 
 " 1 want to go to confession, Sister. Do not laugh, 
 now ! " mistaking the arch smile he saw on the calm 
 sweet face, — " I tell you I'm in earnest. I mi^s/ go to con- 
 fession. I want to be good again. Do you think I might 
 be ready to receive communion to-morrow morning ? " 
 
 " That depends a great deal on your dispositions : 
 How long is it since your last confession ? " 
 
 " Twenty-five years, sister ! J see you are shocked, 
 but I must say the truth. For twenty-five years I have 
 not been to confession." 
 
 " I am not at all shocked, my poor friend ! " replied 
 the Sister calmly. " I have heard such things before in 
 this very ward. 1 am glad and thankful that you see 
 your error now and wish to repair it. I will ask the 
 chaplain to come and hear your confession. To morrow 
 morning before mass he will visit you again and have 
 you finish your confession. Now I will leave you to 
 examine your conscience and excite yourself to contri- 
 tion. You have not forgotten how to prepare for the 
 Sacrament of Penance ? " 
 
 " Oh no, no, Sister ! I was too well instructed in my 
 early days not to remember that. Indeed it was not from 
 ignorance I fell into sin and remained in it. It was all 
 along from bad company and bad reading." 
 
 " Well, now, you must keep very quiet and pray very 
 hard that you may know and be sorry for your sins. 
 The priest will come bye and bye. The Sacred Heart 
 has done much for you already. It will do more, so 
 hope and pray !" 
 
now IT CAME TO PASS. 
 
 167 
 
 ng. 
 
 CT?" 
 
 D • 
 
 see 
 
 :alm 
 con- 
 night 
 
 ? " 
 
 ions : 
 
 eked, 
 [have 
 
 eplied 
 
 fore in 
 
 t)U see 
 
 sk the 
 
 lorrow 
 
 i have 
 
 you to 
 contri- 
 "or the 
 
 in my 
 
 Dt from 
 
 Ivvas all 
 
 ly very 
 
 lir sins. 
 
 Heart 
 
 liore, so 
 
 VI. 
 
 An hour later and Lambert had made his confession 
 of five and twenty years. The Divine Heart of Jesus 
 had softened that hardened heart and poured into it the 
 abundant grace of true contrition. So full, so complete, 
 so sincere was the confession of that true penitent, that 
 the chaplain, amazed and overjoyed, declared it to the 
 religious a miracle of grace reaching over the entire life 
 and into every recess of the heart. 
 
 " A second confession will be hardly necessary," he 
 said, "this one has been so good in every respect. But 
 the poor young man is so anxious to purify his soul from 
 every stain of sin before receiving Holy Communion 
 that I will hear him again to-morrow morning before 
 mass. You see, my dear Sister," he added with a 
 pleasant smile: "the Sacred Heart never does things 
 by halves." 
 
 Yes, the prodigal had returned to his Father's house. 
 The heavenly Banquet was prepared for him and the 
 mystic ring of reconciliation was placed on his finger. 
 
 Next morning while the early sunshine illumined his 
 bed and rested like a halo on the wall above his head, 
 Lambert received the Bread of Life, with the tranquil 
 joy of the wanderer restored to home and kindred after 
 long and weary years of absence. 
 
 His one trouble was that his mother was not there to 
 witness his happiness, — his first and most earnest request 
 that the glad tidings might be conveyed to her with as 
 little delay as possible. 
 
 As a sequel to this true story of quite recent occur- 
 rence, it will interest the reader to know thac our young 
 
It f 
 
 168 
 
 l/OW IT CAME W PASS. 
 
 Frenchman still lives, his health somewhat improved, 
 though his ultimate recovery is hardly to be expected. 
 Although the Sacred Heart may heal the body as well 
 as the soul of His faithful client. Who knows? 
 
 i i 
 
a 
 
 THAT WORTHLESS LAD." 
 
 Anna T. Sai>i,iek. 
 
 !HAT he was a worthless lad was the usual ver- 
 dict upon Harry O'Connor. He had left school 
 early, because he had never done any tning 
 there. He could rarely be got to say a lesson, he was 
 invariably late for the opening exercises, he was the 
 cause of much disorder in the class, and he never got a 
 prize, except for baseball. It was finally intimated to 
 his mother, who was a widow, that she was wasting her 
 hard-earned money in keeping him at school. After 
 that, things went, so to say, from bad to worse. Not 
 that Harry actually did anything very bad, but there 
 was a general impression that he was wild, unstable, 
 untrustworthy, ; at all events, it was very evident that 
 he was careless about his dress, and averse to anything 
 like steady work ; altogether, his mother found it very 
 hard to get him employment. What he did earn usually 
 came in the form of small coin for doing errands, or 
 holding horses, or seUing newspapers. 
 
 People always took him at his worst. Hence his usual 
 demeanor was one of sturdy defiance, with a touch, 
 perhaps, of insolence. But, in the recess of his own 
 heart, poor Harry often reflected bitterly upon his own 
 evil tendencies, and upon his utter inability to succeed 
 at anything. 
 
170 
 
 THE WOHTIILESS LAD. 
 
 <i 
 
 li I 
 
 I'm a duffer at everything," he once said to an intim- 
 ate friend, " I'm no good to anybody." His friend did 
 not correct his gra.mmar, nor could he contradict the 
 statement, but pleasantly persuaded by a generous sense 
 of his own superiority, he gave Harry a new peg-top as 
 a species of consolation. 
 
 Friends of his mother often condoled with her that 
 all the advantages she had given her son were wasted. 
 What was the good of all his education and the years 
 he had spent at school? The widow groaned in spirit 
 over the truth of these allegations, but she only said 
 aloud : 
 
 " Who knows? The good of it may be seen some of 
 these days, and any how I did my best." 
 
 In his own rough way Harry was always kind to his 
 mother, though he did not usually get credit for it. He 
 helped her with all sorts of odd jobs about the house, 
 and he never answered her reproaches by even so much 
 as a word. 
 
 "She's right," he would say in himself in the solitude 
 of his own room. " I'm a burden to her. I let her 
 pay for my education, and I'm letting her toil and slave 
 yet to keep me." 
 
 The fruit of such resolution was that he usually went 
 down town next morning, and made a vigorous but gen- 
 erally unsuccesoful effort to get something to do. Even 
 if he did succeed, his evil genius or spirit of mischief 
 and a love of idling caused him in most cases to be 
 dismissed within the week. 
 
 Once he had gone off with a number of his companions 
 for a day's berry-picking in the country. He came back 
 at evening with Httle to show but torn clothes and soiled 
 hands. The berries which were to have been a profit- 
 
THE WORTHLESS LAD. 
 
 171 
 
 tim- 
 Idid 
 t the 
 sense 
 Dp as 
 
 r that 
 asted. 
 
 years 
 
 spirit 
 y said 
 
 ome of 
 
 to his 
 it. He 
 1 house, 
 
 o much 
 
 soUiude 
 
 let her 
 
 tid slave 
 
 ipanions 
 Ime back 
 lid soiled 
 a profit- 
 
 able speculation were not forthcoming. No doubt it 
 was an aggravation to the feelings of his sorely-tried 
 and hard-working mother, when he offered her, very 
 humbly and sheepishly, a little bunch of fragrant 
 hawthorn blossoms. 
 
 " X thouglit may be you'd like them," he observed. 
 
 " Get out of my sight for an idle vagabond," was the 
 mother's only response, as she se'"/ ?d the flowers and 
 threw them out of the window. 
 
 It was a natural impulse, j)erhaps, under the circum- 
 stances, but it wa^ a matter of regret to her afterwards. 
 Harry slunk away to his room, more ashamed of the 
 better instinct which had led him to bring home the 
 flowers than of his day of idleness. 
 
 Harry went to Church on Sunday, and occasionally 
 he approached the Sacram?nts. He tried hard after his 
 own fashion, and generally did pretty well Iv^r a time 
 after each of these occasions. It probably made it harder 
 for him, that he was very likely to hear such remarks 
 as the following : 
 
 ■•'Much good '^ does you to go to Church or to the 
 Sacraments, li you d try to earn a little money for your 
 mother it woukl be better." 
 
 This made Harry shy of approaching (.he altar fre- 
 quently, or yet cf making known to anyone his little bit 
 of devotion. At school he had jomed the League of the 
 Sacred Heart, and, unknown to any one, he always v ore 
 the badge. His was such a life of constant failure that 
 he had a feeling that he would rather hide this emblem of 
 devotion, ihat he would not like lo put himself forward 
 as an associate of the Apostleship. But he often took 
 out his badge and looked at it, and after his uncouth 
 
^h 
 
 mmnmsm 
 
 i: tj 
 
 (7^ 
 
 THE WO nr II LESS LAD. 
 
 hi' 
 
 fashion he said a prayer that he might be able to do 
 better and to help his mother. 
 
 As the Spring came on he heard his mother deplore to 
 her friends her utter inability to meet a certain debt, 
 which, though small, was totally beyond her means. After 
 overhearing one of these conversations he went out and 
 made a great effort. He seemed in demand for errands 
 and he sold a lot of j)apers, and he ^awed a cord of wood. 
 He went home at night and put the money away in a 
 drawer. Next day, he went out agam, and though he 
 met with less success, still he made something, and he 
 resisted innumerable temptations in the shape of a base- 
 bali match, of marbles, tops, candy or soda water, saving 
 both money and time with heroic resolve. 
 
 This went on for a week or ten days, and the little pile 
 in the drawer was growing, as his mother's complaints 
 were also increasing, and he heard one of her friends say 
 one day. 
 
 " And to think of that worthless fellow, that son of 
 yours, after all you've done for him, idling away his 
 time." The mother only sighed and nodded her head, 
 as if in agreement with the sentiment. 
 
 Harry went out after that, feeling unusually despond- 
 ent, but eager to add a trifle if he could to tht pile in the 
 drawer. As he got to the corner of the street, he turned 
 and looked back at the little house, so poor, but so clean, 
 and bearing such a stamp of decency despite its shabbi- 
 ness. Into his mind came a throng of recollections, 
 crowding upon him. he knew not, however, why. He 
 remembered the day when he had come out, holding his 
 mother's hand, a little baby-boy, clad in a sombre black 
 dress, to go to his father's funeral, and another day, a 
 bright, sunshiny one it was, when his mother had first 
 
THE WOHTHLESS LAD. 
 
 173 
 
 to QO 
 
 lore to 
 debt, 
 ,. After 
 )ut and 
 -rrands 
 f wood, 
 ay in a 
 lugh he 
 and he 
 ; a base - 
 f, saving 
 
 ittle pile 
 mplaints 
 iends say 
 
 .t son of 
 away his 
 ler head, 
 
 lespond- 
 
 bile in the 
 
 lie turned 
 
 so clean, 
 
 [s shabbi- 
 
 [Uections, 
 
 ^hy. He 
 )ldinghis 
 
 Ibre black 
 ir day, a 
 had first 
 
 brought him to the Brother's school. He was fifteen 
 now, and how little he had accomplished. The figure of 
 his mother came before him, bent with hard toil, the face 
 deeply lined and furrowed, the hair silver grey. With 
 a sudden rush of pity and tenderness, for which no living 
 person would have given that rough lad credit, Harry 
 hurried on his way, determining once more to eschew 
 idleness forever, and to win rest and comfort for his 
 mother. 
 
 He went in the direction of the hotel. Perhaps he 
 might get some odd job over there. As he was within a 
 few blocks of it, he noticed an unusual stir amongst the 
 passers by, and presently an alarm cf fire and the 
 whirling past of reels and hooks and ladders. Harry 
 followed the crowd, resolving, however, not to linger too 
 long, nor permit the fascination of the fire to interfere 
 with his good intentions. 
 
 Growing excited, however, he stood by a while, and 
 watched the fiames wrapping themselves around the 
 doomed building, bursting through windows and doors, 
 through roof and chimney. Firemen were darting in 
 and out, ladders were being put up and taken down 
 again. The throng around the spot were swaying and 
 quivering with excitement, now shouting, now watching 
 dumbly in suspense. Suddenly there was an agonizing 
 cry, awful in its intensity of grief. It came from a 
 woman who was struggling with several firemen. Her 
 child was in the burning building and they would not 
 let her go to him, 
 
 " A light weight might go up that ladder," said one 
 fireman to another, " but I'm blessed if any grown man 
 could do it. Why, it's charred and almost burned through 
 in the midoie." 
 
lili 
 
 174 
 
 THE WORTHLESS LAD. 
 
 " Is there no other way to save the child " ? asked the 
 other. 
 
 " None, it would be madness to risk it." 
 
 The speakers stood near Harry. He drew in his 
 breath hard. That mother's cry had appealed to some- 
 thing in him, which his years of failure had not been 
 able to eradicate. 
 
 *' I'm such a duffer,'' he said to himself. " I ain't no 
 good to nobody. If I could get that child out it wouldn't 
 matter much if I did get knocked over. And p'rhaps 
 they'd give mother something." 
 
 He grasped his badge of the Sacred Heart, and he 
 made a swift act of contrition, with a simple prayer for 
 help and courage. He had been to Communion only 
 the day before. He paused a moment. It was hard, the 
 sky was blue and the air sweet and fragrant, and the 
 birds were singing. How often all these things had 
 lured him away from duty. Another instant and he was 
 on the ladder. 
 
 " That room is not on fire yet," he shouted, " I'll 
 bring out the child if it can be done." 
 
 Cries of " brave lad," " noble boy ! " " hold him back,'' 
 *' it's certain death," rang in his ears, but he held stead- 
 ily on his course. What mattered — a useless life like 
 his ? It was the first time any act of his had been met 
 by the applause of his fellows, but he was insensible to 
 it now. He had but one purpose in view — to save the 
 child ; and, whether he lived or died himself, to gain 
 perhaps some pecuniary means for his mother. 
 
 The smoke almost blinded him, flames scorched his 
 face and hair, till at last he leaped in at a window to a 
 room, which the fire had hitherto spared, — the room 
 where a child lay sleeping. There was a dead pause 
 
 r 
 
Tim wo nw LESS lad. 
 
 175- 
 
 .the 
 
 11 his 
 ,ome- 
 been 
 
 a't no 
 
 uldn't 
 'rhaps 
 
 md he 
 yer for 
 )n only 
 ird, the 
 and the 
 gs had 
 he was 
 
 id, "I'll 
 
 back,'' 
 Id stead- 
 llife like 
 jen met 
 bsible to 
 Isave the 
 
 to gain 
 
 without, and within Harry could hear the raging, roaring 
 flames hissing and crackling in the corridors. Harry 
 seized the child, and at a bound reached the window. 
 Slowly, carefully, he began to descend ; when, about 
 half way down, a dozen of willing hands reached for 
 the child. Harry fairly threw it into the stalwart arms 
 of a fireman. He heard the mother's shriek of joy just 
 as he came to the rotten part of the ladder of which the 
 firemen had spoken. 
 
 He heard, too, a deafening cheer, the recognition of 
 his heroism. It was followed instantaneously by a 
 death-like silence. The ladder had given way, and, as 
 it fell with Harry, a stone overhead b'^came detached. 
 It crushed in the youthful hero's chest. He lived but a 
 few seconds, having scarce time to bid them tell his 
 mother of the little pile of money in the drawer which 
 he had saved for her. '* But I'm such a duffer, I didn't 
 get enough." 
 
 He grasped his badge of the Sacred Heart, and his 
 dying eyes sought it eagerly as he ended, thus gloriously 
 his "worthless life." 
 
 Before .he judgment seat, where he had to appear, 
 perhaps his failures counted for less than his efforts. By 
 his death, moreover, he accomplished, what he had been 
 unable to do in life. His mother was placed, forever, 
 beyond the reach of want by a comfortable yearly allow- 
 ance from the lady whose child had In-.n saved from so 
 terrible a death by that " worthless ^ad." 
 
 :hed his 
 low to a 
 le room 
 
 lad pause 
 
THE STORY OF MARY MARSON. 
 
 Anna T. Sadlier. 
 
 i 
 
 ^iiiit^j^ii^ gray November morning, the trees rising 
 skeleton like towards a leaden-colored sky, a 
 moaning wind that spoke of coming storm, 
 streets strewn with the last remnant of the fallen leaves. 
 This autumnal dreariness had its full effect upon Mary 
 Marson. She was a stranger in this city, where once, 
 so many years ago, her mother had lived before her 
 marriage. Having struggled back thus to what had 
 been her girlhood's home, and having been disappointed 
 in finding old friends dead or absent or estranged, the 
 mother had died, and Mary Marson was left alone. 
 She had actually no means of livelihood. She had paid 
 that morning her fortnight's board, being well aware 
 that it was the last payment she should be able to make. 
 She had, in fact, but a dollar in the world. All means 
 of obtaining employment had been so far unsuccessful. 
 As she passed disconsolately down the principal street 
 of the city, jostled by the hurrying crowds of men and 
 women, confused by the endless traffic, by the never- 
 ceasing din and confusion, Mary Marson suddenly 
 caught sight of the great stone church of Our Lady, its 
 towers reaching heavenward. A sudden inspiration 
 seized upon her. She had always had a particular 
 devotion to the Holy Souls. This was their month. She 
 would give a portion of her last dollir to have a Mass 
 
THE STORY OF MAHY MA US ON. 
 
