BLIND AGNESE 
 
 CECILIA M. CADDELL

 
 r 

 
 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 OR 
 
 THE LITTLE SPOUSE OF 
 THE BLESSED SACRAMENT 
 
 BY 
 
 CECILIA M. CADDELL 
 
 P. J. KENEDY & SONS 
 
 44 BARCLAY STREET, NEW YORK
 
 PRINTED IN U. S. A.
 
 TO THE SACRED HEART OF JESUS 
 
 earth so laden with the sorrows of His hu- 
 manity in heaven, so overflowing with the 
 joys of His Divinity and, in the adorable Sacrament 
 of the Altar, a fountain of joy, and peace, and con- 
 solation, of purity, of love, of gladness, and of grace, 
 to all who seek Him there, this little book, in lowliest 
 reverence, is offered as a tribute of gratitude and 
 love a confession of faith and a reparation (inas- 
 much as may be) for the insults, neglect, ingratitude, 
 and blasphemies heaped upon Him in this mystery of 
 love, both by those who believe it not and those who 
 are cold in their believing. 
 
 Sweet Mother Mary ! To thy pure heart and hands 
 I confide this offering, hoping thus to make a double 
 reparation to the Son, and to the Mother so often 
 and so deeply wounded in the injurious treatment cast 
 upon the Son. Present it to Him, I pray thee, and 
 give thy maternal benediction to me, and the little ones 
 for whom I write ! Engrave indelibly on their tender 
 hearts the lesson I have sought to trace. Teach them 
 that none are too young to love Jesus, none too little 
 or too low to be loved by Him. Persuade them, as 
 none but thou canst do, sweet Mother, that He, who 
 from out of the Judean crowd did deign to call one 
 little as themselves, and to impart to that young child 
 
 3 
 
 2134843 "
 
 4 DEDICATION 
 
 a father's benediction, will likewise give to them His 
 blessing, and lift their hearts to higher thoughts and 
 holier aspirations each time they kneel before Him, in 
 His Eucharistic Presence ; there to offer, through thy 
 pure heart and hands, their tribute of most grateful 
 love, to His Divine and Sacred Heart, in the ever- 
 adorable Sacrament of the Altar !
 
 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 OS, THE 
 
 LITTLE SPOUSE OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PHE lights were extinguished, the people were gone, 
 the orange and the myrtle, the rose and the 
 jessamine were fading on the floor, and Jesus, who, 
 in the Sacrament of His love, had upon that day pre- 
 sided visibly from His altar-throne over the devotions 
 of His creatures, was once more concealed beneath the 
 veils of the tabernacle, where for more than eighteen 
 centuries His love has held Him captive. It was the 
 Feast of His Most Sacred Heart, which comes to us 
 in the midst of the fervid days of June, as if to remind 
 us of the love with which He burns for us and of 
 the love with which He would have us to burn for 
 Him; and during the sweet service of the evening 
 benediction, the lovers of that most blest devotion 
 had knelt before Him some in joy, and some in sor- 
 row ; some with souls consciously burning in His em- 
 braces; others without any sensible perception of His 
 presence ; but all with the prayer of Jacob upon their 
 lips and in their hearts "I will not let thee go except 
 thou bless me." And He did bless them in that hour ; 
 
 5
 
 C BLIND AGNESE 
 
 He would not be less merciful than His angel, He 
 would not deny the petition which His ministering 
 spirit had been unable to refuse ; 'but high above the 
 altar, in the hands of His priest, amid clouds of in- 
 cense, and dying strains of music, and the tingling 
 of low bells, and falling of fresh flowers, He poured 
 out upon them His parting benediction, such a benedic- 
 tion as He had already breathed upon His disciples 
 when ascending from them into heaven a benedic- 
 tion as full of mercy, as full of love, as full of ma- 
 jesty, as full of power, and falling upon hearts, if not 
 as faithful, at least, it may be said, as full of faith. 
 For in that mighty multitude not one was found to 
 doubt of the reality of His presence among them ; not 
 one who, with beating heart, and bowed down head, 
 and spirit rapt into hushed and voiceless adoration, 
 did not kneel before his Eucharistic Saviour, in the 
 full conviction that His eye was on them, and His 
 heart was with them, and His lips unclosed to speak 
 His blessing, and His hands extended to invoke it on 
 their heads ; and with such a faith as this among them, 
 who shall wonder if, when the service was over, and 
 they once more went forth to their homes, it was with 
 hearts lightened at least of half their cares, filled to 
 overflowing in the consolations showered on them by 
 that presence, made even "as a plentiful field which 
 the Lord hath blest," beneath the gifts and graces 
 imparted in that blessing? They were gone, but not 
 all: one there was who yet knelt before His altar, at- 
 tracted, compelled, chained to it, as it were by the fas- 
 cination of His presence. To that rapt up, bowed 
 down spirit, He was invisible, and yet most visible;
 
 BLIND AGNESE 7 
 
 He was silent, and yet most eloquently persuasive of 
 His love; and if He were held apart and separated 
 from it by the door of the tabernacle, yet did He draw 
 it to run after Him in the sweet odour of his oint- 
 ments, until love made Him all but tangible to its 
 spiritual embraces. And in whom, do you think, and 
 in what visible form was this spirit of love and devo- 
 tion enshrined ? It was no aged priest, grown gray in 
 the service of the altar, who now knelt at its foot. No 
 cloistered nun, who had identified herself with the 
 Lord of the sanctuary, by a life-long renunciation of 
 His enemy, the world No high prince, descended 
 from his throne, to adore Him with the magi No 
 courtly dame, come hither, like another Magdalen, to 
 lay her beauty, her tresses, and her perfumes at His 
 feet. It was but a poor beggar girl, who, in her in- 
 nocent years, and her tattered rags, and her humble 
 station, seemed an earthly embodiment of His favour- 
 ite virtues. If she were alone, or if the crowd were 
 still around her, she knew it not, for her whole soul 
 was with the silent dweller in the tabernacle, feeding 
 upon His sweetness, who himself doth feed among 
 the lilies ; and yet in that hour a human eye was fixed 
 upon her, and a human mind was speculating about 
 her. Nor was it for her beauty, although the beauty 
 of devotion, the true beauty of the seraph, was beam- 
 ing from her features. Nor was it for her picturesque 
 appearance, although her rags were disposed as only a 
 lazzaroni of Naples knows how to dispose them col- 
 our contrasting colour, and patches of black, and 
 scarlet, and yellow, and rich brown, mingling together 
 just as they would have been mingled by the cunning
 