 177 
 
 rising 
 sky, a 
 storm, 
 leaves. 
 
 1 ^lary 
 
 2 once, 
 ore her 
 lat had 
 pointed 
 
 ed, the 
 alone, 
 ad paid 
 I aware 
 o make, 
 means 
 cessful. 
 al street 
 en and 
 never- 
 uddenly 
 .ady, its 
 piration 
 tirticular 
 .ith. She 
 a Mass 
 
 or two said for them, and she would ask their help. So 
 many had found it efficacious even in temporal matters, 
 why should not she ? * 
 
 About a week later, Mary Marson, grown paler each 
 ■day with anxiety for the future as well as for present 
 needs, came out of church on the morning of the first 
 Friday. She had just offered up a fervent Communion 
 for the holy souls, though thinking sadly that her little 
 sacrifice in their behalf had so far failed to bring her 
 help. Almost outside the church she caught sight of a 
 tall, fair young man, clad in mourning. Though his 
 appearance was most striking, Mary Marson would have 
 passed on without a second glance, but he stepped for- 
 ward, saying, as she thought, somewhat abruptly : 
 
 " You are in search, are you not, of some position ? " 
 
 Involuntarily she answered '* Yes, " though much 
 ■startled at being addressed by a stranger. 
 
 " Go, then, without delay to this address," he said, 
 mentioning a street and number ; *' a lady desires a com- 
 panion. Show her your reference, she will engage you.'' 
 
 So dazed was Mary Marson by the whole affair, that 
 she asked no question, allowing the stranger to depart, 
 as he instantly did. At first, she was undecided as to 
 whether or no she should act upon the information so 
 singularly given. Something within her seemed to urge 
 her to proceed without delay to the given address. In 
 less than an hour, she was sitting, nervous and uncom- 
 fortable, in the luxurious drawing-room of a fine house 
 on one of the best streets. She dreaded the meeting 
 with the unknown lady, to whom she was about to 
 make her application. How should she explain her 
 
 * The main incidents of this story are true. 
 
 12 
 
111 4w!fr^ 
 
 , 11 
 
 ^j 
 
 'I 
 
 
 178 
 
 THE STORY OF MAHY MAli^ON. 
 
 presence, or why she had presumed that a companion 
 was required ? 
 
 The door opened, and a tall, slender woman, evidently- 
 past the allotted threescore and ten, entered the room. 
 Her face, delicately featured and pale, framed with 
 snowy masses of hair, seemed unaccountably familiar. 
 Where had Mary Marson seen her before ? 
 
 In a few words the young girl made known her desire 
 for a situation as companion, whom she believed the old 
 lady was seeking. 
 
 " I am at a loss to know why you should have come," 
 said the old lady, thoughtfully, at the same time looking 
 fixedly at her. " I have, indeed, made up my mind to 
 secure a companion, should I find a desirable one, but 
 I have not put an advertisement in the papers, nor 
 have I made known my intention to my friends." 
 
 Mary Marson blushed and hesitated. Her presence 
 seemed like an intrusion. 
 
 " I was sent here by a gentleman," she said, " whom 
 I accidentally met at the church door. No doubt, he 
 had observed me at church, and had learned of my 
 need of a situation from the Fathers, but he distinctly 
 told me to come here, and that if my references were 
 satisfactory you would engage me, I thought," conti- 
 nued the young girl, after a pause, " that he might be 
 your son, he was tall and fair and ." 
 
 For instantaneously, it had occurred to her that the 
 familiar look of this lady's face was due to her likeness 
 to Mary's mysterious informant. 
 
 '• You are mistaken," said the old lady : *' I have no 
 son." Was the coldness of her tone real, or was it 
 assumed to hide some deep emotion ? Presently she 
 continued : " Probably this gentleman was deceived as- 
 
THE sroin OF mary ma h son. 
 
 179 
 
 iiion 
 
 sntly 
 
 oom. 
 
 with 
 
 liliar. 
 
 desire 
 ne old 
 
 ;ome," 
 Doking 
 ind to- 
 le, but 
 IS, nor 
 
 esence 
 
 whom 
 ubt, he 
 
 of my 
 stinctly 
 
 s were 
 conti- 
 
 ght be 
 
 hat the 
 likeness 
 
 lave no 
 
 was it 
 
 itly she 
 
 iived as 
 
 to the address. But in spite of thd singular coincidence, 
 I cannot permit your annonymous informant to decide 
 upon the suitabiUty of a companion for me." 
 
 Clary's heart sank, as was clearly shown in her expres- 
 sive face. The old lady continued more kindly : 
 
 " However, I will confess that I am very much 
 tempted to judge by appearances in the present case, 
 and to avail myself of what may be a most fortunate 
 coincidence." 
 
 '* I can show you my references," said Mary bright- 
 ening up, " and you can, if you wish, call upon friends 
 of my late mother, to satisfy you as to my antecedents." 
 
 As a mere matter of prudence, the lady looked into 
 Mary's credentials, for from the first she had felt so 
 strong an inclination to engage her upon the spot, that 
 it seemed to herself marvellous. 
 
 " You will have a good home with me," she said ; 
 " light work, much free time to yourself, the oppor- 
 tunity of travel if my health keeps good, and a fair 
 salary." 
 
 The sum which she mentioned seemed a fortune to 
 poor Mary. She was silent for very joy and wonder, 
 the old lady looking on, and, as she said long after- 
 wards, feeling as if it would have been a real grief 
 to her had Mary at that moment refused the situation. 
 Some of the names which you have given me here," she 
 said, referring to Mary's list, " are personal friends of 
 my own. You can hear of me from them, and can be 
 prepared to come to me in a day or two, that is if my 
 terms suit you." 
 
 " They are too generous, too liberal," answered Mary. 
 
 '"■ Then all is arranged, once you have seen your friends 
 and consulted with them." 
 
180 
 
 THE SrOHY OF MAliY MAHSON. 
 
 The friends, who had been disposed to receive Mary 
 coldly when there was question of substantial aid, were 
 only too glad to help her in securing a situation, which, 
 they assured her, was better than anything she could 
 have hoped for. The old lady, who occupied a leading 
 position in the city, was rich, childless, a devout Cath- 
 olic and of a kindly disposition. 
 
 II. 
 
 niilM£. 
 
 From the first, Mary Marson became, as it were, the 
 daughter of the house. A close bond of sympathy 
 seemed to unite her with her employer, so that the girl 
 had almost a unique experience in that usually trying 
 position of paid companion. From the first she had 
 perceived that a heavy sorrow had shadowed her bene- 
 factress' life. A thousand circumstances, trifling in 
 themselves, brought her to this conclusion. But through 
 natural reticence, exaggerated by years of loneliness, 
 the old lady at first made no allusion to her troubles. 
 
 It was the last evening of November, and as the two 
 sat together, their talk had been of the special devotion 
 of the month, — the departed souls. They had talked 
 long and earnestly on the means of helping the poor 
 souls, of the merit to be gained in doing so, and Mary 
 Marson had told her benefactress of her constant devo- 
 tion to them and her faith in their grateful intercession. 
 " To them I am confident that I owe my present happi- 
 ness," said Mary, looking gratefully at her employer, for 
 whom she already felt so sincere an affection. 
 
 *' Perhaps, who knows ? " said the old lady, thought- 
 fully. She sat in a high-backed arm-chair, close to the 
 fire, so that its light fell from her lace cap to her plain 
 
 * ■*»■ 
 
THE STOnV OF MARY MAR SON. 
 
 181 
 
 were 
 
 hich, 
 
 could 
 
 ading 
 
 Cath- 
 
 re, the 
 npathy 
 the girl 
 trying 
 he had 
 ;r bene- 
 (fling in 
 [through 
 eUness, 
 .bles. 
 the two 
 .evotion 
 talked 
 |he poor 
 d Mary 
 t devo- 
 cession. 
 t happi- 
 lyer, for 
 
 thought- 
 te to the 
 ler plain 
 
 gown of black silk, and brought into relief once more 
 her finely cut features. To Mary's mind came again 
 the remembrance of the stranger who had sent her 
 thither, and of his wonderful resemblance to this woman. 
 But she made no comment. Their talk drifted on to 
 those of speculations into which people from time to 
 time are carried, concerning the conditions of the after- 
 life, and as to whether or no the souls in purgatory can 
 have knowledge of what is done on earth. 
 
 When the old lady had gone upstairs, Mary remained 
 below a few moments, to be sure that the house was 
 properly secured. On going up, she saw a bright light 
 in a room at the end of the hall, which she had always 
 believed to be unoccupied, and which was usually locked. 
 Surprised at the circumstance, she stood irresolute, un- 
 certain whether to inquire into this unusual occurrence, 
 or to pass on. Suddenly the door opened, and her em- 
 ployer stood upon the threshold. " Mary," she said, 
 " come here ; there is something I want to tell you, 
 much that I want to show you." Mary went forward. 
 She entered thatluxuriously appointed room and looked 
 about her indifferently enough, till all at once her eyes 
 fell upon a portrait over the mantel piece. Turning pale, 
 she asked hurriedly : 
 
 " Who is that ? " 
 
 " That," said the old lady, the tears rolling down her 
 cheeks, " is he of whom I brought you here to speak, 
 — my only son." 
 
 Deeply moved by the overwhelming grief of her tone, 
 Mary said hastily, ••' Then he is alive j you are not 
 childless after all." 
 
 *' He died five years ago. It was upon his anniver- 
 sary you came to me." 
 
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182 
 
 THE STORY OF MARY M ARSON. 
 
 " But it was he who sent me," cried Mary, much agit- 
 ated ; '* I recognized him at once ; I should know him 
 anywhere." 
 
 They both stood silent a moment. Then, as by a 
 common impulse, both fell upon their knees. 
 
 Thenceforth, Mary Marson put aside a portion of 
 her salary — rather allowance, because she had become 
 •he formally adopted daughter of her wealthy bene- 
 factress — for the relief of the souls in purgatory. 
 
THE MESSAGE OF THE CHRISTMAS BELLS. 
 
 Anna T. Sadlier. 
 
 |HE wind swept moaning over the wintry land- 
 scape, moaning over distant hills, moaning in 
 the trees as they crakled in their icy armor. 
 Henry Moore stood at the window of his library looking 
 out. He saw the snow-covered earth glistening under 
 a frosty moon. He saw the hoar frost mantling the 
 bare trees with fairy like ornamentation. He saw the 
 stars shine with the intense brilliancy of a Canadian 
 winter's night, and the line where the ice-bound river 
 joined the horizon, vaguely, indefinitely, seeming to 
 melt into a measureless distance. But his fancy baffling 
 time and space had gone far beyond. In that land across 
 the ocean, in the green island of his birth, he was a boy 
 again. In his father's farmhouse, the great kitchen was 
 aglow with light and warmth, and the added warmth 
 that comes from merry hearts and true. For it was 
 Christmas eve. His father, his mother, smiling, his 
 sisters, brothers — hark ! that is the bell, calling them to 
 chapel, to the humble structure with its thatched roof 
 and mud walls. Yes, surely, a bell is tolling 1 He leans 
 forward, draws back, and smiles at his brief forgetful- 
 ness. The bell that rings is that of the great church in 
 the square, calling the worshippers to Midnight Mass. 
 The Irish home has ^ vanished, — faethr, mother, 
 brothers, sisters, all are gone. There are many mounds 
 
 m 
 
184 THE MESSAGE OF THE CURISTMAS BELLS. 
 
 in the village churchyard where the Irish earth rests 
 lightly on forms once familiar and the simple crosses 
 record their well-known names Dead ? All ? No, 
 there is one alive — a brother. 
 
 A frown darkens Henry Moore's brow. He has 
 vowed never again to speak to his brother Michael. 
 There had been business trouble between them, Michael 
 had cut adrift, after many hot words had been spoken, 
 and to crown it all had deliberately acted against his 
 brother's advice, by marrying to please himself. Marrying 
 whom ? A young Irish girl, an emigrant, utterly portion- 
 less, and quite unsuited, as Henry believed, to the new 
 position which the brothers had made for themselves 
 here in this Western world. 
 
 As he reached this stage of his reflections, Henry 
 Moore involuntarily glanced around the luxuriously 
 appointed room in which he sat, and as he looked, he 
 sighed. What was it that struck an icy chill to his heart ? 
 He shivered, and ringing, ordered a better fire. He 
 paced the room, and heard as in a dream the Christmas 
 bells growing louder, fairly deafening in their clangor. 
 What was it the poet made them say, " Peace and good- 
 will, good-will and peace." Voices from without reached 
 him dimly. " Merry Christmas," they said ; " merry, 
 merry Christmas, and many of them." 
 
 " What mockery it was," thought Henry Moore, 
 bitterly, this wishing of merry Christmas to men and 
 women, into whose inmost hearts the canker of care, or 
 sorrow, or disappointment, or loneliness was eating daily 
 and hourly. And yet — it had not been a mockery long 
 ago. Those Irish hearts had been warm and true. Their 
 joy had been genuine as their love, and faith, and hope. 
 They had looked upon the merry Christmases of earth 
 
THE MESSAGE OF THE C/IIilSTMAS HELLS. 185 
 
 rests 
 
 jsses 
 
 No, 
 
 J has 
 
 ;hael. 
 
 chad 
 
 oken, 
 
 St his 
 
 rrying 
 
 »rtioii- 
 
 le new 
 
 iselves 
 
 Henry 
 
 riously 
 
 :ed, he 
 
 heart ? 
 He 
 
 ristrnas 
 
 angor. 
 
 good- 
 
 eached 
 
 merry, 
 
 Moore, 
 Bien and 
 care, or 
 
 g daily 
 :ry long 
 ;. Their 
 
 d hope. 
 
 f earth 
 
 a 
 
 as foretastes of joy to come, in the New City, in the 
 great Hereafter. The world recked so little of all this, 
 and it was so far removed from the question of success 
 Ml life ! " Just then, Henry Moore felt that he would give 
 his success in life and all that it had entailed for one 
 look of love from kindred eyes or one warm pressure of 
 the hand. 
 
 And Michael, oh ! if he had not been so head-strong ! 
 If those twenty years of estrangement were but a dream ! 
 And that they two, the only ones of their name and race, 
 could meet as of old. Michael had drifted away to the 
 Northwest. He had written once, asking that bygones 
 be bygones, and saying that he needed nothing, and 
 only wished that the old kind feeling might exist between 
 them again. Henry had hardened his heart, and had 
 sent back the letter. Then there was silence. Into that 
 silence had come the shadow of death for Henry. His 
 wife and his only son had been taken. He was a lonely 
 and heart-stricken man. A week ago he had learned 
 that Michael had come back into the city, and was living 
 with his family in obscurity, if not in poverty. 
 
 If the bells would only cease with their monotone of 
 peace and good-v/ill, good-will and peace. Surely that 
 was no idle fancy of the poet. It was the message con- 
 veyed by these blessed bells. His mother used to tell 
 him they were blessed. Over the lonely watcher's soul 
 was pouring a tide of softened feeling. Yes, they were 
 right, those older friends. Christmas was more than a 
 season for eating and drinking, and giving presents, and 
 sitting a space in a comfortable pew at church. His 
 fashionable Protestant wife had done that (ov years, and 
 he had drifted with her. He had stumbled past the 
 great spiritual landmark of the year, Christmas, unaware 
 
: )' I 
 
 186 WE MESSAGE OF WE CfiniSTMAS HELLS. 
 
 of its significance. All the beautiful symbolism of the 
 Feast had been lost upon him, as well as the mighty fact 
 which it recorded. It had brought him no awakening of 
 the soul. It had never roused him from his dream of 
 money-getting. Christ had died, and had taught that 
 poverty is blest. He had forgotten both, and had 
 worshipped riches. 
 
 Clearly he sav/ now, as in a vision, his brother Michael, 
 a little boy with rose-red cheeks, bright eyes and raven 
 hair, pressing close to him, upon that Christmas eve, his 
 last in Ireland, and offering his hand to " bring him to 
 church." He could almost feel the warm, soft touch of 
 his fingers, upon which his own had closed so lovingly. 
 Oh, if this Christmas night would onlj wear away, if the 
 dawn would only whiten that snowy landscape. He 
 would seek his brother, and seeking him, find also the 
 meaning of the Feast. 
 
 " Michael, little lad," he murmured, " I will find you 
 to-morrow, and you shall bring me as of old to the altar 
 of God." 
 
 * 
 * * 
 
 An humble home in a narrow street, shabby and time, 
 stained without, scantily furnished within. A fire burned 
 in the grate of the little sitting room, an unusual luxury 
 to celebrate a great occasion. Around it were grouped 
 a father and mother and five children, boys and girls, 
 all touched by the red glow from the hearth and the 
 brilliant sunlight of the Christmas morning. Another 
 sunshine was upon them, that of cheerful hearts, to 
 whom had come the old, old message of peace upon 
 earth through glory to God. The father, a prematurely 
 
THE MESSAGE OF THE Cll HIST MAS HELLS. 18? 
 
 aged man, bore many marks about him of care and 
 sorrow, which were reflected all too faithfully in the once 
 handsome face of his wife. But as her hand rested upon 
 his shoulder, and as they smiled one at the other, pleased 
 at the joy of the children, there was in the bearing of 
 both the assurance that the battle of life had been bravely 
 fought, strong in their mutual support and strong in a 
 Higher Trust. The children were busy emptying the 
 stockings which they had hung the previous night, and 
 which had been so scantily filled, as husband and wife 
 had acknowledged to each other with a pang. But to 
 those little ones, the horns of colored paper, deftly 
 arranged by their mother's hands, and the gilded nuts, 
 and the trivial toys, were things of beauty, even if the 
 joy of them were short-lived. The father and mother 
 knew how much anxious thought it had cost them to 
 provide this semblance of a Christmas. 
 
 " I have nothing for you, Michael dear,'* said the 
 wife softly to her husband ; " its the first Christmas 
 I'm without anything at all to give you. But I couldn't 
 manage it. I knew you'd rather the little ones had '"t." 
 
 " And so I would, Mary," said her husband, adding 
 sadly : " but it hurts me that I couldn't bring you home 
 any trifle at all. you that's slaving for us day and night." 
 
 " I'll be angry with you, Michael, if you say any 
 more," said his wife, quickly. "And, after all, if our 
 poverty is hard to bear, there's many worse off, and it 
 brings us nearer to the Crib of Bethleem. I was think- 
 ing that same to-night, when I brought the children 
 over to adore the Infant Saviour." 
 
 " True, Mary ; you are always in the right, dear ! 
 Poverty has the blessing of God with it, and anyway we 
 mustn't lot anything spoil the brightness of this day. 
 
 
1 
 
 I' *i 
 
 III 
 
 I'll 1 
 
 188 THE MESSAGE OF WE CimiSTMAS BELLS. 
 
 But there's one thought uppermost in my mind that I 
 can't drive out of it, do what 1 will." 
 
 ' And I can guess what it is without your telling me. 
 It's Henry." 
 
 " Just that, Mary. When I ihink how fond and proud 
 I used to be of my big brother, and how long ago in 
 Ireland, when we were both boys, I used to walk beside 
 him and believe that I was bringing him to church. And 
 he was good and kind to me ; and perhaps it was more 
 my fault than his that we differed. Looking back now, 
 I might have been more patient. And it frets me the 
 more that I'm afraid he's given up his religion." 
 
 " God pity him if he's done that," said Mary ; " it 
 would be a hard world without it. But I'll tell you a 
 secret, Michael. Since I joined the League of the 
 Sacred Heart over at the church. I got a little card, 
 and on it was marked ihe Promises made by Our Lord 
 Himself, and one of them is about reconciling those at 
 variance." 
 
 " Well ? " said Michael, anxiously. 
 
 *' Well, I set to work and I prayed for that intention, 
 and with it that your brother might have the grace of 
 coming back to the practice of his duty, and I got the 
 children to join with me in a novena, and it ended with 
 the Communion of the Midnight Mass." 
 
 " Why in the world didn't you ask me to join in it ? " 
 said Michael somewhat aggrieved. 
 
 " W^ell, I was in hope we'd get the favor and have it 
 for a surprise for you on Christmas. And you know I 
 did ask you to join us in praying for an intention, and 
 to offer your Christmas Communion for it." 
 
 " I remember, but God knows best, and I suppose 
 He isn't going to grant it just yet, at any rate." 
 
■'■HE MESSAGE OF THE CimiSTMAS UEI.LS. ,,9 
 
 '■ Michael," said a voice, close beside hi,„. 
 
 And as Michael turned, Henry saw with h., f n- 
 
 tears, the face of the li.le lad, de'epi, '^J^^Z 
 
 framed wth silver hair. The hand he Kns,>ed n ,!• r 
 
 and warm, was hard with toil. ^ ^ ' "" '"" 
 
 " n"h God'T, "1'° ''""" "^ °f "'^' ^'-i>-' ? " 
 
 " "" t'Od s help, Henry, I will " 
 " Blessed be God, who has reconciled those at va 
 nance, according to His holy promise "mn/ '^" 
 Michael's wife, while over the frost ; ir^a;:™,::^ 
 rang the bells of Christmas morning, calling .ho 
 shippers to High Mass, and repealing the se .same 
 message, " Peace and good-will, good., || and > 
 
AUNT ISABEL'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 
 
 !, t 
 
 Mrs. James Sadlikr. 
 
 '^y^jiQHRISTMAS had come and gone. A right Merry 
 ■fcr;^ Christmas it had been in the home of the Morri- 
 son family away off on the northern shore of 
 Lake Champlain. The great feast had brought, with 
 its Christian joys, its extra good cheer, its household 
 gatherings from far and near, and its general atmos- 
 phere of kindly and genial contentment. The presents 
 had been exchanged as usual, to the entire satisfaction 
 of all. Not as in the by-gone years, indeed, for now the 
 mother was a widow, and her children — three daughters 
 and one son — were all grown up people who had already 
 left their childhood behind them with all its dear delu- 
 sions. Santa Claus had long deserted the farm-house 
 by the lake, and alas ! the stockings were no longer 
 hung in the chimney for the tiny feet that filled them 
 then in the swiftly passing days of happy chilhood were 
 now those of men and women plodding on more wearily 
 on the road of life. Yet none the less the tokens of 
 affection exchanged all round were fully appreciated, 
 and tranquil happiness reigned supreme, notwithstand- 
 ing the saddening memories which that joyous season 
 ever brings of loved ones vanished from the home circle 
 as the slow years drag along. 
 
 New Year's eve came round, and there was again a 
 stir of pleasurable excitement in the Morrison household. 
 
AiWr ISAllEL'S NEW yEAIi'S GIFT. 
 
 191 
 
 It Merry 
 e Morri- 
 shore of 
 ght, with 
 ousehold 
 •al atmos- 
 i presents 
 itisfaction 
 ^r now the 
 daughters 
 id already- 
 dear delu- 
 arm-house 
 no longer 
 lied them 
 [hood were 
 |re wearily 
 tokens of 
 ipreciated, 
 withstand- 
 ,us season 
 ome circle 
 
 A package had just arrived by express from Plattsbiirg, 
 and it was known to contain the presents from Aunt 
 Isabel, the French Canadian wife of Mrs. Morrison's 
 favorite brother, long since dead. Aunt Isabel's gifts 
 were always sent at New Year's instead of Christmas, 
 and they made as it were, a second Christmas for the 
 family. 
 
 Much curiosity was expressed as to what Aunt Isabel 
 had sent for each, but the presents were only to be dis- 
 tributed after mass on New Year's Day. So each one 
 was fain to wait with as much patience as might be under 
 the circumstances. 
 
 In the ruddy fire-light from the open chimney the 
 little family sat late, waiting to see the New Year in. 
 And while waiting, they talked over the many, many 
 changes the years had brought in their own circle, and 
 the days gone for ever were recalled with tender recol- 
 lection while the year's last hours and moments passed 
 lingeringly away. 
 
 At the first stroke of twelve, whea the bell of the neigh- 
 boring church, their own parish church, rang out the old 
 year and in the new, the mother and the children wished 
 each other a happy new year, and, somewhat sobered, as 
 most people are, by the solemn influence of that hour 
 when the two years meet and one vanishes into eternity, 
 they slowly sought their several places of rest, each one 
 burdened with the consciousnesst that another stage of 
 life was entered upon since they gathered round the 
 home-fire in the early evening hours. 
 
 is again a 
 lousehold. 
 
192 
 
 AUNT IS A I! ELS ^E\V YEA US GIFT. 
 
 II. 
 
 The first morning of the New Year was clear and cold 
 and bright, with the peculiar sparkle of the midwinter 
 sun. The Morrisons had all assisted at an early mass at 
 which each had partaken of the Bread of Life, with the 
 one exception of Robert, the son, who was by no means 
 pious, although in the main a good sort of young man, 
 as the world goes. His mother and sisters had vainly 
 urged him to go to confession on the previous day so as 
 to receive Holy Communion with them on the first day 
 of the year. 
 
 " I went at Christmas," said Robert, " to please you 
 all, and I think that's enough. You can't expect a fellow 
 to make a muff of himself and go as often as you women 
 folks." 
 
 '* Well ! but Robert," said his mother very gently as 
 they took their seats at the well-spread breakfast table, 
 " don't you think it is the proper thing to receive Our 
 Lord in Holy Communion on New Year's Day, before 
 any material food enters one's mouth ? " 
 
 " May be it is, mother," was the young man's half 
 sullen reply ; " but, I tell you, I dont want to be seen 
 so often going up to the altar rails. If I go a. 'Christmas 
 and Easter, I think I'm doing very well." 
 
 The mother sighed, but said no more on the subject, 
 and the morning meal proceeded gaily enough. At its 
 close, while the maid-of-all-work cleared the table, the 
 family adjourned to the sitting-room, and Aunt Isabel's 
 package was eagerly opened. 
 
 Presents for everyone admirably suited to the taste 
 and the requirements of each. Mrs. Morrison and her 
 
AUNT ISA nEL\S NEW YEAliS GIFT. 
 
 l'.>3 
 
 id cold 
 .winter 
 mass at 
 vith the 
 D means 
 ng man, 
 d vainly 
 lay so as 
 first day 
 
 2a se you 
 
 a fellow 
 
 1 women 
 
 ;ently as 
 LSt table, 
 ;ive Our 
 before 
 
 -daughters had, they declared, just what they wanted. 
 Aunt Isabel had succeeded to a marvel in the somewhat 
 difficult task of pleasing everybody. But as each gift 
 was joyously exhibited, Robert's face began to fall > 
 there seemed to be nothing for him. Even Jenny, the 
 servant, had a nice little present. Robert alone was 
 forgotten. 
 
 "■ Why, good gracious, how is this ? " cried Lizzie, the 
 eldest girl ; " there isn't a thing for Robert. Surely Aunt 
 Isabel sent him something ! " 
 
 '* It appears not," said Robert drily and somew' ,it 
 bitterly. 
 
 *' Yes, yes ! here it is ! " and Mary, the , angest 
 sister, who had been excitedly rummaging among the 
 papers that had vvrapped the different articles, hcid up 
 an env 'ope marked with Robert's name. This she 
 eagerly placed in his hand, saying, " I knew auntie 
 wouldn't forget dear old Bob I " 
 
 III. 
 
 tins half 
 
 be seen 
 
 thristmas 
 
 subject. 
 At its 
 ^ble, the 
 Isabel's 
 
 Ithe taste 
 and her 
 
 All eyes were fixed on the mysterious envelope in 
 Robert's hand, but as he felt it over and turned it round 
 and round he seemed in no hurry to open it. 
 
 « I guess it's not much of a present," he at last said. 
 
 " But why don't you open it? " cried one and another. 
 ^' Let us see it, whatever it is ! " 
 
 " There it is, then ! " said Robert with a flushed face 
 and an angry light in his eyes, as he drew forth, first a 
 Badge of the Sacred Heart with its noble legend T/iy 
 Kingdom Come^ next a Rosary ticket — the First Joyful 
 Mystery ; and, lastly, an admission ticket of the League ! 
 
 13 
 
|ir 
 
 >;!; 
 
 m 
 
 I; 
 
 11 
 
 !1 
 
 19 i 
 
 AUNT ISABEL'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 
 
 Everyone was surprised Even the mother and sisters, 
 fervent associates of the Holy League as they were them- 
 selves, were more than a little disappointed. As for 
 Robert, he quietly replaced the contents of the envelope 
 without examining further, saying with a somewhat 
 scornful smile, ** What do you think of my New Year's 
 gift?" 
 
 The girls were dumb with amazement. 
 
 '* Well ! I declare I can't understand it ; " said their 
 mother a little confusedly. " But is there nothing else in, 
 the envelope ? No letter ? " 
 
 " Yes, I believe there is," said Robert carelessly, as 
 he took from the envelope another folded paper — " What 
 have we here ? Read it, some of you girls ! — any one 
 that likes may, for me." He was turning to leave the 
 room, but his mother begged of him to wait and hear 
 what his aunt said in the letter. So the young man stood 
 still while one of his sisters read the letter as follows : 
 
 " My very dear nephew. 
 
 *' Being, as you well know, a Prcjinoter of the Holy 
 League, and having on my circle your good mother and 
 sisters, all your family except yourself, I cannot rest 
 until you, too, become an Associate, because of the great 
 advantage it will be to you in every possible way. As 
 you have till now always refused to join the League, I 
 feel inspired to make one more effort on your behalf ;. 
 so I send you, as a New Year's gift, the Badge, Rosary 
 ticket and the Ticket of Admission, hoping that you will 
 do me this so great favor of becoming a member, and 
 an active member, of our dear League at the beginning 
 of this New Year. I send you no other gift at this time,, 
 because I could give you none half so good for you^ 
 
 m 
 
AUNT ISABEL'S NEW YEAR'S GlFl. 
 
 103 
 
 exposed as you are to many and great temptations in 
 your way of life. If you comply now vvith my wishes, I 
 may at next New Year's send you something different. 
 So commending you to the Sacred Heart, I will now 
 place you on my list of Associates. 
 
 " Accept my best wishes and my fervent prayers for 
 a very happy New Year, for you and all our dear ones, 
 and believe me, my dear Robert, your loving aunt, 
 
 "Isabel Dalton." 
 
 The mother and sisters looked at each other, but said 
 nothing, waiting anxiously to see the effect on Robert. 
 They had not to wait long, for his vexation quickly 
 found vent in words : 
 
 " The old fool ! " he said in a voice of concentrated 
 anger. " I'll soon let her see she can't badger me into 
 doing what I don't want to do. I'll send her back her 
 present'^ — with a disdainful emphasis on the word — 
 ^ and I'll tell her at the same time to mind her own 
 business as far as I'm concerned." 
 
 " You'll do nothing of the kind, Robert ! " exclaimed 
 his eldest sister, his chief friend and general adviser, — 
 " You'll just keep what auntie sends you, join the 
 League as she asks you to do, and write to thank her 
 for the kind interest she takes in your welfare. That's 
 my advice to you ! " 
 
 " Do, my dear son ! " his mother added ; ** do this to 
 please us here as well as your aunt, and I promise you, 
 you won't be sorry ! " 
 
 " Well ! well ! " gruiabled Robert, " I suppose I may 
 as well give in when five women are leagued against 
 me," with a mocking accent on the word. ** If this 
 League business does me no good, I guess it can't do 
 
196 
 
 AUNT ISABEL'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 
 
 me much harm But I warn you all that I have no faith 
 in that sort of thing. Anyhow, I needn't tell the other 
 fellows, you know ! " 
 
 " Of course not, — if you don't like," assented Lizzie, 
 with a slight smile and a meaning glance at the others . 
 And so the matter ended. 
 
 IV 
 
 It was quite true what his aunt had said, that Robert's 
 position exposed him to dangers of various kinds. He 
 was employed as clerk in a large factory some two miles 
 from his home, and went in the railroad cars of the 
 Grand Trunk every morning to his office, returning by 
 the same conveyance in the evening, having his mid- 
 day meal in a restaurant near the factory much fre- 
 quented by the railroad men and such factory " hands " 
 as could afford to patronize it. It need hardly be said 
 that of the numerous men, young and old, amongst 
 whom young Morrison was thrown every working day — 
 and, too often, even on Sunday as well, — there was little 
 to spare on the score of strict morality, still less of 
 religion. They were, for the most part, scoffers at 
 religion and all its practices, even the so-called Catho • 
 lies among them. Scarcely any of them were actually 
 wicked or depraved, but still there were, unhappily, a 
 few who came under that category, and these were, as 
 generally happens, the most masterful of the tribe, and 
 held the others in a sort of slavish subjection by force 
 of covert sneers and open ridicule. 
 
 It so happened, therefore, that Morrison and his co- 
 religionists were peculiarly obnoxious to these swagger- 
 
"'^^ JSMU-S Nm VEAWS GIFT. 
 
 '"«• '■^<='''"s men ,vho took everv „ • 
 •"eir irreligion and unbelief ' "°" °'P"^*ng 
 Happily for Roberf f i, 
 
 •"^al Catholic, and to K^b^ZJA^Z '° "^^ ^ P^^^ 
 the queer New Year's 2 '^' ^ '^''>' <^ays after, 
 
 0- disappoin t.", if on': "'"' "'' ""' "'•'"' -'^ "■■ 
 
 -aiiy did expect son .rrnrr ^'^^ '"" ^^ 
 "i;-ohe,p..fe,,o,,„J-2-,'heo,d.„.a„. 
 