 8 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 of a painter. Nor was it for her youth, although she 
 was but a mere child; children as young are, thanks 
 be to God, no rare sight in Italy, kneeling before His 
 altar. The eye was fixed upon her, in wonder how the 
 human form could remain so still the mind was en- 
 gaged in speculation and in question, as to what in- 
 visible influence it was, which could give such deep 
 meaning to that child-like brow, such seraph beauty 
 to those child-like features. 
 
 "How motionless she is!" thought this second 
 watcher in the temple, "and how very fair. I wonder 
 how long she will remain in that attitude of prayer. 
 Oh, that I were a painter, that I might give her to 
 the world as my vision of an angel. Surely, she must 
 weary soon. I will wait, and speak to her as she is 
 leaving the church." 
 
 But minute after minute passed away, and she did 
 not seem to weary. The rays of the setting sun 
 streamed full upon her kneeling form, and gave a new 
 richness to her many-coloured costume, and fell with 
 an almost unearthly radiance upon her brow; and no 
 trace of weariness was to be found upon it no change 
 of attitude which might convey the idea of bodily or 
 mental fatigue. It was all repose thought in repose, 
 repose in thought as if body and soul were both re- 
 clining in the arms of one invisibly beside her. And 
 now the watcher herself began to grow impatient 
 twice she arose, as if to rouse the child from her de- 
 votions, and twice she desisted from her purpose, for 
 each time she approached that kneeling figure a kind 
 of awe, for which she could not account, came over 
 her own spirit it seemed so like an irreverent in-
 
 BLIND AGNESE 9 
 
 trusion upon the communications of the invisible 
 creator with the visible creature. Half in wonder, 
 half in vexation, she retired to her own seat, and as 
 she did so for the second time, she discovered that she 
 was not the only one engaged in a similar scrutiny. A 
 door, which she had not perceived before, was open, 
 and an old man was standing near it, not merely 
 watching the child, but making signal after signal that 
 she should approach him. They were all unheeded, 
 for they were all unseen; and then he advanced into 
 the church, his foot falling without sound among the 
 flowers that carpeted the pavement; but when he 
 reached her side he also paused, as if in doubt whether 
 to disturb or to leave her with her God. It was, how- 
 ever, only the hesitation of a moment; directly after- 
 wards he touched her on the shoulder, whispering 
 something at the same time in her ear, and, apparently 
 in obedience to his summons, the child arose and fol- 
 lowed him to the open door, which closed immediately 
 upon them, greatly, it must be owned, to the disap- 
 pointment of the old lady, who had been an interested 
 witness of the scene. 
 
 "My poor Agnese," said the old man, with a com- 
 passionate smile, "for a moment I forgot your mis- 
 fortune, and beckoned as though I imagined you could 
 see me." 
 
 "I knew you would have work for me this even- 
 ing," said the young girl, in a voice which fell like 
 soft music on the ear, it was so plaintive and so sweet, 
 "and so I thought I would wait until you came to 
 call me." 
 
 "And then forgot the old man, in thought of Him
 
 io BLIND AGNESE 
 
 to whose service the old man would call you," returned 
 her companion, with a smile. 
 
 <r Ves, Francesco." 
 
 "I should like to know those thoughts, my child. 
 Strange it is that one so young should find within 
 herself the source of such deep and holy meditation." 
 
 "Not so strange, Francesco ; remember I am blind." 
 
 "You are right, my child; the good Jesus never 
 withholds a gift without replacing it by another, ten- 
 fold its value ; and so, perhaps, He has but blinded you 
 to the things of this earth, in order to give you a 
 facility for discerning the glories of His invisible 
 kingdom, in a manner not often granted to His poor 
 creatures while yet in the body." 
 
 "How do you see Jesus, Francesco?" said Agnese, 
 abruptly. "I know that God and the man He is on our 
 altars, but then I know not well what an altar is like, 
 and I have never seen a man." 
 
 "When I kneel before the altar," said the old man, 
 in the tone and manner of one describing what he sees, 
 what he is seeing at that moment, "I first say to my- 
 self, Jesus is in the tabernacle I know that He is 
 there: I believe it as if my very eyes beheld Him. 
 He is there in His divinity in His humanity He is 
 there. Methinks, therefore, that I look upon Him in 
 the human form which He took from Mary, but which 
 is now all light and radiance radiant in its own glori- 
 fied nature but yet more radiant in the glory of the 
 divinity, by which it is embued, and penetrated, and 
 filled to overflowing. I behold Him a God and yet a 
 man a man and still a God; and if the awed majesty 
 of His Heavenly Father be throned upon his brow, yet
 
 BLIND AGNESE 11 
 
 is it mingled with that sweet and gentle look, which 
 made Him on earth so like His mother." 
 
 "Go on, dear Francesco," said Agnese, sitting down 
 at his feet, and covering her face with her hand : "go 
 on ; I love to hear you." 
 