 To Robert's surprise, Pierce q„n- 
 , -contrary opinion, and lold hi . ™ '''*' "i"'"' of" 
 
 got would soon slip through 1. « """^ ^°" ""'s'" have 
 you more har,n thL good X^'^^^f"' ^"^ perhaps do 
 did send you, it's altogether^^!' ""'' '°"' -'"' 
 much about that same lZ" f'T ''' '""'' » 
 I often go ,0 Mass on Sunl °'"' ^'''"'' '"h^e, 
 
 hearing an English ZIZXT'iT: T ^^^°"'" "^ 
 of joming it n,yself, only I felt a ittle^ i'" ""'"'"'"S 
 of no one .^out here beLg „' to 't s""" °" ^<=~-t 
 you'll take it up right off T'li , "°"'' ^ob, if 
 
 Circle next Sun'day'l.l'j'f ' "™"^'^ '^"'^ P"' - a 
 
 Encouraged by this assurance-for « u- 
 manly young fellow, well educated atd of "!" '""' ''"' 
 'ng m the factory-Robert tn^u, "'^'''^'-'■ate stand- 
 him to go ahead ' And" ^h ' '' '"^ ''°^<^^"d told 
 ; although my folks at home all Z' ''"""•" '^^ •^^''^''> 
 I'll go with j,.« ,0 the mmin ' °T '° "'^ ^^"S^^- 
 munions instead of with them' '' """""'^ ^°'"- 
 
 " All right, old fellow ! " was S„)i,v, - ,. 
 
 was bulhvan's cheery reply ; 
 
1:1 
 
 Hi 
 
 liH 
 
 liil 
 
 198 
 
 AUNT ISABEL'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 
 
 ** we'll set the ball rolling, and who knows how many of 
 our men will join in before the new year is old ? " 
 
 When Morrison went home and told his mother and 
 sisters what had passed between him and Sullivan, their 
 hearts were filled with joy, which they did not express, 
 however, in its fullest extent. That very day they wrote 
 to Aunt Isabel, telling her the good news. When her 
 answer came by return of mail, it was simply — " A good 
 beginning makes, as a rule, a good ending. Let us hope 
 and pray, and, above all, persevere. I have great hopes 
 of Robert." 
 
 So the two young men joined the League, and Mrs. 
 Morrison, as it happened, having one more vacancy in 
 her circle. Pierce Sullivan became one of her Associates, 
 a fact which gave Robert the strength and encouragement 
 he so sadly needed in the new path on which he had en- 
 tered so hesitatingly and, truth to tell, somewhat reluc- 
 tantly. For some little time the two friends had a certain 
 amount of annoyance to undergo from their companions 
 in the factory, in the shape of ridicule and sarcasm from the 
 non-catholics, and contemptuous remarks from certain 
 nominal Catholics on " fellows setting up for saints," 
 " making old women of themselves," and such like 
 absurdities. But as time passed on, and Sullivan and Mor- 
 rison went quietly on their way, discharging faithfully 
 the duties oftheir respective employments, making friends 
 more and more every day, and, above all, practising the 
 obligations of their religion with strict regularity, —laugh- 
 ing good-naturedly at the jokes n?ade at their expense, — 
 things around them began to change perceptibly. Even 
 the Protestants and no-religionists were forced to respect 
 their convictions and admire their steady perseverance 
 and manly independence. As for the Catholic work- 
 
AUNT ISABEL'S NEW YEAirS GIFT. 
 
 199 
 
 my of 
 
 r and 
 I, their 
 xpress, 
 J wrote 
 len her 
 A good 
 us hope 
 at hopes 
 
 Ltid Mrs. I 
 
 cancy in 
 
 jsociates, 
 
 ragement 
 
 te had en- 
 
 lat reUic- 
 a certain 
 
 mpanions 
 from the 
 en certain 
 saints," 
 such like 
 andMor- 
 faithfuUy 
 ng friends 
 ctising the 
 y, -laugh- 
 xpense, — 
 bly. Even 
 to respect 
 rseverance 
 plic work- 
 
 men, the good leaven was soon seen working amongst 
 them, and many of them acknowledged that, after all, 
 Sullivan and Morrison were right, and taking courage 
 from their example, gradually began to do as they did, 
 entering steadily on the path of right and duty, so long 
 
 neglected. 
 
 V. 
 
 It must not be supposed that Robert Morrison fell 
 into line as a Leaguer all at once, or without a struggle. 
 On the contrary, it required the full force of Sullivan's 
 wise counsels and the benign influence of his example, 
 aided by the prayers and gentle admonitions of his 
 mother and sisters, to keep him up to the mark, as he 
 said himself. 
 
 " It's confounded hard, Pierce," he once remarked to 
 his friend, " for a fellow like me, you know, that never 
 went in for that sort of thing before. You see, it's different 
 with you that don't care a straw for what any one says, 
 and knows just how to shut the fellows up when they go 
 too far with their humbuggmg. But as for me, I can't do 
 it for the life of me." 
 
 " Yet you are getting on famously, Bob ! for all that," 
 replied his friend. " It was only yesterday I heard you 
 taking up Bill Somers mighty sharp when he began to 
 quiz you about confession. I don't think he'll try it 
 again ; and I tell you I was proud of you, you answered 
 him so well. You have only to keep on as you are doing, 
 and by next New Year's, even your Aunt Isabel will 
 have no reason to complain of her new Associate ! " 
 
 Encouraged in this way by Sullivan's advice and 
 example and — as the months crept on — by the moral 
 
 ._i 
 
'iOO 
 
 AUNT ISABEL'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 
 
 ■>.' t 
 
 !:' I 
 
 !' H ' K 
 
 1 
 
 support of others of their young fellow-workmen who 
 were joining the League in ever-increasing numbers, 
 Robert persevered steadily and bravely in his new career, 
 and before the year was out, both he and Sullivan were 
 Promoters themselves, each having formed a circle 
 amongst their comrades in the factory and the railroad 
 men at the Station near by. 
 
 Mrs. Morrison and her daughters were overjoyed, as 
 may well be believed, at the turn affairs had taken in 
 regard to Robert, but they prudently refrained from say- 
 ing much about it to himself. They had, indeed, an un- 
 derstanding with Aunt Isabel on that point, and acted 
 all through on he advice. 
 
 " Don't make any particular fuss over his conversion, 
 as we may truly call it," she wrote to her sister-in-law, 
 about the middle of November. " He's on trial now, 
 and if he keeps on as he's doing till the end of the year, 
 well ! we'll let him know how we feel about it." 
 
 Still, it was quite evident to Robert that the change in 
 his way of living had greatly increased the happiness of 
 his home, and the conviction that such was the case was 
 in itself no small addition to the satisfaction he felt in 
 following the dictates of his conscience. The daily rou- 
 tine of life at the Morrison farm went on with increasing 
 smoothness and regularity, and the darkest days of mid- 
 winter passed cheerily and pleasantly in the little family 
 circle. 
 
 Christmas came round again, and Pierce Sullivan spent 
 it with the Morrisons, — a welcome and a valued guest. 
 
AUNT ISABELS NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 
 
 '201 
 
 n who 
 mbers, 
 career, 
 ,n were 
 circle 
 ailroad 
 
 )yed, as 
 aken in 
 rom say- 
 l, an un- 
 id acted 
 
 aversion, 
 er-in-law, 
 rial now, 
 ■ the year, 
 
 change in 
 juiness of 
 case was 
 le felt in 
 daily rou- 
 ncreasing 
 ys of mid- 
 tie family 
 
 ivan spent 
 led guest. 
 
 VI. 
 
 It was New Year's eve again. The Morrison family 
 were about to take their places at the supper table, when 
 Pierce Sullivan made his appearance, announcing his in- 
 tention of spending the evening at the farm. Very cordial 
 was the welcome the young man received, especially 
 from Lizzie, for it was well understood in the family that 
 these two cherished something more than friendship for 
 each other, and that before the year was much older 
 young Sullivan would be one of themselves. A prospect 
 most pleasing to all concerned, for the Morrisons well 
 knew what they owed to Pierce, who, on his side, valued 
 at its full worth the prospect of marrying into a family 
 so worthy of respect, so very congenial to his kindly, 
 warm Irish heart, so full of the deep-seated religious- 
 fervor of his race. 
 
 The evening meal had just commenced, when a great 
 barking of dogs and the sound of a sleigh sliding over 
 the smoothly beaten snow outside bespoke another 
 arrival, and Robert, hastening to the door, speedily 
 ushered in Aunt Isabel herself, fur-wrapped and covered 
 with snow. 
 
 " See who I've brought you, mother ! " cried Robert, 
 while everyone rushed to receive the new comer with 
 sundry exclamations of joy and wonder. 
 
 " God bless my soul, Isabel dear, is it you ? " ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Morrison, her still handsome face all aglow 
 with glad surprise. 
 
 " And who else would it be, Nancy ? " said a cheery 
 voice from the depth of a fur trimmed hood, which 
 Lizzie was untying as fast as her nervous trepidation 
 
f'tF' 
 
 ill 
 
 wvM 
 
 I'lll 's 
 
 I ! 
 
 I ! 
 
 202 
 
 AUNT ISAllEVS NEW YEAHS GIFT. 
 
 would permit. " Did you think I'd stay away from you 
 all another New Year's ? No, indeed, f(ir I want this 
 one to be remembered by you all when I'm dead and 
 gone, as tlie happiest New Year's you ever spent. So 
 here you are, all well and in good spirits as I see by 
 your faces. But stay, who have we here, eh ? " looking 
 at Sullivan. The sly little woman probably knew well 
 enough who it was, having heard so much of Pierce in 
 the family letters. 
 
 Sullivan being duly introduced, and Robert having re- 
 turned after putting Aunt Isabel's horse in the stable, 
 and commending her driver to the hospitable care of 
 Jenny in the comfortable kitchen, the girls having mean- 
 v/hile taken their aunt to the room where she usually 
 slept when at the farm, to unwrap herself, as she gaily 
 said — the supper, thus pleasantly interrupted, was re- 
 sumed. Such a merry, blithesome meal it was, too ! And 
 that important business despatched — not over hastily, 
 indeed, — the whole party repaired to the cosy parlor, 
 where a bright wood fire blazing on the open hearth gave 
 ample light as well as warmth, making shadows here and 
 there as fire-light will when it has the room all to itself. 
 
 " Did anyone bring in my package from the sleigh ? " 
 asked Mrs. Dalton, as she seated herself in the great 
 armchair in the chimney corner. Yes, Robert had carried 
 it in, and was told to bring it forward. 
 
 " I know it's only on New Year's morning — the Jour de 
 tan, you know, that each of you gets my present." she 
 observed as she rapidly undid the fastenings ; " but as 
 I'm here myself, and you know I'm a sort of fairy god- 
 mother, is it not ? I don't want to keep the young people 
 waiting till morning comes. So here you will see the 
 presents that I have brought." 
 
ALNT ISABELS NEW YEAH'S GIFT. 
 
 203 
 
 om you 
 mt this 
 lad and 
 mt. So 
 see by 
 looking 
 lew well 
 'ierce in 
 
 iving re- 
 : stable, 
 care of 
 ig mean- 
 usually 
 he gaily 
 was re- 
 Do ! And 
 hastily, 
 r parlor, 
 rth gave 
 lere and 
 to itself. 
 
 eigh?" 
 le great 
 i carried 
 
 ej'our de 
 int." she 
 
 but as 
 ,iry god- 
 g people 
 
 see the 
 
 Then she distributed the gifts w Ith her own fat, little 
 well-ringed hands, for Aunt Isabel had a weakness for 
 jewelry. They were still better than last year. Strange 
 to say, Pierce Sullivan was not forgotten, and a very 
 handsome satin scarf with a horseshoe pin of solid silver 
 proved that Aunt Isabel counted on his being present. 
 
 Everyone waited anxiously to see if there was any- 
 thing for Robert. Indeed there was, and a peculiarly 
 benignant smile lit up Aunt Isabel's somewhat wrinkled 
 face as she handed to her nephew a gold hunting watch 
 with a vest chain, attached to which was a tiny medal of 
 the Sacred Heart. Having waited a few moments to enjoy 
 the surprise and delight of the whole Morrison family, 
 Mrs. Dalton went on speaking : " Robert, my good boy, I 
 have something more for you," and opening an envelope 
 she drew out a paper which she handed to her nephew : 
 it was his appointment to a lucrative position in a large 
 wholesale house in Plattsburg, with permission to go 
 home every week to his family from Saturday evening 
 till Monday morning. 
 
 " This is all from the Sacred Heart, my dear Bob ! as 
 I have been putting that intention in the Box for some 
 months past, ever since I found you were persevering in 
 the great work of promoting the League-work all you 
 could. I know the trial I imposed upon you last New 
 Year's was a hard one, but you came out of it like gold 
 from the furnace, and in the name of Our Dearest Lord, 
 for whom you and your excellent friend here have worked 
 so hard during the year, I bless and thank you both for 
 all the good you have done to others as well as to your- 
 selves. No thanks, now ! Not a word ! Let us talk of 
 the year that is going from us and of what we can do of 
 good in the year that will open for us to-morrow." 
 
204 
 
 AUNT ISABEL'S NEW YEAIi'S GIFT. 
 
 So the evening passed right pleasantly, and all having 
 wished each other a Happy New Year, Pierce Sullivan, 
 overjoyed at all he had seen and heard, was easily per- 
 suaded to stay over night. Next morning the whole 
 party, young and old, heard Mass and approached the 
 Holy Table together, as the first act of a year to be 
 gratefully consecrated by one and all to the Sacred 
 Heart of Jesus. 
 
A MONTH OF MARY IDYL. 
 
 Mrs. James Sadlieh. 
 
 Dear to every heart that loves her, 
 All her children sliall be blest ; 
 
 While she prays and watches for us, 
 We will trust and rest. 
 
 I. 
 
 ^ISS Fitzmaurice, I hope you have no engage- 
 ment for to-morrow evening. I have secured 
 tickets for Albani's Concert, and if you will 
 allow me to present you with one, I shall be very glad 
 to be your escort." 
 
 The speaker was an exceedingly good-looking young 
 Englishman of the fair Saxon type, the lately-imported 
 manager of a well-known manufacturing house in one 
 of our chief Canadian cities. The young girl whom he 
 addressed was the type-writer of the establishment, 
 Irish by blood as well as by manner and appearance, 
 — the former modest and retiring, though sufficiently 
 self-possessed, the latter uncommonly prepossessing. 
 
 A bright flush suffused the girlish face, and the blue 
 eyes sparkled. It was only for a moment, however, 
 and then Miss Fitzmaurice quietly answered : *• You 
 are very kind, indeed, Mr. Hilton, and I thank you 
 very much ; but I have an engagement for to-morrow 
 evening." 
 
1^ 
 
 '1 
 
 ) ^ 
 
 i'f • 
 
 i 
 
 200 
 
 .1 MONTH OF MAliY IDYL 
 
 " You have ? And may I ask what it is, if the question 
 be not indiscreet ? " 
 
 " Certainly not, Mr. Hilton ! It so happens that to- 
 morrow being the ist of May, we shall have in our 
 Church the opening of the month of Mary, which is 
 continued every evening during the month." 
 
 ^ Then you are a Roman Catholic, I presume? " this 
 in a tone of surprise and with some asperity. 
 
 '• Yes, I am a Catholic '' — quietly ignoring the word 
 liomau—'^ and even if I were not going to church to- 
 morrow evening," the young girl added with some hesi- 
 tation and a heightened color, I could not avail myself 
 of your kind and flattering invitation." 
 
 " Indeed ? and why, may I ask? " 
 
 " I have always been taught, Mr. Hilton, that young 
 women should not go out alone in the evening, without 
 — some of their own family with them ; and as I am all 
 alone now " — here her voice faltered and her soft eyes 
 filled with tears. She stopped short, but Hilton quickly 
 finished the sentence : 
 
 " As you are alone now, you cannot go out with me, 
 a stranger ? " 
 
 " Oh no ! " the girl hastily put in — " not a stanger, 
 Mr. Hilton ! — but you see how it is with me. I assure 
 you I should have liked of all things to have heard our 
 great Canadian singer, whom I never /lave heard, but 
 under the circumstances, and for these two reasons, I 
 must forego that pleasure, thanking you all the same." 
 
 " Oh ! very well, Miss Fitzmaurice. I am souy I placed 
 myself in such a position. Be assured I shall not repeat 
 the offence." And Hilton turned angrily away. 
 
 The tears sprang to Ellen Fitzmaurice's eyes as she 
 looked wistfully after his retreating figure, and saw him 
 
.1 MONTH OF MAllY IDYL. 
 