 "Yet doth He wear the garment of His shame, but 
 now woven of the light which the Lamb sheds over 
 His loved in Heaven, flows it in robes of brightness 
 to His feet. Yet doth He bear the crown with which 
 our sins have diademed his brow, but now the lustre 
 of millions of millions of diamonds seem concentrated 
 in every thorn. Yet doth He show those wounds 
 which, in His hands, and feet, and side He refused 
 not for our love; but for the blood once shed there- 
 from streams of glory and of sweetness are pouring 
 from them now. And beneath this glorious veil of 
 His humanity, methinks I discern the light inacces- 
 sible of His divinity, dwelling within the sacred heart, 
 as in its temple, and from thence pouring itself forth 
 in floods of grace, and gladness, and mercy on His 
 creatures. Within that sacred heart is love, and peace, 
 and holy calm, a silence inexpressible around it are 
 spirits bowed, cherubim and seraphim in reverent 
 adoration. There have the weary of earth found rest 
 at last and the saints their exceeding great reward, 
 and Mary herself her heaven of heavens. Methinks, 
 that He is inviting me, even me, the most sinful of 
 His creatures, to the embraces of that most sacred 
 heart that He holds out to me His wounded hands- 
 that, out of the very depths of his tenderness, He is 
 speaking to my soul, and fixing on me those eyes which 
 once were fixed in dying sweetness on His mother;
 
 12 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 and so, in awful and yet most calm affection, I kneel 
 before Him, and press to my lips that robe which once 
 imparted of His virtue to the sick woman of the 
 Gospel; and kiss those feet which were not refused 
 to the embraces of a Magdalen; and inhale the frag- 
 rance of those wounds, once terrible in their gore, 
 but now so beautiful and sweet sweet with the 'smell 
 of Lebanon/ the 'odour of his ointments.' And then 
 at last," continued the old man, and his voice grew 
 tremulous and "full of tears," "it seems to me that 
 He permits me to a yet closer union with Himself, 
 that He even says 'Friend, come up higher,' that He 
 folds His arms around me, that He lays my head 
 upon His sacred bosom, breathing of paradise, that 
 He draws me even to the centre of His sacred heart, 
 and in its holy stillness imparts to me those lessons 
 of heavenly love and wisdom which once, by His 
 living lips, He gave to His disciples. And what are 
 those lessons, dear child, if they are not contained in 
 such words as these ? 'Blessed are the poor in spirit ; 
 blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be com- 
 forted; blessed are the merciful, for they shall find 
 mercy.' Or again 'Learn of me, for I am meek and 
 humble of heart, and you shall find peace in your 
 souls. 'My yoke is sweet, and my burden light.' And 
 I listen, dear Agnese, until my very heart and soul 
 seem steeped in the sweetness of these words as in 
 the dew of heaven itself; and then I say in my turn, 
 not indeed by my lips, but by the internal language 
 of the Spirit 'Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth; 
 thou hast the words of eternal life; say to my soul, I 
 am thy salvation.' "
 
 BLIND AGNESE 13 
 
 "That is very beautiful, and of great devotion," 
 said Agnese, and, for an instant, there was something 
 of sadness in her sweet, low voice, "but then, you 
 know, I cannot think or feel that way, because I 
 cannot see; therefore, I cannot image to myself what 
 Christ is like in His glorified humanity." 
 
 "Then tell me, Agnese, what it is that draws you to 
 His altar?" 
 
 "I can hardly tell you, it is so much easier to feel 
 than to describe. I am drawn to Jesus, I know not 
 how embraced by Him, I cannot tell you in what 
 manner. It is as if a spirit of awe, and power, and 
 majesty, and greatness was overshadowing the sanc- 
 tuary, aweing and hushing every creature into silence ; 
 around that holy spot do angels and saints keep sleep- 
 less watch, and the Mother of God is ever there. I do 
 not see them, but I feel them at my side sometimes 
 in silence they adore ; sometimes in strains of sweetest 
 music they sing His praises, and ever and always they 
 cast their crowns before Him, and send up incense 
 from their golden horns, and scatter the flowers of 
 paradise at His feet; and so it seems to me, that all 
 the perfumes of the earth are not so sweet all the 
 music of the earth is not so full of harmony and 
 love all the brightness and glory of the earth are 
 not and cannot be so glorious and so bright, as is the 
 Holy of Holies where Jesus ever dwelleth in the taber- 
 nacle of the altar. Francesco, I do not imagine that 
 I see Him there, for, methinks, the light of God, 
 which is in Jesus, and which Jesus is, must be as 
 darkness itself to human eye, and human understand- 
 ing. Neither do I know what sight of earth is like,
 
 14 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 but this is my thought of the light of heaven, and from 
 out that visible, tangible darkness, Jesus draws me to 
 Himself, until my soul seems to leave the body, to be 
 lost and swallowed up, and forget itself in His im- 
 mensity; or, rather, perhaps, it is, that He Himself 
 draws near to me, nearer and nearer, closer and closer, 
 until He is in my heart, and in my soul, and in my 
 very body, filling every sense with joy, satiating every 
 feeling with delight, forcing me to weep in tears of 
 delicious sweetness, and to say, as it were, in my own 
 despite Lord, let me never see; it is joy enough to 
 feel thou art so near." 
 
 It was no child who spoke such words as these. 
 For a moment Agnese was not a child, she looked and 
 felt like a seraph at the altar. So Francesco fancied, 
 as he looked upon her, but he did not tell his thought. 
 He remembered that His angel, who saw the face of 
 the Father in heaven, would have reason to complain 
 if he injured the humility of His little one by words of 
 praise; so, after a moment's reverent pause, he only 
 said 
 
 "Agnese, your words remind me of a story, which 
 I read many and many a long year ago, about a child, 
 not older, if indeed, as old, as you are." 
 
 "Tell it to me, if it be about Him, Francesco," said 
 the child, "particularly if it be true. There now, I 
 have settled myself nicely at your feet, and I shall 
 listen quite at my ease." 
 
 "I cannot answer for its being entirely true, and it 
 is so long since I read it, that I almost forget it. She 
 was an orphan, brought up from her earliest infancy 
 in a convent, of which her aunt was abbess. I think
 
 BLIND AGNESE 15 
 
 her Heavenly Father must Himself have chosen out 
 this sanctuary of peace for His little one, in order that 
 no obstacle might be opposed to the graces which He 
 had reserved for her innocent soul, and by means of 
 which He so drew her to Himself that, from the 
 earliest dawn of reason, her thoughts seemed to turn 
 as naturally to Him as the thoughts of other children 
 do to the toys and ornaments of their age. From the 
 moment she could speak, her words were of Jesus; 
 from the moment she could walk, her feet ever turned 
 towards the altar of Jesus ; spiritually, every day, and 
 every hour of the day, she united herself to Him by 
 her fervent desires, although far too young to be re- 
 ceived into sacramental communion with Him, yet 
 was this the object of her most earnest aspirations, 
 of her unceasing petitions. Day after day she used to 
 accompany the nuns to the church, and to watch them, 
 with eyes of envy, as two by two they approached the 
 altar, and two by two returned to their places; and 
 when she saw them depart in peace, because their God 
 was with them, she would prostrate herself at the feet 
 of the abbess, and implore her, with many tears, to 
 give to her this Jesus, in whose embraces she herself 
 was so happily folded." 
 
 "And they would not?" said Agnese, in a tone of 
 deep sympathy. 
 
 "She was so young, my child. But, young as she 
 was, God had given to her a faith, a perception of 
 the real presence of Jesus in the sacrament, which 
 saints deem themselves happy to attain, after years of 
 penance, solitude, and prayer, and often she has been 
 heard to say in her sorrow, 'He is near, and I cannot
 
 16 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 approach Him; He is here, and I cannot possess 
 Him; He is with all the others, and I alone am de- 
 prived of His embraces.' Of her it might be truly 
 said, that she mourned like the dove, whose sweet 
 name she bore, for she did languish and pine until 
 her bodily health sank beneath the vehement desires 
 of her soul. Her step grew languid, and her cheek 
 grew pale, and her eye softer and softer still, and 
 yet, within its depth of softness (so the old legend 
 tells us), a light, as if of heaven, did dwell; and still 
 the languid step led her to the altar, and the weary 
 head was bowed before it, and the eye was turned in 
 patient sorrow towards the dove that watched above 
 it, floating calm, and silvery, and pale, beneath the 
 lighted lamp of the holy place, and seeming to tell, 
 even in its outward form, of Him, the peaceful and 
 the pure, who night and day reposed within its 
 bosom." 
 
 "Him, Francesco! do you mean Him? Was Jesus 
 really dwelling within the dove?" 
 
 "In those days, Agnese, the blessed sacrament was 
 not kept upon the altar; it was placed in a silver ves- 
 sel, suspended from above, and most often, I believe, 
 fashioned in the likeness of a dove a dove, chosen, 
 perhaps, because of the sweet and loving qualities 
 with which our fancy has invested her. Yes, and I 
 may also say, within which God Himself has chosen 
 to surround her, making her ever, as it were, His 
 messenger of peace to mankind. And so it may have 
 seemed right and fitting to the early Christians that 
 she, who brought the olive branch to Noah, should 
 likewise bear Him above that altar, to which never
 
 BLIND AGNESE 17 
 
 would He descend except in thoughts of loving-kind- 
 ness to His creatures." 
 
 "A dove," said Agnese, thoughtfully "that is for 
 meditation: is it not?" 
 
 "True," said the old man, "so she would also re- 
 mind them how they were to meditate like doves be- 
 fore Him, and how they were to put off their rough, 
 ungainly notions, and to put on His meek and dove- 
 like spirit, for He was a very dove in heart, and he 
 came to us through the dove-like Mary." 
 
 "Tell me now about the child, Francesco, and what 
 was her name? Did you not say she was the name- 
 sake of the dove?" 
 
 "She was called Colomba; I know not whether for 
 her sweet and quiet disposition, or for the sake of 
 her silver favourite and companion at the altar." 
 
 "That is well, Francesco; but I am called Agnese, 
 and that is better still. For I am the namesake of 
 the lamb, and not of the chalice in which He is con- 
 tained." 
 
 "Colomba grew so weak at last that she could 
 neither walk nor stand, and then they would carry 
 her to the church and lay her on the pavement just 
 beneath the silver guardian of the altar. Here they 
 used to leave her for she always was best pleased 
 to be left alone with Jesus. But often they watched 
 her through the hours when she deemed herself un- 
 seen and those who did so have left it on record, 
 how she would lay motionless as one in a slumber, her 
 hands folded on her bosom, her eyes lifted to the 
 dove, which, through the feeble light and gloomy 
 shadow, seemed watching her from on high and ever
 
 18 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 and anon, after a long and loving silence, she would 
 say in a voice so sweet and sad, it might have been the 
 very mourning of the quiet bird she looked on 'Oh, 
 that the dove would descend and give Him to my 
 prayers.' 
 
 "One day she seemed so feeble they almost feared 
 to move her, but she prayed so earnestly to be carried 
 to the church for the last time to visit Jesus, that 
 the nuns had it not in their hearts to refuse her peti- 
 tion. So they bore her to His altar, and then, yet 
 more earnestly than she had ever done before, she be- 
 sought them to leave her to herself. It always ap- 
 peared strange to them afterwards that they should 
 have done so; they did not understand their feelings 
 at the moment ; but later they confessed to one another 
 that a kind of awful love had crept over their spirits, 
 she looked and spoke so like a creature acting and 
 speaking under the direct influence of the Spirit of 
 God, her very words penetrating their hearts with a 
 kind of celestial sweetness, such as they had never felt 
 or known before. It seemed almost, to them, as if 
 some hidden influence had left them no choice but 
 to obey her. 
 
 "One there was, however, not quite so submissive 
 to the wishes of Colomba; this was her little sister, 
 who was passionately attached to her, and to whom 
 she herself was fondly devoted. The child, it ap- 
 pears, could not bear to leave her, ill and alone, in 
 that gloomy church, so she hid herself behind one of 
 the pillars, and watched her from a distance. 
 