 '20; 
 
 aestion 
 
 hat to- 
 
 in our 
 
 rhich is 
 
 ; ? " this 
 
 [le word 
 lurch to- 
 me hesi- 
 il myself 
 
 \at young 
 
 without 
 s I am all 
 
 soft eyes 
 ,n quickly 
 
 with me, 
 
 stanger, 
 1 assure 
 [heard our 
 leard, but 
 [reasons, I 
 le same." 
 ly I placed 
 lot repeat 
 
 [res as she 
 saw him 
 
 pause by the desk of another young girl, the steno- 
 grapher of the house, who brightened up at his approach, 
 and after a few words of pleasant chat, joyfully accepted 
 the invitation which poor Ellen had declined. The latter 
 had the further mortification of seeing this neighbor of 
 hers, Miss Stedman by name, cast a glance of triumph on 
 herself as she stopped one of the clerks just then passing, 
 and told him in a loud, excited voice how she was going 
 on the following evening with iMr. Hilton to hear Albani. 
 
 Poor Ellen 1 it was a sacrifice, and she felt it keenly, 
 on more accounts than one ; but she consoled herself 
 with the thought that she had done her duty ind could 
 not have acted otherwise without incurring grave self- 
 reproach. 
 
 It may be that Our Blessed Lady spoke some words 
 of comfort to the girl's heart that evening when she 
 knelt to say her Rosary at bed-time in the privacy of 
 her own little room, where the photographs of her Irish 
 mother and father, at rest in an old, old churchyard far 
 away in Kerry County, looked down approvingly on 
 their lonely child. Certain it is that her trouble ceased, 
 and on the following evening when she joined the faithful 
 children of Mary in the late gloaming before the radiantly- 
 lighted altar of the fair Queen of May, there was no trace 
 of sadness on her calm young face. 
 
 II. 
 
 It was, nevertheless, no small trial for Ellen Fitzmau- 
 rice on the day after the concert to hear Miss Stedman 
 relating over and over to one and another of the employes, 
 male and female, how much she had enjoyed the concert; 
 
208 
 
 A MONTH OF MARY IDYL 
 
 fij 
 
 i *!S!''Hi,i.; 
 
 
 m 
 
 what a wonderful voice Albani had ; how enthusiasti- 
 cally she was applauded ; and how sweetly and tenderly 
 she sang of her early days in this her own beloved 
 Canada. 
 
 " I could almost have cried myself to hear her," said 
 Sarah Stedman, a rather hard-featured individual, by 
 the way. " To be sure it was all in French, but I heard 
 some people near me explaining what it meant. Dear 
 me ! I wouldn't have missed it for anything ! Don't you 
 feel a little bit sorry that you missed such a treat, Miss 
 Fitzmaurice ? " 
 
 " Not at all," said Ellen quietly, — " I had a greater 
 treat myself, and one that I wouldn't have missed for 
 anything in the world." 
 
 " You mean in church," sneered Miss Stedman with 
 a toss of her head. " Well ! there's no accounting 
 for tastes I " And she bent over her desk, as though 
 wholly engrossed by her work, for Mr. Hilton was just 
 passing. 
 
 " I wonder if he'll stop and speak to that Fitzmaurice 
 girl," she said to herself, and was much relieved to find 
 that he did not. Whether Ellen was disappointed or not, 
 she said nothing, and both girls continued their work in 
 silence. But their minds were none the less busy, and 
 strange to say, they both arrived at the same conclusion. 
 
 " That's the end of it for //«?/-," thought Sarah in gleeful 
 humor. 
 
 " He must be very angry with me,'' soliloquized 
 Ellen, " when he doesn't even speak to me. Well ! it 
 can't be helped. Duty before pleasure." And she tried 
 to think of something else, though, truth to tell, that one 
 thought kept intruding itself on her mind, do as she 
 would. 
 
A MONTH OF MARY IDYL 
 
 109 
 
 thusiasti- 
 [ tenderly 
 I beloved 
 
 her," said 
 /idual, by 
 It I heard 
 nt. Dear 
 Don't you 
 ;reat, Miss 
 
 I a greater 
 missed for 
 
 idman with 
 
 accounting 
 
 as though 
 
 )n was just 
 
 itzmaurice 
 ved to find 
 nted or not, 
 leir work in 
 busy, and 
 
 conclusion, 
 ih in gleeful 
 
 soliloquized 
 Well! it 
 nd she tried 
 ell, that one 
 do as she 
 
 This went on for a whole week, and Sarah Stedman 
 noticed with increasing satisfaction that whenever the 
 young manager had occasion to address Miss Fitzmaurice 
 in relation to her work, it was with even more then usual 
 of his English reserve of manner. It is true he was just 
 as distant with herself, but that she could overlook, so 
 long as there was no distinction in Ellen's favor. 
 
 " He never took any particular notice of me — nor of 
 her either, for that matter," said Sarah to herself. " I 
 know his taking me to the Concert was only to spite Aer. 
 I could see that. But it's all right now, any how ! " And 
 Sarah gave a funny little chuckle of sly exultation. 
 
 III. 
 
 That same evening — it was the tenth day of the month 
 of Mary — Ellen Fitzmaurice repaired as usual in the 
 gathering shades of twilight to the parish church where 
 the devotions of the month were being carried on with 
 much solemnity. It was a noble temple where the 
 majestic statue of the patron Saint — a glorious Bishop 
 of the early ages, — looked down from a niche over the 
 high altar, with hand upraised in benediction over the 
 crowd of worshippers below, — his own spiritual children, 
 assembled round a side-altar where stood the statue of 
 the Virgin Mother surrounded by lights and flowers. 
 All was serene joy and heavenly peace, and the hearts 
 of Mary's children were all a-glow with fervent devotion. 
 
 The spacious church was well filled with men, women 
 
 and children, all intent on paying homage to the gracious 
 
 Mother of Our Lord, whose benign face smiled down 
 
 on her children from amid the lights and .lowers that 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 A MONTH OF MARY IDYL 
 
 !i I 
 
 il!:f^ 
 
 graced her shrine ; then a priest in surplice and stole 
 ascended the pulpit, and delivered a touching discourse 
 on the loving devotion wherewith the Mother of God is 
 honored by the Catholic Church of Her Son ; the 
 boundless confidence which all true children of that 
 Church have in Her intercession ; the unceasing proofs 
 she gives them of her motherly protection ; and, last of 
 all, he dwelt on the purifying and ennobling influence 
 of her example on all those who honor her virginal 
 purity — her prudence — her patience. 
 
 " A true child of Mary," he said in conclusion, " must 
 be pure, prudent, patient and resigned — ever resigned to 
 God's Holy Will ! " The eloquent voice ceased to speak 
 and the priest descended from the pulpit. But his words 
 lingered in the hearts of his hearers, and they stirred to 
 its inmost depths that of a young man who stood by a 
 pillar not far from the Virgin's altar. 
 
 " It is the voice of truth," he said within himself. 
 " Those are something more than mere empty words." 
 
 Falling on his kness he prayed for light, and light was 
 given him from above, as it ever is to the earnest seeker. 
 And he could almost persuade himself that the face of 
 the Heavenly Mother shone with a brighter radiance as 
 he said his first prayer to Her to ask her aid. 
 
 Then the words of her own sublime prophecy recorded 
 in Scripture recurred to his mind, and with a strangely 
 new meaning : ^* Behold ! from henceforth all genera- 
 tions shall call me Blessed ! " Then came the startling, 
 question within his own soul : " But who are they wha 
 call Her Blessed ? " And the answer came from his 
 inner consciousness, at first half-reluctantly, then with 
 kindling enthusiasm : " Only those whom we are wont 
 to call Papists and Romanists. They alone, over all the 
 
 iL.J 
 
A MONTH OF MARY IDYL 
 
 V\ 
 
 i stole 
 jcourse 
 
 God is 
 in ; the 
 
 of that 
 y proofs 
 [, last of 
 nfluence 
 
 virginal 
 
 n, 
 
 must 
 signed to 
 to speak 
 his words 
 stirred to 
 tood by a 
 
 himself. 
 :y words." 
 
 light was 
 ;st seeker. 
 
 le face of 
 .diance as 
 
 ' recorded 
 strangely 
 ill genera- 
 |e startling, 
 they wha 
 from his 
 I then with 
 are wont 
 Lver all the 
 
 earth and in all times past and present, have called her 
 Blessed." He paused, and bent his head, then softly 
 added : " I believe. O Lord ! Help Thou my unbelief ! " 
 
 Again he raised his eyes to the face of the Mother, 
 and a blaze of light shone in on his soul. Even as the 
 gracious vision of that Immaculate Virgin flashed before 
 the astonished gaze of the young Jew, Alphonse Ratisbon, 
 in that old-time Roman Church of San Andrea, and 
 changed his whole nature, making of him on the instant 
 a fervent adorer of Her Divine Son, inflamed with the 
 zeal of a true Apostle, — so, in a measure, was this young 
 man — by nature upright and well disposed — illumined 
 by a ray of divine grace, prepared to follow whither the 
 light might lead and to embrace the truth at any cost. 
 Then he remembered a dearly-loved young sister whose 
 death in far-ofl" England had been his first real sorrow, 
 and who had become a convert to the Catholic faith at a 
 famous convent in York, where she was being educated. 
 
 ■* Now I see it all," said the young man to himself. 
 "It is Alicia's prayers that have come to my aid and 
 obtained for me the light of faith. We were all grieved 
 beyond measure when she became a Catholic, but now 
 I thank God with all my heart. O my sister, pray to Our 
 Mother in Heaven to help me now !" 
 
 IV. 
 
 It was Hubert Hilton who thus prayed. Great was 
 the surprise of Ellen Fitzmaurice when she saw him 
 kneeling in a pew near Our Lady's altar during the Bene- 
 diction which followed the sermon. Strangely enough 
 she had been " haunted," as Gerald Grifiin used to say, 
 
 \ 
 
212 
 
 A MONTH OF MARY IDYL 
 
 S'i 
 
 all that gracious time by some snatches of sweet Adelaide 
 Procter's exquisite " Shrines of Mary." Now it was : 
 
 *' Each shrine has two consecrations, 
 
 One all the faithful can trace, 
 But one is for me, and me only, 
 
 Holding my soul with its grace." 
 
 Then again came to her as in a gentle whisper : — 
 
 *' Long ages and generations 
 
 Have come there to strive and to pray ; 
 
 She watched and guided them living. 
 And does not forget them to-day." 
 
 She raised her eyes to the Mother's face with child-like 
 love and trust, and murmured low within herself : — 
 
 " And I know, when I enter softly 
 
 And pause at that shrine to pray, 
 That the fret and the strife and the burden 
 
 Will be softened and laid away. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Thick mists hid the light of the beacon 
 And the voices of warning were dumb ; 
 
 So I knelt by the altar of Mary, 
 
 And told her Her hour was come ! " 
 
 While the echo of these gracious, hopeful words still 
 lingered in Ellen's mind and heart, her eye fell on Hubert 
 Hilton where he reverently knelt among the faithful 
 clients of Our Lady in front of the little shrine which 
 loving hands had decked in homage to their Queen. 
 She could scarcely realize at first that it was the very same 
 for whom she had prayed many a time, hoping even 
 against hope that her pr:iyers might yet be heard. But 
 
A MONTH OF MAIiY IDYL 
 
 213 
 
 ielaide 
 
 presently he turned towards her just as the Benediction 
 had been given from the high altar, and smiled as he 
 noticed the bewildered look with which she regarded him. 
 
 V. 
 
 u 
 
 X : — 
 
 have thought 
 
 child-like 
 ilf :— 
 
 vords still 
 ,n Hubert 
 ,e faithful 
 [ine which 
 ir Queen, 
 very same 
 iping even 
 ;ard. But 
 
 Why, Mr. Hilton, who would 
 you here ? " was Ellen's salutation as he joined her on 
 lepvmg the church. 
 
 " Perhaps no one less than myself," he replied. " I had 
 no idea of coming till an hour or so before I came." 
 
 " I suppose you were curious to see how we Catholics 
 celebrate our month of Mary ? ** 
 
 " Partly that. Miss Fitzmaurice, and partly — " he hesi- 
 tated, then added quickly — " that I might see for myself 
 what there was in this evening service of yours to be 
 preferred to Albani's concert." 
 
 " Oh ! that was your motive ! " said Ellen gaily. " And 
 pray what is the result ? Do you think my choice was 
 best ? " 
 
 '' So much so, Miss Fitzmaurice, that although I was 
 certainly one of the/<?^/.y mentioned by the poet, — who 
 came, if not exactly to scoffs at least to criticize, — I, like 
 them, * remained to pray.' I assure you I have prayed 
 most earnestly, and I hope my prayer has been heard. 
 But it may be," he added musingly, " that I did not 
 pray alone." Ellen was silent, she was evidently waiting 
 to hear more. 
 
 They were walking in a quiet street leading to the girl's 
 home, and Hilton glanced around to make sure that no 
 one was near enough to hear what he might say. Then 
 he told briefly and simply of the dear sister who had 
 
 ;!f 
 
214 
 
 A MONTH OF MARY IDYL 
 
 wr 
 
 tiil 
 
 passed away from earth in the spring-time of her life, and 
 who had had the happiness of embracing the Cathohc 
 faith only a little while before her death. " I am sure it 
 was her prayers that brought me here to-night, and " — 
 he stopped short, made a longer pause than before, while 
 Ellen held her breath to listen. At last, Hilton spoke 
 again as by a strong effort : " Miss Fitzmaurice, dare I 
 flatter myself that I had a share in the prayers of one 
 amongst the living ? I am sure you know who I mean." 
 
 " I do, Mr. Hilton," said Ellen with the candor and 
 simplicity of a pure heart. " I do know who you mean, 
 and I am quite willing to admit that I did pray Our Lord 
 and His Blessed Mother for you every evening since the 
 month commenced." 
 
 What Hilton would have said on hearing this frank 
 admission remained unsaid for the time being, as they 
 had reached the door of Ellen's home, and she said 
 gently : — '* We part here, Mr. Hilton. This is my present 
 domicile. So, good-night ! Thank God yourself, as I 
 shall, too, for the wonderful mercy He has vouchsafed 
 you this night through Our Lady's intercession ! " 
 
 Surprised at this summary dismissal, yet conscious 
 that it was only what Ellen should have done, Hilton 
 lingered only till he saw her admit herself by a latch-key, 
 then turned his steps homeward, with a heart full of new- 
 born hope and a mind illumined by the first clear ray of 
 celestial truth. 
 
A MONTH OF MARY IDYL 
 
 '215 
 
 •e, and 
 itholic 
 sure it 
 ind"— 
 J, while 
 . spoke 
 
 dare I 
 
 of one 
 
 mean." 
 dor and 
 u mean, 
 )ur Lord 
 since the 
 
 lis frank 
 
 ;, as they 
 
 she said 
 
 y present 
 
 self, as I 
 juchsafed 
 
 :onscious 
 Hilton 
 latch-key, 
 ill of new- 
 lear ray of 
 
 VI. 
 
 During the remaining days of the month, Hubert 
 Hilton was a regular attendant at the May services. He 
 went alone, and took his station near the Blessed Virgin's 
 altar, where he knew Ellen was sure to be, then, after 
 the service, accompanied her home, always leaving her 
 at the door. Sometimes they lengthened the walk by 
 making a little detour, and it was during these promen- 
 ades that the two young people arranged their plans for 
 the future. They were engaged to be married, and by 
 Ellen's earnest request, the ceremony was to take place 
 in the last week of June, the dearest of months to the 
 lovers of the Sacred Heart. She had explained to Hubert 
 the great devotion to the Heart of Jesus, and told him the 
 wondrous story of its revelation by Our Lord Himself, in 
 an age not so far removed from ours, through the medium 
 of an humble French religious. 
 
 Hubert was being instructed in the doctrines of the 
 church by one of the priests of the church where he had 
 first received the gift of faith — the same whose sermon 
 on the devotion to Our Blessed Lord had been his first 
 awakening from the lethargy of unbelief. 
 
 ** Surely," said Ellen as they sauntered along through 
 the moonlit streets, after the close of the last May service, 
 enjoying to the full the tranquil beauty of the summer 
 night. " Surely, Hubert, we are commencing our married 
 life under the happiest auspices. Betrothed in the month 
 of Mary, married in the month of the Sacred Heart, may 
 we not hope for the special benediction of Our Blessed 
 Lady and Her Divine Son on our union ? A good be- 
 ginning, you know, commonly makes a good ending." 
 
i 
 
 m 
 
 
 h ; •- 
 
 216 
 
 A MONTH Oh MARY IDYL 
 
 Hilton's ready assent was followed by a silence of some 
 minutes. It was broken by the young man's saying in a 
 sort of dreamy voice, like one who is continuing aloud 
 some inward train of thought. "I see now, Ellen, what 
 it was that drew me to you from the first." 
 