 "Then, as ever, Colomba folded her hands upon 
 her bosom, and lifted her eyes to her silver dove,
 
 BLIND AGNESE 19 
 
 and said so softly and beseechingly 'Oh, that thou 
 wouldst descend and give Him to my prayers.' And 
 then scarcely could the child believe her eyes 
 slowly and steadily, through the dim shadows of the 
 evening, the dove descended the light of the lamp 
 above gleaming brightly on its silver wings and, as 
 if some secret spirit gave her power, Colomba rose to 
 meet it. And her folded arms were folded still, and 
 her head was bowed in lowliest prayer, and she knelt, 
 yet scarcely did she seem to touch the pavement, and 
 a soft and silvery mist seemed floating round her, as. 
 if to fold her from all mortal vision. And then, in 
 fear and wonder, the child ran to summon her com- 
 panions; but when the nuns returned with her to the 
 church the dove had re-ascended to its former posi- 
 tion, and the child lay once more stretched upon the 
 pavement peace on her brow, an unutterablejexpres- 
 sion (it could not be called a smile) yet resting on her 
 lips. The nuns were frightened at her stillness. They 
 drew near, but she did not move ; they spoke, but she 
 did not answer. They kissed her, but no look of 
 gratitude was returned for their embraces. Still 
 seemed the bird of the sanctuary to brood over the 
 fair child, but Colomba no longer had need of its as- 
 sistance closed were the eyes which had been fixed 
 upon it so often and so long, hushed was the voice 
 which had called it from on high. The dove's celestial 
 habitant had taken her to Himself, and the child was 
 dead." 
 
 "Francesco ! But He had come to her in her dying 
 hour." 
 
 "Who can tell?" replied Francesco. "This much,
 
 20 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 indeed, is certain, that when the dove was lowered, 
 one was missing of the Sacred Hosts which had been 
 confided to its keeping; and so the nuns were left un- 
 certainly to conjecture that Jesus, whose delight it is 
 to be with the children of men, would not refuse Him- 
 self to the embraces of this child, nor suffer her soul 
 to go forth from her body until He had blessed 
 
 it by His sacramental presence. And but you can 
 
 guess the rest, Agnese. The joy was too much for 
 her wasted frame she died in that moment of un- 
 utterable bliss." 
 
 There was a long pause, and when Francesco looked 
 again upon his young companion, he saw that she could 
 not speak, so fast were the tears streaming from her 
 blind eyes. 
 
 "To die of love ! it was, indeed, a death to die, more 
 blessed than any life could be," he added. There was 
 another pause, and then Agnese whispered, in a voice 
 which seemed, to the old man's fancy, as the very 
 echo of Colomba's 
 
 "Oh, that the dove would descend once more and 
 give Him to my. prayers." 
 
 "We must have patience a little longer fanciullina 
 mia. You are older than the little saint of whom we 
 have been speaking, and soon Padre Giovanni will be- 
 gin to talk of our first communion." 
 
 "Soon! Do you think he will talk about it soon, 
 Francesco?" said Agnese, her whole face lighting up 
 with a look of joyful surprise. 
 
 "I must not reveal the Padre's secrets," said the 
 old man, smiling; "only wait a very little longer, and 
 then we shall see ; but, in the meantime, dear Agnese,
 
 BLIND AGNESE 21 
 
 we will work for Jesus with Martha, that we may earn 
 the happiness of resting afterwards at His feet with 
 Mary. See, here are the little corporals for the wash ; 
 and remember, dear child, we are rather in want of 
 them just now." 
 
 "You shall have them by to-morrow morning, Fran- 
 cesco." 
 
 "Nay, my child, you must not sit up all night to do 
 it. The sweet Jesus would never demand such a hard 
 task of his little one. Time enough, if you bring them 
 to me in the evening." 
 
 "You shall have them in the morning, Francesco," 
 replied the child in a tone of quiet resolution. "Adieu, 
 Francesco." 
 
 "Adieu, my child. What have you done with Per- 
 letta?" 
 
 "I left her at the porch." 
 
 "Well, you have kept her a long time waiting. You 
 had better make haste and seek her, else, if you leave 
 her alone much longer, perhaps she will take it into 
 her head to go home without you, as she did once be- 
 fore, Agnese." 
 
 "She has never played me such a trick but once, 
 Francesco. No, no, there is no fear of Perletta; she 
 is grown very patient." 
 
 "Well, I am glad of that, Agnese. Adieu, my 
 child." 
 
 Francesco left the vestry through another door, 
 just as Agnese opened the one by which she had en- 
 tered it with him, stumbling as she did so over the old 
 lady whom she had so long and unwittingly left wait- 
 ing on the outside. Determined not to leave the
 
 22 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 church without speaking to the child, and yet, feeling 
 too weary and tantalized to remain patient any 
 longer, she had just made up her mind to break in 
 upon their conversation, when, as we have seen, 
 Agnese opened the door, and in her blindness stepped 
 directly upon her feet. The sufferer uttered an 
 involuntary scream, and then, as sufferers will upon 
 such occasions, she could not resist saying, in a petu- 
 lant tone 
 
 "You have hurt me, child ; if you had not left your 
 eyes before the altar you might have seen that you 
 were walking quite over my feet; one would fancy 
 you were blind." 
 
 "Pardon me, Madam," said the child, in a voice 
 of distress, but which had not even the shadow of im- 
 patience in it "pardon me, for I am blind." 
 
 "Blind ! Good God," cried the old lady, "how cruel 
 I must have appeared." 
 
 And then she looked more steadily at the child, 
 and she saw that, though the young face was turned 
 towards her, with an expression of sympathy in her 
 suffering, the eyes were not lifted to hers as they 
 would so naturally have been. The lids were closed, 
 the long lashes swept over her cheeks there was no 
 temptation to raise them, for sight there was none 
 beneath. 
 
 "Alas, poor child!" said she again, struck by the 
 meek and holy expression of that face; "how long 
 have you been thus ? or were you, indeed, as I should 
 think, born blind?" 
 
 "I know not; but I do not remember ever to have 
 seen the light, Signora."
 
 BLIND AGNESE 23 
 
 "And are you here alone? have you no one to lead 
 you home, my child?" asked her companion, now, in 
 a tone of tenderest compassion. 
 
 "Si, Signora, Perletta is waiting for me at the porch, 
 and I can always go so far by myself." 
 
 Without saying another word the old lady led her 
 down the aisle, as far as the open gate of the church ; 
 there the child paused, and thanked her gently for her 
 kindness. 
 