 " And what was that, pray? " 
 
 " Because I found you so different from other young 
 girls, so modest and retiring, so prudent and reserved — 
 so self-denying where principle was at stake, — in short — 
 in short — so good a Catholic, as I now understand ! " 
 
 "Well ! I ought to be a good Catholic," said Ellen 
 in a thoughtful tone, "for I come of a race that was, 
 above all, Catholic, and which numbered amongst its 
 sons some of the most heroic leaders of the Catholic 
 people of Ireland in their long struggle against English 
 Protestant persecution in the evil days of Queen Eliza- 
 beth. The Fitzmaurices of Kerry — many of them alas ! 
 now fallen from their high estate ! — were a branch of 
 the Southern Geraldines who, under Gerald, the six- 
 teenth and last Earl of Desmond, defied for many long 
 years all the power of the Tudor Queen. Some day you 
 shall read of what the grand old Earl and his noble 
 kinsmen suffered and did — and what they lost for the 
 Faith during the Irish Reign of Terror known as the 
 Penal Times. Amongst the Catholic leaders of that 
 awful time none shine forth in history with a brighter 
 lustre than two brothers of my race, Sir James and Sir 
 John Fitzmaurice. Oh yes ! " she added, as she and her 
 betrothed stopped at the door of her humble home. 
 *' It is little merit for me to be a good Catholic, when so- 
 many of my forefathers and my kinsmen lost life and 
 land for the Faith in ever-faithful Ireland. But, pray 
 forgive me, Hubert ! if I talk too much for this once of 
 
A MONTH OF MAUY IDYL op 
 
 those glories of a long-past age. But I am proud of 
 these dauntless heroes of my race-it may be all the 
 more so that our glory has departed, ' Like the bubble 
 on the fountain, ' tis gone and for evor 1 • But I nro 
 m.se you not to bore you with these old-time stories 
 after we are married ! " 
 
 "You shall make no such promise, Ellen!" said 
 Hmon eagerly, as they shook hands on the door-step 
 
 cZZt f' "' ^" '"^"'" ^'^"^ -^-^ Catholfc 
 champ ons of your race, and I will follow up their foot- 
 prmts m the records of that stormy time " 
 
 " Well ! good-night now, Hubert ! - said Ellen softly • 
 ^ey were, her last words at parting. <> The month of 
 Mary ,s over, and it has done well for us. Now for the 
 month of the Sacred Heart ! " 
 
THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 Mrs. James Sadlier. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 i> -i 
 
 ^T was a great event in a popular watering-place of 
 the Lower St. Lawrence when, one bright May 
 day, some five and twenty years ago, Edward 
 Halligan, one of the well-to-do farmers of the vicinity, 
 brought home a bride to his well-plenished homestead 
 overlooking a broad expansion of the great river. 
 Edward was one of two brothers whose father had emi- 
 grated with his family from the south of Ireland in the 
 first quarter of the century. The elder Halligan and his 
 wife, after long years of hard toil, had succeeded in 
 making an easy competency for their family, consisting 
 of the two sons above named, and a daughter older than 
 they by some years and well married in the neighborhood. 
 The old couple had died within a short twelve-month 
 of each other, and slept side by side in the peace of 
 God in the new cemetery adjoining the parish church. 
 Richard Halligan, the younger brother, had recently 
 purchased a good farm and built a commodious house 
 where he had established himself with an elderly matron, 
 a relative of the family, as his housekeeper, a few months 
 
THE STORY OF TWO BR OTHERS. 
 
 219 
 
 before Edward brought home pretty Bessie Wilson to 
 the paternal dwelling as his wife. 
 
 Now, the HalHgan family were known far and wide as 
 .zealous Catholics, as were also the married sister and her 
 husband, Hugh Delaney. It was matter of surprise, then, 
 and no small regret to the whole parish, when Edward 
 Halligan took a wife not only from amongst the Protes- 
 tant settlers, but a family noted for their anti-Catholic 
 proclivities. The old people shook their heads and de- 
 clared that no good would come of it, " for, sure, there 
 was no Halligan married out of the Church since the me- 
 mory of man," as old John Halligan and his wife, God 
 rest them ! used often to boast. But Edward had, 
 apparently, no misgivings on the subject. His Bessie 
 was gentle and engaging, and he was full sure she would 
 make him the best of wives. As for religion, well ! he 
 could let her have her own way so long as he kept his. 
 Some day she might come round to his way of thinking. 
 And so matters went on month after month as smoothly 
 as heart could wish. 
 
 II. 
 
 The first ruffle on the stream of Edward Halligan's 
 wedded life was when, a year or so after his marriage, his 
 wife presented him with a son. A fine baby it was, too, 
 and much admired by relatives and neighbors. A day or 
 two after the new arrival Ned announced his intention of 
 having the infant baptised. His mother-in-law who, with 
 one of her daughters, had just arrived, was highly indig- 
 nant at this proposal. " I'm surprised at you, Ned ! in- 
 deed I am," she cried in a raised voice : " Is it tired of 
 
'220 
 
 THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 poor Bessie you are that you want to get rid of her? 
 Don't you know she's not over strong as yet and that 
 any excitement might kill her outright ?" 
 
 " But surely," said Ned in a hesitating way, " it 
 wouldn't hurt her to have the child christened, and we can 
 put off the christening till she'sable to be up and around.'^ 
 You know, Mrs. Wilson, we Catholics have the little 
 ones baptised as soon as we can after the birth, for fear 
 of any sudden change coming." 
 
 At this the old woman flared up. 
 
 " And do you think, Edward Halligan, that our Bessie's 
 child is to be christenid by the priest ? " 
 
 " Why, who else would he be ch istened by ? " 
 
 " Well ! that's to be seen about later; but unless you 
 really want to kill my poor girl, you won't hint such a 
 thing to her now. When she's up and well you can talk 
 the matter over between yourselves. The first thing now 
 is to get her well again, for any one can see with half an 
 eye that she's still very weak and nervous, poor thing ! '* 
 
 So the wily mother-in-law gained her point. Ned con- 
 sented to wait till Bessie was ** herself again," and Bessie, 
 as matters stood, was in no hurrry to be herself again. 
 The baby's christening was indefinitely postponed until 
 one fine day, when Ned was absent on business at the 
 market-town, the minister was brought by Mrs. Wilson, 
 and quietly baptised the boy. So the next v me Edward 
 spoke of the baptism, he was told, in Bi??^i>ie's sweetest 
 accents, that the Reverend Mr. Dixon, her own minister, 
 happened to drop in that day, just to see how she was 
 getting on, and she thought they might as well have the 
 baby christened. 
 
 Edward stormed a little at first, but his wife put forth 
 her softest blandishments, and asked, with an innocent 
 
THE STORY OF TWO lUi OTHERS. 
 
 00 
 
 00 I 
 
 her? 
 a that 
 
 u 
 
 it 
 
 ve can 
 )und."^ 
 2 little 
 DT fear 
 
 Jessie's 
 
 3SS you 
 such a 
 :an talk 
 ng now- 
 half an 
 :hing ! '* 
 
 edcon- 
 
 Bessie, 
 again. 
 
 d until 
 at the 
 ilson, 
 ,dward 
 
 ;weetest 
 inister, 
 he was 
 ave the 
 
 It forth 
 inocent 
 
 smile, what difference did it make, anyhow. " So long 
 as the child is made a Christian, Ned dear ! it matters 
 little whether Father Nolan or dear Mr. Dixon performed 
 the ceremony. He's all right now, you know ; and we 
 called him John William, a^ter your father and mine." 
 
 So poor weak Ned was fain to give in ; and although his 
 conscience reproached him at first for his criminal weak- 
 ness and deplorable neglect of duty, he soon succeeded in 
 silencing its voice on the plea of maintaining the peace of 
 the family. Back of that, however, was yet another 
 reason, perhaps more potent still. Old Billy Wilson — 
 " Orange Billy," as his Catholic neighbors called him — 
 was rich, for that locality, and as his family was but 
 small, Ned had hopes that this, his first grandson, might 
 come in for some of the old man's money. So the first 
 Protestant Halligan appeared in the settlement in the 
 person of Billy Wilson Halligan — the Juhn, for his good 
 old Catholic grandfather, was dropped before the end 
 of the child's first year. 
 
 ni. 
 
 When another son was born to Edward Halligan, the 
 question of his baptism was more easily settled. Having 
 once given way to his mother-in-law and his no less 
 bigoted though more smooth-spoken wife on the former 
 occasion, he made but a very faint resistance when the 
 same specious arguments were brought to bear upon 
 him, and readily agreed with kind Mrs. Wilson that 
 poor Bessie's health was the first consideration. The 
 dear soul must not be thwarted or annoyed on any 
 account whatever. So Edward junior, with the addition 
 
m 
 
 
 " 
 
 
 uii; 
 
 000 
 
 WE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 of Wilson to the paternal name, was duly baptised, like 
 his brother, by Rev. Mr. Dixon, to the secret exultation 
 of the whole Wilson tribe and the increasing indignation 
 and disgust of all the Halligan connections and their 
 Catholic neighbors. 
 
 So it went on until five children, sons and daughters, 
 were growing up in the Halligan household, when the 
 question of sending them to school came up between 
 the parents. The father was at first strongly in favor of 
 sending them to the Catholic parochial school, but this 
 was strenuously opposed by the mother, who had secretly 
 made up her mind that they should not go there. 
 Sooner than consent to any such thing, she would 
 leave the house with her baby and go back to her father 
 and let Ned do the best he could with the others. This 
 was a fearful threat to poor Ned ; but when his wife 
 added significantly : " We'll see where father's money will 
 go then ; — not to Roman Catholics, you may be sure, if 
 they are his own flesh and blood ! " He was fairly over- 
 come, and at once agreed to let the three elder children 
 go to Mr. Dixon's school. " And, sure, they say it's the 
 best anyhow," said Ned apologetically, as a salve to his 
 wounded conscience. 
 
 " To be sure it is, Ned I " said his wife complacently. 
 " Every one knows that, and you may be sure you're 
 doing the best thing for the children in sending them 
 there." 
 
 Years passed on. Eleven olive plants surrounded the 
 table of Edward Halligan. Stalwart youths were the 
 sons all and the daughters fair to look upon. But each 
 and all were staunch true-blue Protestants of the north 
 of Ireland Orange type, such as old Billy Wilson's descen- 
 dants ought to be : proud of their Protestant blood and 
 
 
THE STOIiY OF TWO BROTHEIiS. 
 
 2-23 
 
 sd, like 
 jltation 
 gnation 
 id their 
 
 .ighters, 
 len the 
 between 
 favor of 
 but this 
 [ secretly 
 o there, 
 e would 
 ler father 
 rs. This 
 his wife 
 loney will 
 ie sure, if 
 [irly over- 
 children 
 |y it's the 
 ve to his 
 
 t)lacently. 
 
 you're 
 
 ig them 
 
 Inded the 
 ^ere the 
 Jut each 
 
 Ihe north 
 descen- 
 )od and 
 
 no little ashamed of their " Roman Catholic " father. To 
 do that father justice, it was not without many a fruitless 
 effort that he saw his sons and daughters grow up Pro- 
 testants. But having forfeited all right to his children's 
 respect and with no common basis of religion to support 
 his authority, he had no influence whatever on their 
 conduct, and with deep, though alas, ! late repentance 
 for his sad errors, was fain to turn to God and practise his 
 religion solitary and alone in the midst of his numerous 
 progeny. 
 
 Thus, i'- came to pass that when Sunday came round, 
 portly Mrs. Halligan might be seen marching with her 
 tall sons and comely daughters to the conventicle where 
 the Rev. Hamilton Dixon held forth on the errors of 
 Rome to a highly-sympathetic congregation ; the while 
 her husband wended his lonely way to the handsome 
 church of Our Lady of Victories, beneath whose high altar 
 good Father Nolan, the beloved pastor of his early years, 
 had long since gone to rest, his faithful ministry in the 
 parish commemorated by a fair tablet of Italian marble 
 hard b;- Our Lady's altar. 
 
 Many a repentant tear did poor Edward Halligan — 
 now a prematurely aged man — shed before that still 
 memorial, as too faithful memory brought back to his 
 mind the ceaseless endeavors of that good priest to save 
 his children for God and His Church, — his oft repeatc .' 
 admonitions and warnings lo himself, all, unhappily^ of 
 no avail ! Now, when too late, the broken-spirited, 
 sorrowing old man saw it all, and endeavored to make 
 amends, as far as he himself was concerned, for his past 
 errors and misdeeds by increased fervor and fidelity. 
 But alas ! for the large family that God had given hmi 
 and for whose souls he was accountable befr re Him ! 
 
224 
 
 THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 PART SFXOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 Edward Halligan was already the father of six children, 
 the eldest of whom was fourteen years of age, when his 
 uncle Richard, his father's younger brother, took it into 
 his head to marry. Richard was verging on forty ,; but 
 •of a lighter disposition, apparently, than his brother. 
 With his fine farm well tilled and well stocked, and his 
 comfortable dwelling, he had long been an object of 
 eager speculation to the Catholic mothers of the vicinity 
 as a most eligible husband for one of their daughters. 
 Of course, after the sad experience of his brother, 
 Richard's choice could only be amongst those of his 
 own religion. That was a settled question, they all 
 agreed. 
 
 Great, then, was the astonishment and sad the disap- 
 pointment that awaited these Catholic mothers when the 
 rumor went abroad, and was all too soon confirmed by 
 fact, that Richard Halligan was following precisely in 
 his brother's footsteps and taking for wife another Pro- 
 testant, Sally Dawson by name, the portionless daughter 
 of a widow who had lately come to live in the neighbor- 
 hood ! Like the Wilsons, this Mrs. Dawson was a rigid 
 Protestant, and her daughter had been brought up in 
 the strictest principles of Scotch Presbyterianism. Here 
 was another shock for the worthy parish priest and 
 another grievous scandal for his flock. Indeed, so deeply- 
 rooted and so wide-spread was the indignation of the 
 ■Catholic people around at this most unaccountable act 
 
 ! I 
 
THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 225 
 
 children, 
 when his 
 Dk it into 
 )rty .; but 
 ; brother, 
 i, and his 
 object of 
 le vicinity- 
 daughters, 
 s brother, 
 ^ose of his 
 i, they all 
 
 the disap- 
 Iswhen the 
 ifirmed by 
 recisely in 
 lother Pro- 
 Is daughter 
 neighbor- 
 ras a rigid 
 ightup in 
 lism. Here 
 priest and 
 I, so deeply 
 lion of the 
 btable act 
 
 of the younger Halligan, that, by common consent, not 
 one of them assisted at the wedding. Even the groom's 
 sister and her husband were notably absent on the 
 occasion. 
 
 Whatever Richard may have thought or felt in this 
 contingency, he kept it all to himself, and was, to all 
 appearance at least, perfectly satisfied with the company 
 of his brother Ned and his Protestant wife, with certain 
 of the Protestant neighbors and some relatives of his 
 wife from the adjacent town. In one respect, however, 
 this marriage of Richard's was an improvement on that 
 ot his brother, as he had insisted on being married by 
 the priest, and had gone to confession and communion 
 all alone, in the early morning. Even this was a conso- 
 lat'on to the good pastor otherwise so grievously afflicted 
 by this second mixed marriage in the Halligan family. 
 
 One thing that made the affair still more gloomy for 
 the priest and his people was the almost masculine 
 firmness of character and demeanor that distinguished 
 the new-made bride from all the girls around. She was 
 tall, somevhat taciiurn and dark-visaged withal, though 
 sufficiently ^^Uv id-looking to account for Richard's choice, 
 as far as aDpearance went. Such as she was, however, 
 Sally Davvic-i became Mrs. Richard Halligan one grey 
 October day, 'vhen the year was in the wane and her 
 husband's crops all gathc^ed from meadow and field into 
 his capacious barns. As for the bridegroom, he laughed 
 and joked as usual, with little care, it would seem, for 
 the after-time. 
 
 n 
 
226 
 
 THE STORY OF TWO li BOTHERS. 
 
 II. 
 
 il 
 
 When brown autumn came again, in late September, 
 a daughter was born to Richard Halligan. 
 
 " Now," said the Catholic neighbors around, *' it'il be 
 Ned's story over again. They'll have the minister christen 
 the baby, and then there's an end of it ! And more's 
 the pity, for it's the sajne Halligans, that were the real old 
 Catholic stock, breed, ed and generatioa ! " 
 
 But things turned » u . y differently to what was 
 expected* Those who tai..->.J in this way little knew 
 Richard Halligan, gay and reckless as he seemed. 
 
 On the day following the baby's birth, Richard accosted 
 his mother-in-law, who v/as in the kitchen preparing 
 dinner : " Mrs. Dawson, we're going to have the little 
 one baptised this afternoon. Father Dwyer will be in the 
 church an hour from now, and my sister and her husband 
 are coming here to take the baby. They are to be the 
 sponsors." 
 
 " Oh ! Richard, you don't mean it ! " cried the widow, 
 flushing red and stopping short in her culinary occupa- 
 tion. 
 
 '* But I do mean it, ma'am, of course I do j so you'll 
 please get baby ready without delay. We can't keep the 
 priest waiting." 
 
 With a blanchea cheek and a lowering brow, Mrs. 
 Dawson began to protest, declaring her daughter was not 
 strong enough for the excitement of the christening, and 
 that shewouldn'tanswerforthe consequences ifitwenton. 
 
 " Well ! /'// take the consequences, Mrs. Dawson, be 
 they what they may," replied Richard calmly ; " so you'll 
 please tell Sally, and then get the baby ready at once ! " 
 
THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 00 
 
 27 
 
 jptember^ 
 
 I, " it'll be 
 er christen 
 nd more's 
 the real old 
 
 ) what was 
 little knew 
 jmed. 
 
 ird accosted 
 1 preparing 
 /e the little 
 rill be in the 
 her husband 
 ^re to be the 
 
 i the widow, 
 ary occupa- 
 
 lo ; so you'll 
 ^n't keep the 
 
 brow, Mrs. 
 Ihter was not 
 Istening, and 
 
 [if it went on. 
 
 Dawson, be 
 • " so you'll 
 
 |y at once ! "" 
 
 Sally would fain have persuaded her husband to put 
 off the baptism for a while, but Richard was firm, and 
 the women were forced to give in. 
 
 '' What name are we to give the baby ? " asked 
 Richard of his wife when the little cortege was starting 
 for the church, Mrs. Delaney herself carrying the infant • 
 Sally rephed that she had no choice, they might call her 
 what they pleased for her. 
 
 " Very well !" said Richard in his blithesome way, 
 " /have a choice." 
 
 And the babe was baptised Margaret Mary by Father 
 Dwyer in the Church of Our Lady of Victory. And a 
 victory was then and there gained for God and His 
 Church. 
 
 At first the young mother was disposed to be angry 
 with her husband, and bitterly reproached him for his 
 indifference to her wishes and his utter disregard of the 
 possible danger to her health. Richard only laughed, 
 telling his wife to keep cool and she would be all right. 
 But to avoid any real danger from over-excitement or 
 exertion, the festive celebration of the christening was 
 put off for two weeks to give Sally time to recover her 
 usual health. 
 
 It was with a heavy sigh and a downcast look that 
 poor Edward Halligan wished his brother joy of the vic- 
 tory he had so quietly achieved. " If I had only had the 
 pluck to put down my foot at the start as you did, Dick I 
 may be things would have gone better with me. How- 
 ever, don't be too sure that the battle is won," he sagely 
 added ; " this is only the beginning of it, remember 1 " 
 
 Dick Halligan smiled but said nothing. He was a 
 man o^few words though of lightsome heart in the main» 
 
lil;;'. 
 
 228 
 
 THE STOBY OF TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 III. 
 
 *iH| 
 
 Edward's prediction was not justified by what came 
 after. When the next arrival took place in Richard's 
 household, there was only the very faintest attempt at 
 remonstrance in regard to the baptism on the part of the 
 mother and grandmother. The new-comer, a boy, was 
 baptised John, after his paternal grandfather, and so the 
 old order was re-established in the Halligan family for 
 all Richard's Protestant wife. 
 
 So it went on for eight or ten years. All the children, 
 as they came, were ta^^en to church and duly baptised 
 by Father Dwyer, theii Cartiolic baptism being accepted 
 as a matter of course and without disturbing the peace 
 of Richard's home even in the slightest degree. 
 
 As the children grew older it was a pretty sight to see 
 them going to the cemetery — the elder ones leading the 
 younger by the hand- to say a prayer at the graves of 
 their grandparents and place thereon bunches of wild 
 flowers gathered by the way. Soon little Margaret Mary 
 and her brother John, being ten and eight years old 
 respectively, and regular attendants at Father Dwyer's 
 school, were able to read the inscription on the white 
 marble stone at the head of the carefully kept graves, 
 and the little ones stood around in awe-struck silence 
 while the simple record was read, telling how John 
 Halligan av^ Iiis dearly-beloved wife Bridget, natives of 
 County Roscommon, Ireland, slept below, birth and 
 death duly stated, and ending with the usual request to 
 pray for their souls. Hearing those last words, the 
 children dropped on their knees, and with clasped hands 
 
 t 
 
THE STOBY OF TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 
 It came 
 ichard's 
 2mpt at 
 rtofthe 
 »oy, was 
 ,d so the 
 imily for 
 
 children, 
 
 baptised 
 
 accepted 
 
 the peace 
 
 rht to see 
 iding the 
 graves of 
 js of wild 
 iret Mary 
 ^ears old 
 Dwyer's 
 |the white 
 )t graves, 
 |k silence 
 jow John 
 latives of 
 )irth and 
 lequest to 
 )rds, the 
 led hands 
 
 and bowed heads besought God to have mercy on dear 
 grandpapa and grandmamma." 
 
 '* And on all the souls of the faithful departed ! " was 
 added first by wise, gentle Margaret Mary, and after her 
 by all the others, some of whom could barely lisp out 
 the words. 
 
 It sometimes happened that poor old Uncle Edward 
 came upon this touching scene when he paid his lonely 
 visit to that hallowed spot. On fine Sunday evenings, 
 when the day was decUning, Richard himself often 
 accompanied his children in their visit of tender love 
 and duty ; knowing this, his brother made it a point to 
 meet him there, and together they knelt and prayed for 
 the dear departed parents who had done their best in 
 their own humble way in their far Americai home to 
 transmit the faith of St. Patrick to their own descen- 
 dants. And as they all walked home together through 
 the gathering shadows, Richard and Edward would tell 
 the eager little listeners of the old churchyard in faraway 
 Ireland, where generations of their fore-fathers lay in 
 their quiet crosscrowned graves beneath the rich verdure 
 of the Emerald Isle, awaiting the resurrection. In this 
 way the little ones learned to love and reverence the 
 land of their fathers, which the elder ones already knew 
 as the Island of Saints. 
 
 What bitter sorrow filled poor Edward's heart as he 
 tiiought of his own children, revilers and haters of every- 
 thing Catholic, cut off from the holy traditions of their 
 race and openly ranged with the enemies of that faith 
 for which their ancestors for countless generations 
 suffered and died, And, — saddest thought of all, — that 
 even when he, their unhappy father, had been laid to 
 rest in that hallowed spot with his venerated parents, no 
 
130 
 
 THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 prayer for him or them would ever be uttered by those 
 ungrateful children who might not even rest near him 
 in death ! 
 
 
 IV. 
 
 i'< 
 
 " What is to be done about the children's prayers ? " 
 said Richard Halligan one day to his wife, when some of 
 the little ones were old enough to learn them^ years 
 before the visits to the cemetery began. " They ought 
 to be learning them by this time." 
 
 " I know that, Dick ! " replied Sally, " but it's your 
 affair, not mine. You don't want me to teach them wj 
 prayers, and I can't teach them yours, for the reason 
 that I don't know them.'-* 
 
 " Well ! you know, my dear, I haven't much time to 
 teach them, but I'll tell you what I'll do : I'll get you a 
 Catholic Catechism, and you'll find the most necessary 
 prayers there. Would you mind hearing the children 
 say them ? " ; 
 
 " Why, no, Dick ! I was often wishing I knew what 
 prayers you'd want them to learn. Of course, Margaret 
 Mary and Ned and Kathleen have learned them at 
 school^ but the little ones can begin to learn them at 
 home." 
 
 " Very well, Sally dear ! I'll get you the Catechism, 
 and you can teach the wee ones not only the first little 
 prayers that you'll find there, but also the first chapter of 
 the Christian Doctrine." To this the wife readily assented, 
 and the matter was definitely settled. 
 
 Secretly rejoiced beyond measure, but wisely express- 
 ing no surprise, Richard procured the Catechism from 
 
THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 231 
 
 by those 
 lear him 
 
 >f 
 
 rayers ? 
 n some of 
 em, years 
 'hey ought 
 
 t it's your 
 h them Jfiy 
 the reason 
 
 ich time to 
 I get you a 
 necessary 
 e children 
 
 I knew what 
 ;, Margaret 
 ;d them at 
 rn them at 
 
 I Catechism, 
 le first little 
 It chapter of 
 ]ly assented, 
 
 ily express- 
 :hism from 
 
 Father Dwyer, who was surprised and delighted at the 
 happy turn affairs were taking. 
 
 So the children were taught their prayers by their 
 Protestant mother, even the babe of three years, who 
 could barely speak plainly, beginning to lisp the Holy 
 Names. Then the Catechism was taken up, and by- 
 and-bye, the mother, not content with teaching the very 
 little ones the answers to the first questions, began of her 
 own accord to hear the Catechism lessons of the elder 
 ones in the evenings, preparing for school next day. 
 Very soon she became so deeply interested in the subject 
 that she began stealthily to read the few but well chosen 
 doctrinal books of the little family library ranged on a 
 few shelves in the best parlor. By the time she had got 
 through Milner's " End of Controversy," " The Catholic 
 Christian Instructed," Cobbett's " Reformation," and 
 one or two others, her clear head and sound judgment 
 did the rest. 
 
 One day she gladdened though hardly surprised her 
 husband by telling him that she wanted to be a Roman 
 Catholic like him and the children. 
 
 " You mean a Catholic^ pure and simple," said Dick 
 with a happy smile ; '* you must know, my dear Sally, 
 that Catholic means tmiversal^zxid. that's what the Church 
 is. She is neither Roman, nor EngHsh, nor French, nor 
 any other, but simply Catholic, so it is just nonsense to 
 speak of her as Roman Catholic. The Catholic Church 
 she is and ever has been, and shall be as long as the world 
 lasts. So you want to be one of us, Sally ! Well ! thanks 
 and praises be to God ! I knew it would come to that." 
 
 " And it's the Sacred Heart I thank for it ! " he added 
 when informing Father Dwyer of the happy result of 
 their joint prayers and judicious action in regard to Sally. 
 

 THE STOHY OF TWO BliOTHERS. 
 
 " How is that, Richard ? " 
 
 " Well ! doesn't your reverence remember that I was 
 married on the first Friday of the month, though every 
 one wondered at my choice of a Friday, of all days. But 
 I kept my own counsel and said nothing of it to any one 
 till I'd see what came of it. Then I called my first child 
 Margaret Mary in honor of Our Lady and Blessed Mar- 
 garet Mary, with the same intention — that my wife might 
 one day become a Catholic, for I knew it was in her, if 
 she did, to make a very good one. As for the children, 
 I promised the Sacred Heart to look after them myself 
 and see that they weren't led away from the One Fold." 
 
 " And you see how the Sacred Heart has crowned 
 your pious wishes and intentions with fruit a hundred- 
 fold ! Oh ! how different from your poor brother's family 
 will yours be, one and all ! " 
 
 " Yes, father ! it was the shame and the sorrow of 
 Edward's miserable failure in regard to his family that 
 gave me the idea how I must act in order to save mine." 
 
 So Sally was duly baptised, and became a most exem- 
 plary Catholc, and her family were known all the country 
 round as the Catholic Halligans, while Edward's were 
 " black Protestants," every one of them, and their father 
 died of a broken heart, pitied by some, respected by 
 none, least of all by his own children.* 
 
 * This is an " ower true tale" — literally true in all its facts. It was told nie by 
 a neigbor of these two families to whom I have given the name of Halligan. The 
 name of the place, too, where these counter-dramas were enacted I have, for 
 obvious reasons, kept concealed, like the real name of the family in question. 
 " The Protestant Halligans " and "the Catholic Halligans,'' under their own 
 proper name, are still living in one of the sea-side towns of the Lower St. Lawrence.. 
 The story, simple as it is, conveys its own moral. 
 
t I was 
 I every 
 ^s. But 
 ,ny one 
 St child 
 ;d Mar- 
 fe might 
 n her, if 
 hildren, 
 1 myself 
 e Fold." 
 crowned 
 lundred- 
 :'s family 
 
 orrow of 
 
 nily that 
 
 e mine." 
 
 St exem- 
 
 country 
 
 d's were 
 
 ir father 
 
 cted by 
 
 Ls told me by 
 |lligan. The 
 I have, for 
 I in question. 
 kr their own 
 It. Lawrence.. 
 
 ST. JOSEPH'S BASKET. 
 
 Anna T. Sadlier. 
 
 ^HAT gray, old mansion had stood, as some 
 averred, from distinctly pre-historic times, on the 
 outskirts of a populous town. Others declared 
 that it had been used as a Hudson's Bay Post, while 
 others again asserted that it had been very famous for 
 gay doings, balls, routs, dinners and theatricals, in times 
 easily within the memory of living persons. All agreed 
 that the gray ruin had a history, but whether of good or 
 evil, there was no record in the tradition of the neighbor- 
 hood, anymore than in the dingy gray of the stone walls^ 
 the porch faUing to ruin, or the door barely hanging by 
 the rustiest of hinges. Some initials and a date once 
 inscribed above this entrance had become illegible by 
 the effect of time or weather. 
 
 Long tenantless, the mansion had at length found a 
 tenant. A woman with her three children had been 
 allowed to shelter there, either on the payment of a 
 nominal rent or for her services as caf etaker, for she 
 was required by the lighting of fires to keep the elements 
 from working a final destruction upon the desolate 
 structure. The woman was regarded by the neighbors, 
 inhabitants of a few straggling dwellings close at hand, 
 with a species of awe whenever she ^assed in or out of 
 the house. They looked at her as they might at one 
 newly arrived from some foreign country. She was, she 
 
234 
 
 ST. JOSEPH'S BASKET. 
 
 must be foreign, living in an abode which was separated 
 from them, not by the effect of space but of time. 
 
 The woman was totally undisturbed by their ingenuous 
 curiosity. Like the house, she belonged to the past tense, 
 and seemed to have but little concern for the present. 
 She had been young. She had been beautiful. She had 
 been the spoiled child of wealthy parents, and the wife 
 of a once prosperous business man. 
 
 The latter had died bankrupt and heartbroken, having 
 lost her inheritance with his own competence. So this 
 woman had lost everything, but had kept in a marked 
 degree her faith. She was constantly over-stepping the 
 boundary line between this world and the next, and 
 conversing, as it vvere, familiarly with those sacred 
 personages, whom she regarded as intimate friends. 
 
 A stormy March morning signalized the eighth day of 
 her occupancy of the old house. The wind howled about 
 it, as if in baffled rage at the warmth within — a wild 
 March wind, with the cold of January lingering in its 
 fierceness. Mrs. Lanthier — her husband had been a 
 French Canadian, but she was of Irish parentage — 
 stood before a picture, which held a prominent place in 
 the largest of the rooms which she strove to make 
 habitable. It was the picture of an old man, of benignant 
 aspect, clad in a brown robe and bearing in his hand a 
 lily. Any Catholic would at once have recognized in it 
 the dear and familiar figure of the Foster-Father of Jesus. 
 
 Mrs. Lanthier regarded the picture with a mournful 
 air, in which there was a lurking touch of humorous 
 reproach. 
 
 "Yes, St. Joseph," she said aloud, "we owe you this 
 shelter and warmth, for the agent has given us plenty 
 •of fuel. But you are not going to let us starve. There is 
 
Sr. JOSEPH- S BASKET. 
 
 235 
 
 nothing in the house. My last cent went to pay the rent 
 where we were before, and I will not be paid for my 
 work till Saturday. The children as soon as they wake 
 will begin to clamor for food." 
 
 Here her voice broke, and she scarcely restrained a 
 burst of tears. But resolutely she conquered herself 
 
 " I'm just going to leave my empty basket here," she 
 said with a curious earnestness. " You will fill it, I know, 
 St. Joseph. And oh, dear Saint, I must leave the children 
 in your care and our Blessed Lady's till I come back 
 with my bundle of work." 
 
 So saying, she hurried away, having set down her 
 empty basket before the picture. She was anxious that 
 the children should not wake till her return. Mrs. Lan- 
 thier did sewing, tailoring, or whatever work came to 
 hand. She never spared herself, and it w, , indeed, a 
 severe illness that had thrown her into such desperate 
 straits. 
 
 " St. Joseph always helps me in some way," she used 
 to say ; " but if I did not work as hard as ever I was 
 able, I should not dare to ask for his assistance." 
 
 II. 
 
 During Mrs. Lanthier's absence an event occurred, 
 al most unprecedented in the later history of the old house. 
 It had some visitors, a gay and brilliant party. They 
 came to see if the ruin, as they contemptuously styled 
 it, could not be transformed into a species of club house 
 for summer use. If at all susceptible of repairs, it might 
 make a fitting lounging place for artists, especially ama- 
 teurs and dilettanti of all sorts, who couia vvile away there 
 
236 
 
 ST. JOSEPirS BASKET. 
 
 i * 'fl 
 
 the long dreary houfs of summer, or exchange brilliant 
 nothings over iced tea or lemonade. For in the simmer 
 time there was a beautiful view thence. The narrow, 
 paneless windows, like eyes grown dim with time, looked 
 out upon distant hills of green and rivers of blue, while 
 ancient trees lent their mystery, as citriving with kindly 
 concealment to shield the old walls from the blatent youth 
 and loveliness of nature. 
 