 "I will trouble the Signora no further," she said; 
 "the dog will see me home. Perletta, Perletta;" but 
 no Perletta answered. 
 
 "My child, no dog is here," said the old lady anx- 
 iously. I fear it has forsaken you." 
 
 "What shall I do ?" said the poor child, sadly. "My 
 God, what has become of Perletta? Never but once 
 before did she desert me in this manner." 
 
 "Whither do you want to go, my child?" asked the 
 old lady, more touched than ever by her forlorn look 
 and evident distress. "Tell me where you wish to go, 
 and I will gladly lead you thither." 
 
 "The Signora is very good ; I thank her with all my 
 heart," said the child submissively. "It is only to my 
 grandmother; she sells lemonade in yonder grove; 
 perhaps the Signora knows her already, for she often 
 deals out iced waters to the fine ladies who leave their 
 carriages to rest beneath the shadow of the orange 
 trees." 
 
 "The old woman who serves out water from the 
 fountain, is she your grandmother ? I know her well ; 
 many a time have I tasted of her delicious lemonade. 
 Come, my child, we shall soon be there, and your
 
 24 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 grandmother shall give me a glass of iced water for 
 my reward." 
 
 "He will give the Signora a better one, some 
 day, I hope, for her kindness to His poor blind 
 lamb." 
 
 "Tell me, what is your name, my child?" 
 
 The old lady asked again as they took their way to 
 the orange grove. 
 
 "I have said it, Signora; it is Agnese; that is for 
 lamb, you know. So they call me Blind Agnese, and 
 sometimes, in their sport, the children name me, also 
 the Little Spouse of the Blessed Sacrament." 
 
 "Little Spouse of the Blessed Sacrament," said the 
 lady in an undertone ; "what a strange name, and what 
 a strange child. And does not this blindness grieve 
 you?" she said aloud. 
 
 The question sounded cruel, and the lady felt it 
 did, yet she could not resist the temptation of trying 
 to penetrate the secret feelings of this child, who had 
 interested her so strangely. 
 
 There was no trace, however, of pain or of regret 
 upon Agnese's face as she answered 
 
 "It would grieve me sadly, Signora, were it not for 
 Him." 
 
 "For who? my child the old man I saw speaking 
 to you just now?" 
 
 "No, Signora, not Francesco, though he is a kind- 
 ness, and a comfort also. I spoke of Francesco's 
 master and of mine of Jesus of Him who made us 
 both! of Him who dwelleth ever with us on our al- 
 tars." 
 
 "You speak of God, my child," said the lady, rev-
 
 BLIND AGNESE 25 
 
 erently. "He, in truth, is everywhere ; but you cannot 
 see him on the altar?" 
 
 "No, Signora ; but I know Him to be there. I feel 
 that He is with me, and I with Him, and so I do not 
 want for sight to see Him." 
 
 "And is there nothing, then, you want to see?" The 
 old lady went on, as it were, in her own despite, for 
 she felt all the danger of awakening regret in so 
 thoughtful a mind. "The light, for instance the glo- 
 rious light of heaven, the sun, the moon, the million 
 of millions of stars that tell us of the glory of their 
 maker?" 
 
 "No," said the child, "for I have Him who made 
 them, and He Himself is the 'light of the world.' " 
 
 "Or the beautiful face of nature, the deep valley, 
 the mighty mountain, or mountain of mountains 
 your own Vesuvius?" 
 
 "I have him," said the child, in an untroubled voice, 
 "and He is mightier than all His works." 
 
 "Or the buildings of your city, the stately palaces, 
 the sainted temples? Yonder little church, for in- 
 stance, which we have just quitted, and which might 
 have been the work of angels or of fairies, it is so 
 spirit-like and full of grace?" 
 
 "These are but the creations of man, Signora;" and 
 there was a shade of grave rebuke in Agnese's voice; 
 "and if I long not to behold His works, shall I sigh to 
 look upon His creatures'?" 
 
 "Well, Agnese, the flowers, at least, are His own 
 lovely work of love; tell me, do you not sometimes 
 sigh to gaze upon the flowers, which He has scattered 
 so profusely over this soft, southern land? Never
 
 26 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 have I walked before among such flowers, with their 
 velvet-like richness of touch and hue, and their per- 
 fume, which comes over one's senses like a dream of 
 beauty." 
 
 'They are soft to the touch, and sweet to the 
 senses," Agnese answered, after a moment's pause. 
 "And he was called the 'flower of the root of Jesse.' 
 So they must be precious things, those flowers! But 
 yet," she added, in an assured and earnest tone, "I 
 do not regard them, for I have Him, and He made 
 them, and, beautiful as they are, He must be a thou- 
 sand million of times more beautiful than they are." 
 
 "Happy child," said the lady, sadly. "He hath, in- 
 deed, robbed you of your sorrow ; would that I knew 
 where you had found Him, that I might go and seek 
 Him also." 
 
 "Do you not know where to find Him ?" said Agnese 
 in great surprise. "He is ever on the altar; if you 
 are in sorrow, go and seek Him there, and He will 
 speak sweet comfort to your soul." 
 
 "Tell me, fair child, who has taught you to think 
 and speak in this manner?" 
 
 "Francesco, Signora ; he has taught me to know and 
 love Jesus on the altar." 
 
 The lady did not answer. Something in the child's 
 voice and manner had recalled sad memories to her 
 mind, and her tears were falling fast, nor did she seek 
 to check them until they had nearly gained the foun- 
 tain and the grove to which their footsteps were 
 directed. There they found Agnese's grandmother, 
 plying her usual trade before a table, made very gay 
 to look at, -by the four painted stakes, placed one at
 
 BLIND AGNESE 27 
 
 every corner, and decorated with images of saints, 
 coloured flags, and bunches of lemons, and bouquets 
 of flowers, to say nothing of the ten little lamps al- 
 ready gleaming like fire-flies among the shadows of 
 the trees. A cask, in the form of a drum, filled with 
 clear ice, and water from the fountain, was placed on 
 this table, which likewise displayed an abundance of 
 clean glasses and lemons for the preparation of iced 
 lemonade. 
 