 The party of inquisitors wandered up and dov/n and in 
 and out through the mansion, making scoff of the plas- 
 terless walls and the bulging masonry and the cracked 
 floors, till at last they found themselves in a large room, 
 in which, to their delight, was a fire blazing upon the 
 hearth. They grouped themselves cheerily around it 
 declaring that whether it had come there by enchantment 
 or not, it was precisely what was needed as an antidote 
 to the March winds, through which they had driven 
 thither. Whilst taking in the various impressions of the 
 apartment, their careless eyes fell upon tho picture before 
 which Mrs. Lanthier had left her empty basket. The 
 picture drew forth a fire of jests, in which all of the com- 
 pany, save one, joined most heartily. 
 
 " To what school of art does yonder relic belong ? " 
 asked one. 
 
 " And by what spirit hands was it here suspended ? " 
 This in a tone of mock solemnity from another, who was 
 understood to b^; the wit of the party, and who not infre- 
 quently directed his darts against the latent spiritualism 
 o[ certain of his friends. 
 
 Suddenly they were startled by the sound of little feet, 
 and presently the door of an adjoining room opened, and 
 there appeared on the threshold three tiny figures in 
 white gowns, holding hands. 
 
ST. JOSEPirS BASKET. 
 
 237 
 
 )ng ? 
 
 e feet, 
 l, and 
 res in 
 
 " Spirit children materialized," cried the wit in a tone 
 of pretended awe. 
 
 " I should rather say fairies, elves," cried another. 
 
 '• For mercy's sake, tell us who you are ;" said a third. 
 
 " We're dust de little Lanthiers," said the eldest of the 
 three, in a voice which showed his keen sense of respon- 
 sibility. 
 
 " And v'ho are the little Lanthiers?" was uttered in a 
 chorus of all present. 
 
 To this the child made no reply. Evidently to his own 
 mind the information given had been final. 
 
 " Please," explained the child with the same air of 
 heroic resolve, '* not to take dat basket." 
 
 This remark was addressed to one of the company, 
 who had been idly examming the basket placed before 
 St. Joseph, when the children had appeared, and who 
 still held it in his hands. 
 
 " And why not ? " asked the gentleman. 
 
 '' Because St. Joseph is going to fill it, and we won't 
 have any ting to eat till he comes." 
 
 At this information, the whole party save one stared 
 in utter astonishment. That one explained quietly : 
 
 " I see how it is. That picture represents S-. Joseph, 
 Foster-Father of Jesus, to whom we Catholics pay special 
 honor during the month of March." 
 
 '* But what do these children mean about the basket? " 
 asked some one. 
 
 " Their poor mother, in a spirit of faith, has left to 
 St. Joseph the task to which she is unequal, of filling this 
 basket with food. She has gone, no doubt, to beg or look 
 for work." 
 
 ''Suppose we fill it," cried an impulsive youth of 
 twenty. 
 
f 
 
 m 
 
 Mi 
 
 m 
 
 ii; 
 
 m 
 
 238 
 
 ST.JOSEPirS BASKET. 
 
 " What a capital idea I " echoed all the others, " but 
 how ? " 
 
 " Oh, I know the neighborhood hereabouts pretty 
 well," said the youth, '^ and I will do the marketing." 
 
 *' Then, all that remains is to pass round the hat." 
 
 So quickly and effectually was this done, that in a 
 short time the gay young volunteer was back, foll'"'ved 
 by a man carrying a loaded basket, which he deposited 
 upon the floor, close to that other basket which had been 
 left in St. Joseph's charge. The children now drew near 
 with that species of locomotion described by Dickens in 
 one of his novels, by which these toddling mites seem to 
 surmount hillocks and descend into valleys. The youth, 
 who had done the marketing knelt upon the floor, busy 
 transferring meat, groceries, bread and fruit in some- 
 • what bewildering profusion from one basket to the other. 
 
 To the inexpressible amusement of the company, one 
 of the children, who had not yet spoken, looking earn- 
 estly into the young man's face, asked : 
 
 " Is 00 St. Doseph ? " 
 
 The ladies of the party now crowded around the 
 children, lavishing upon them, both terms of endearment 
 and more substantial benefits of bread, butter and fruit. 
 Finally the sights and sounds of the old house and the 
 pathetic interest awakened by the children having palled 
 upon them, the gay company departed, promising each 
 other to come again and see the end of the adventure, 
 which perhaps they did, or perhaps they allowed this 
 intention to pass into the realm of forgolLcn promises 
 and broken resolutions. 
 
 But Mrs. Lanlhier, coming home with her bundle of 
 work, an hour afterwards, sank upon her knees in 
 grateful prayer, at the sight of the well-filled basket, with 
 
■ Sr. JOSEPH'S BASKET. 
 
 J39' 
 
 but 
 
 retty 
 
 in a 
 ^'ved 
 )sited 
 
 been 
 r near 
 ens in 
 ;em to 
 
 youth, 
 •, busy 
 
 some- 
 : other, 
 ly, one 
 earn- 
 
 a $5 bill on too of it, standing in front of St. Joseph's 
 picture. She hau to listen to excited but not very intel- 
 ligible descriptions from the children of beautiful ladies 
 and gentlemen, and of one in particular, who had 
 specially captivated their imagination. 
 
 Concerning him, the little one who had before inquired 
 repeated her question, only this time cautiously into 
 " mammy's " ear, for had it not before provoked a burst 
 of merriment ? 
 
 " Was he St. Doseph ? " 
 
 To which her mother answered : 
 
 " St. Joseph sent him, dearie ; and now my darlings 
 will not have to go hungry to bed any more." 
 
 A new era of prosperity began thenceforward for 
 mother and children. The mother was kept continually 
 in work, and old friends came forward to interest them- 
 selves in the children's education. 
 
 But long after Mrs. Lanthier had left the ancient house 
 behind her, she was wont to say, recalling half regretfully 
 its dinginess and dreariness, that all her prosperity had 
 begun there, being after all but the overflow of St.. 
 Joseph's basket. 
 
 idle of 
 lees in 
 >t, with 
 
ON GOOD SOIL. 
 
 Mrs. Margaret Chadwick 7iee Sadlier. 
 
 I. 
 
 W 
 
 ■i'M 
 
 l!' 
 
 
 JITTLE Agatha Tracey had just come from con- 
 fession, and was making her thanksgiving at the 
 5^„^^.,_^ high altar, where the red lamps glowed at the 
 feet of Our Lord. 
 
 Dusk had fallen in the great church, and the peace 
 and silence of the twilight hour rested upon the quiet 
 worshippers who had **come apart with Him " out of 
 ^he noisy world outside. 
 
 As Agatha prayed with innocent, up-lifted eyes and 
 clasped hands, a strange little figure which had been 
 prowling about in the gathering darknesss crept up to 
 her, and pulling her by the sleeve whispered hoarsely, 
 *' Who's he ? " 
 
 Agatha started, *' Do you mean the statue ? " following 
 the direction of the questioning eyes — " Why, that — is — 
 Jesus — don't you knoio ? " 
 
 There was a world of sorrowful pity in the tone. 
 
 The strange child shook her head. 
 
 *' Would you like to hear about Him ? " Agatha whis- 
 pered. 
 
 There was an answering nod. 
 
 ''Then wait for me a second, and I'll come with you," 
 and Agatha turned to the altar again. Her confessor's 
 words of a few moments ago came back to her vividly : 
 
 " Remember, my dear child, that God has been very, 
 
ON GOOD SOIL 
 
 n\ 
 
 whis- 
 
 you," 
 
 issor's 
 
 jvidly : 
 
 very, 
 
 very good to you : He has given you every opportunity 
 of knowing and loving Him ; try then to help those less 
 favored than yourself." Inspired words they seemed. 
 Agatha's heart gave a great throb of pity and zeal. 
 '* Dear Lord, help me to teach this little child who has 
 never known Thee ! " Then she went down the aisle, her 
 new friend following softly in her wake, with the queer, 
 cat-like movement of a child of the streets. 
 
 In the great porch, seated on the steps, the young 
 apostle began her story, the poor vagrant following her 
 in fancy, from the high heavens and the fall of the 
 angels down to the dreary day of Calvary, and the good 
 seed fell straightway down into a heart, not spotless, 
 perhaps, but eager to receive the good seed, — an earnest 
 little heart, only awaiting the hand of the sower. 
 
 When they parted, Jess, — the only name she knew, — 
 wore tucked under her ragged dress Agatha's scapular of 
 the Sacred Heart, and a promise had been made of books, 
 to be sent regularly in care of Mrs. Mur]jhy, Ring Lane' 
 
 " I guess you'd better not come," Jess had said, in 
 answer to Agatha's suggestion that she and her mother, 
 should go to see her. "An' I'd .ather not go to your 
 folk's house ; I'll come here some other day though, and 
 p'raps you'll be here again." 
 
 " I come every day at this time, Jess, and I will be so 
 glad if you will ; and, Jess, will you pray for me, because 
 I'm going to pray a great deal for you ? " 
 
 " Me pray ? " Jess gave an odd laugh ; was there a sob 
 in it too ? 
 
 " Yes, Jess, pray that you and I may both be good and 
 love God more and more every day." 
 
 *' All right " Jess had said shamefacedly, and had dis- 
 appeared in the darkness. 
 
 i6 
 
ii 
 
 ^42 01^ 0001) SOIL 
 
 II. 
 
 Some weeks had gone by, and Mrs. Murphy, the 
 nearest approach to a mother Jess had ever known, was 
 leaning against her window after a hard day's work. 
 The evening sun was making a glory of the distant roofs 
 and church steeples, and on one of these the woman's 
 eyes were fixed with an absent gaze ; her thoughts were 
 with times long past. 
 
 " Poor old father," she said at last. " You don't know, 
 Jess, how partikler he used to be 'bout our goin' to 
 church Sunday mornins, all dressed up ever so fine, and 
 him and mother walkin' on in front of us ; he'd be wild 
 if he could see me now a-days, never so much as sayin' 
 the name of God. Them books of yours, Jess, has set 
 me thinkin' to-day over the tub ; somethin' kep urgin' 
 me to go over there to the mission," pointing to the 
 shining spire ; '' but I'm awful afraid to, Jess. I've let it 
 all go on so long ; it doesn't seem any place for the likes 
 ofme— " 
 
 " Guess you'd better," said Jess, " she said no matter 
 how bad you was, God'd forgive you if you was sorry, 
 I'll go with you, if you like. Let's go to-night." 
 
 The woman shivered. 
 
 " What'll they say when they hear none of the child- 
 er's baptized ? " 
 
 " Guess they'll say you'd better get them done right 
 away; and me too." 
 
 " Well, we'll go to-morrow night, Jess." 
 
 " Oh, come on to night, Mrs. Murphy." 
 
 " Well, well," said Mrs. Murphy, tremulously. And go 
 they did, and sat in the crowd, two pathetic figures, — 
 
 
ON GOOD SOIL ^ 243 
 
 the woman with bowed head crying her heart out, as 
 
 she listened to the sermon, Jess, open-eyed and eager 
 
 laymg every word to heart. 
 " Will you wait a bit for me, Jess ? " whispered Mrs 
 
 Murphy when the preacher had finished, and tremblinc^ 
 and frightened she crept into a confessional near by. '^ 
 It Avas late when she came back,_Jess had fallen 
 asleep, but awoke to see the happiest of faces gleaming 
 on her, though a moment later the poor woman broke 
 into a silent passion of tears. 
 
 III. 
 
 Another weary day of drudgery was over, and Jess sat 
 down on the kitchen table to rest, staring wistfully into 
 the fire. 
 
 " I'm through," she said at last. 
 
 '' Are yoM\ Why, that's grand, Jess. Go out then 
 child, and get the air a bit. You are a fine worker Jess ' 
 Sure I don't know what I'd have done only for you all 
 this time." ' 
 
 Jess's heart warmed at the praise, and she went cheerily 
 down the wretched stairs to the miserable street. 
 
 " Guess I'll go and see if Tim's about, Mrs. Murphy " 
 she called back. 
 
 " I wouldn't bother about the same Tim ; sure he's 
 the worst boy in the street, and they're all bad enough." 
 
 " He ain't any worse than the others." 
 
 " Well, I know he's your own flesh and blood, but he's 
 a curse to you all the same." 
 
 Jess said nothing ; Tim was awful, but he was all that 
 she had in the world. 
 
2U 
 
 ON GOOD SOIL. 
 
 Air? WheredidMrs Murphy expect ber to get a breath 
 in this fetid atmosphere ? Alas, alas ! for the luckless 
 dwellers in such places. The child lounged down the 
 street listlessly, when a name caught her ear. 
 
 " Somethin' wrong at Briggs'." 
 
 " What's up ? " 
 
 " Oh, that Tim, stealin' again." 
 
 Jess ran up to hear the worst. 
 
 Briggs, the grocer, was talking excitedly to a police- 
 man. 
 
 " I seen Tim hanging about with his gang, and I told 
 Pete to look out ; but while he was serving a customer, 
 that rascal Tim walks off with a bag of potatoes, under 
 our very noses. I'll get him this time, though ; you'll see 
 if I don't." 
 
 Jess had stolen away and was round the corner in a 
 flash ; she knew Tim's probable whereabouts, and must 
 warn him — hopeless wretch though he was ; in all the 
 wide world, she alone there was to look after him. 
 
 At a miserable rookery of a ruined building, Jess 
 stopped. 
 
 " Tim ! " she called softly. 
 
 " That you, Jess ? " from above. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; they're after you." 
 
 " All right, you cut away, or they'll know I'm about 
 here." 
 
 "Can you get away? " 
 
 " Yes,—o/i, get out ! " 
 
 Jess obeyed, running swiftly in the opposite direction, 
 fearful lest she might give a clue to the police. Blindly 
 she rushed, heedless whither, and so blindly that crossing 
 a crowded street she was knocked down under the 
 horses' feet. What was it ? Something had struck her, 
 
ON GOOD SOIL 
 
 245 
 
 someone helped her up, but she drew away, walking 
 feebly to the sidewalk ; she must get further away, she 
 thought, no matter how. 
 
 " Hurt ? " people asked her carelessly. 
 
 " No, I ain't hurt ; I'm all right," and she groped her 
 way into a side-street, dizzily. "If I can get to that 
 church, tain't far from here, I can rest'' 
 
 So long a journey, it had never seemed so long 
 before; but at last she civ, up the broad steps, and 
 painfully up the aisle. Wearily she sank down in 
 front of the altar, then everything reeled about her, 
 and all was darkness. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Agatha had been making her round of visits to the 
 different altars, and was coming to say a last prayer 
 before the Sacred Heart, when she came upon the motion- 
 less little form. " Why it's Jess, poor little Jess," she 
 sobbed, bending over the still face ; then she hurried 
 trembling to the sacristy, and presently came back wilh 
 a priest. 
 
 As he bent tenderly to examine the child, her eyes 
 opened, and she gazed wonderingly into his face. He 
 beckoned to Agatha to come nearer. " Jess," she whis- 
 perd, " do you remember me ? " The earnest eyes 
 smiled,— " Guess I do" she whispered, then she made a 
 feeble effort to disengage something about her neck. 
 " Look," she said, smiling triumphantly ; it was the 
 faded little badge. Agatha's eyes filled with tears as she 
 saw it. 
 
246 
 
 ON GOOD SOIL. 
 
 i !l: 
 
 iu:. 
 
 The i)riest had slipped away to send for a doctor, but 
 he had come back and knelt down beside the prostrate 
 form. 
 
 " I am afraid you are very much hurt, Jess," he said 
 gently. " How did it happen ? " 
 ••* Run over." 
 
 " Poor Jess — poor Jess. Try to listen to me. Perhaps 
 God is going to take you home, my dear little child, out 
 of all the trouble and misery you have always known* 
 But tell me, were you ever baptized ? Do you know 
 what that is ? " 
 
 " Not yet, the priest over at the other church was 
 teachin' me — " 
 
 " Would you like to be baptized now, my poor child ? " 
 A wonderful smile came into her eyes. 
 " Leave her with me a little," said the priest gently to 
 Agatha, who fell on her knees in a dim corner, praying 
 with all her heart. 
 
 And thus poor little Jess made her act of contrition 
 and was baptized, lying at the foot of the altar, none too 
 soon — the story of her years was .ery nearly told. 
 
 " You are not afraid to die, Jess ? " the priest 
 asked her. 
 
 She made a movement towards the communion cloth 
 at the rail which impeded her view. Agatha understood, 
 and drew it back, so that the child could see the statue. 
 Jess's eyes turned brightly to the serene face above. 
 " I ain't afraid now," she said gently. " Jfe'li take care 
 of Tim; "then she stole her hand into Agatha's. At 
 that moment, the doctor came hurriedly into the church, 
 but the priest solemnly raised his hand. 
 
 " Come, Agatha," he said, ** come away ; there is 
 another saint in Heaven." 
 
ON GOOD SOIL 
 
 m 
 
 Yes, the patron saint of Ring Lane, upon which a 
 blessing seemed to rest thenceforth, even upon graceless 
 Tim.vvho by the beneficent influence of the goJd i)riest, 
 who had baptized Jess, was drawn away from the evil 
 influences surrounding him, and became a credit to the 
 memory of the little sister, who had given her life for 
 his sake.