 Many and grateful were the thanks of the old dame 
 to the good Samaritan, who had brought her back her 
 blind one; and having accepted a glass of iced water, 
 and pressed an alms into the unwilling hand of Agnese, 
 Lady Oranmore stepped into her carriage, which had 
 followed her from the church, promising herself, how- 
 ever, to return the very next day, and renew her ac- 
 quaintance with the fair child of the fountain. 
 
 How often, during her drive back to Naples, did 
 the words of Agnese recur to her memory "If you 
 are in sorrow, go and seek Him on the altar, and He 
 will speak sweet comfort to your soul." She was not 
 a Catholic, that old lady, or she would have better 
 understood the deep meaning of these simple words 
 the holy truth, that He, whose dwelling was in the 
 bosom of His Father, could yet find no peace for His 
 loving heart, until He had made Himself a home 
 among the children of men, until He had imparted 
 unto them the sweetness of that humanity, all the bit- 
 terness of which He had reserved for Himself. And 
 so He came to us, the Virgin's child, the meek and 
 lowly Jesus to dwell for ever with us in the sacrament 
 of His love, never again to be absent, even for an
 
 28 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 hour, from the world of His redemption and especial 
 predilection ever living for us, with us, and among 
 us. In the noon-tide glare, in the midnight gloom 
 in the crowded city, and in the lonely country's most 
 lonely places, still and for ever to be found upon our 
 altars, from thence giving rest to the weary, comfort 
 to the afflicted, calmer and holier joy to the glad of 
 heart; leaving it to no creature of earth to say that 
 he had sought his Lord and had not found Him, or 
 that he had been near Him, and had not been invited 
 to the embraces of His love. Happy they who seek 
 the invitation, and happier they who hear it and obey 
 it, by dwelling, if not always in the body, at least al- 
 ways in spirit and desire, beneath the shadow of His 
 altar. These are they of whom it has been truly said, 
 "They shall eat the honey with the honeycomb," for 
 they shall taste and see that the Lord is sweet; they 
 shall find the tears wiped away from off their faces; 
 they shall draw water in joy from the fountains of 
 the Saviour; and they shall testify to the truth of the 
 promise made to us by His own living and most sacred 
 lips, a promise only not oftener fulfilled in ourselves, 
 because we seek not its proper fulfillment in Him. 
 
 "Come unto me all ye that labour and are burdened, 
 and I will refresh you."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Sign the cross, and strike the breast, 
 
 Banish looks of lightsome cheer 
 Heaven's monarch, mortal's guest 
 
 Lo! our Jesus draweth near. 
 
 One thou lovest, Lord, is ill, 
 
 As of old, is now the tiding, 
 And, as then, it finds him still, 
 
 In His love that call abiding. 
 
 "Sign the cross, and strike the breast," etc. 
 
 Quicker ever than He went 
 
 To the loved of Bethany, 
 Now with thoughts as fondly bent 
 
 On this loved one, cometh He. 
 
 "Sign the cross, and strike the breast," etc. 
 
 If His own no longer flow, 
 
 Still He dries the sinner's tears; 
 If no grief is on the brow, 
 
 Still its look of love it wears. 
 
 "Sign the cross, and strike the breast," etc. 
 
 If no more from out the grave 
 
 He doth bid the dead arise, 
 Still, the sinful soul to save, 
 
 On the sinner's heart He lies. 
 
 "Sign the cross, and strike the breast," etc. 
 
 Bids him put aside his fear, 
 
 Bids his trembling all to cease, 
 Whispers in his dying ear, 
 Words of pardon, hope, and peace. 
 
 "Sign the cross, and strike the breast," etc. 
 29
 
 30 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 Jesu, when my hour is nigh, 
 
 Let me rest thy arms within, 
 Thus to die is not to die, 
 
 'Tis but to quit a world of sin. 
 
 Sign the cross, and strike the breast, 
 Banish looks of lightsome cheer; 
 
 Heaven's monarch, mortal's guest 
 Lo! our Jesus draweth near. 
 
 OEATED in her balcony, amid orange trees and 
 myrtles, and all the sweet growth of that southern 
 clime, Lady Oranmore listened to the soft voices of 
 the singers as they slowly approached the Palazzo 
 where she dwelt. It was midnight, but she had not 
 been able to repose as yet, her thoughts were running 
 on the blind Agnese; and the look of inexpressible 
 peace, which could give such beauty to those pallid 
 features, haunted her still, and the inexpressible de- 
 votion of that voice, as once and once only it had 
 reverently pronounced the name of Jesus, still seemed 
 to ring in her ears. 
 
 Over and over again she asked herself why it was 
 that she knelt with an unsatisfied heart and a cold 
 and hungry spirit before the selfsame altar where this 
 poor child had but to come to be replenished with de- 
 light. Yes, and Lady Oranmore could not deny it to 
 herself, with heavenly wisdom also the wisdom so 
 often withheld from the proud, to be lavishly be- 
 stowed upon the humble and the poor. Alas! like 
 Pilate, Lady Oranmore asked what is truth, and, like 
 him, she waited not the answer, but, impatient of her 
 own feverish fancies and sleepless couch, she rose, 
 dressed herself hastily, as I have already said, and
 
 BLIND AGNESE 31 
 
 stepped out upon the balcony. It was a lovely night, 
 such a night as that on which the prophet looked, 
 when he declared that "the heavens show forth the 
 glory of God, and the firmament declareth the work 
 of His hands." The deep blue sky of Italy seemed 
 to grow deeper and deeper still, as Lady Oranmore 
 gazed upon it, until she felt as if she were looking 
 into it, and through it, and beyond it, and from out of 
 this azure setting the stars met her glances with looks 
 so conscious and so calm, that she could almost have 
 persuaded herself theirs was the light of angel eyes, 
 not merely watching over a sleeping world, but en- 
 gaged in penetrating into the hidden depths of her 
 soul, and reading all its secrets. The calm night air 
 soon soothed the perturbation of her spirits, and she 
 was fast sinking into a sort of dreamy calm when 
 the first notes of the Hymn of the Blessed Sacrament 
 fell on her ears ; and here a door and there a window 
 opening, told how all the people were now astir, some 
 going forth to join in the procession, others content 
 to sit in their balconies, and mingle their voices with 
 the burden of the song. The voices of the singers 
 were sweet and true, and the air they sang most 
 touching; and ever and anon the tinkling of the little 
 bells, which announced the presence of the Blessed 
 Sacrament, filled the air with a melody so spirit-like 
 and sweet, one might have fancied them rung by the 
 hands of the angels who invisibly crowded round the 
 sacramental presence of their Lord. Lady Oran- 
 more looked and listened like one entranced. Holy 
 stars, and silver moon, and a perfume-breathing of 
 flowers, and a calm of sea, and hush of earth, the
 
 32 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 silent heavens and the voices of His adoring creatures, 
 all seemed mingling together to do Him honour in 
 the lowly state in which His love had laid Him. For 
 one brief moment, the very sweetness of Jesus Him- 
 self seemed to fill her bosom, and she believed in His 
 sacramental presence with a faith as firm as the most 
 undoubting of His worshippers. Tears gushed into 
 her eyes, she clasped her hands, and exclaimed aloud, 
 unconscious that she was repeating the very words of 
 the hymn to which she had been listening "Oh, so 
 to die is not to die. Good God! To go to thee with 
 Jesus in my bosom!" By this time tapers began to 
 burn in every balcony, light flew, as if by some in- 
 visible communication, from house to house, from 
 window to window, and the street, which a few min- 
 utes before had been as dark as night and the tall 
 shadows of buildings could make it, became bright 
 and glittering, as though a shower of stars had sud- 
 denly descended upon its gloomy places. Not a win- 
 dow without its light not a black speck left to mar 
 the effect of the general illumination. The mighty 
 faith of the people stirred the heart of the lady to a 
 yet higher pitch of enthusiasm, and, by an impulse for 
 which she never afterwards could account, she stepped 
 back into her chamber, lighted a taper at the night 
 lamp left burning there, and, setting it among the 
 flowers of the balcony, knelt down to worship Jesus 
 as he passed. The procession was almost beneath her 
 window as she did so. Surrounded by a guard of 
 honour, the priest who bore the Blessed Sacrament 
 walked beneath the canopy, of which the silver bells 
 announced his coming to the people, and among his
 
 BLIND AGNESE 33 
 
 immediate assistants, some carried banners and 
 crosses, and others sent up clouds of incense from 
 their silver censers, while the people followed, some 
 near and some at a little distance, some with the in- 
 tention of attending to the dwelling of the dying per- 
 son, but the greater number merely dropping into the 
 procession, and, after walking with it for a short 
 space, returning to their own homes. Lady Oran- 
 more thought of his entrance into the cities of Judea, 
 and of His meek and holy bearing, and of the crowds 
 that gave Him welcome, and of the little children who 
 sang Hosannahs, proclaiming Him their Saviour 
 and, won by the selfsame spirit of love from whence 
 they took their inspiration, for a little while she be- 
 lieved as they did. But her faith, alas, like theirs, 
 was fleeting, and as He who had inspired it passed 
 slowly out of sight, it would, perhaps, have also faded 
 from her bosom had not her eyes fallen upon the form 
 of a child of Blind Agnese for what child save 
 Blind Agnese could have been found with courage or 
 devotion to wander through the streets at that late 
 hour? Lady Oranmore was neither young nor ac- 
 tive, and, though well acquainted with Naples, she 
 was timid, as people often are in a strange and 
 crowded city. Even in the broad daylight she had 
 never ventured in the streets alone, yet now she could 
 not resist the impulse which prompted her to cast a 
 large mantle over her shoulders, to quit the bal- 
 cony, descend the stairs, and join the procession side 
 by side with the Little Spouse of the Blessed Sacra- 
 ment. 
 
 The wide street and the open 'square were soon left
 
 34 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 behind, and poorer grew the aspect of the houses, and 
 poorer still the class of persons who joined in the 
 procession as it passed along; but still the harmony 
 of the hymn was heard, new voices linking themselves 
 on to the silver chain, just where the old ones dropped 
 it ; and still the streets, however dark and squalid they 
 might have been before, put on a robe of light and 
 brightness to welcome its approach. At length it 
 paused in one of the dirtiest of those dirty streets, of 
 which there is no lack at Naples. The song was 
 hushed, the tinkling of the bells was heard no more, 
 and in their stead arose the low murmur of prayer, 
 as the people fell on their knees in all the mud and 
 filth of that most filthy pavement. They thought not 
 of these things, however, for they were in the presence 
 of Him before whom cherubim and seraphim do veil 
 their faces ; and how should dainty thought and earthly 
 niceties intrude upon their minds? It was in truth 
 to no kingly palace, to no lordly possessor of the 
 earth, that the King of kings had come in person. 
 The dwelling into which the priest now entered could 
 only have been willingly chosen by voluntary pov- 
 erty, or unwillingly forced upon that which was in- 
 voluntary. At another time, Lady Oranmore might 
 have trembled to find herself alone and unattended in 
 such a place, at such an hour; but now, something 
 which was neither curiosity, nor yet devotion, nor yet 
 a settled purpose of any kind, seemed to draw her 
 footsteps onward. She felt as if she were obeying 
 an invisible spirit, and as if that spirit resided in 
 the person of Agnese; and acting still upon the same 
 irresistible impulse, when the child arose and followed
 
 BLIND AGNESE 35 
 
 the priest into the house, she forgot her native shyness, 
 and stepped over the threshold with her. 
 
 In a miserable room, on a miserable bed if, indeed, 
 the heap of reeds and Indian straw could be so en- 
 titled the stricken deer of the flock was lying. It 
 was no sudden accident or sickness which had brought 
 her there. The wasted form, the sunken cheek, the 
 hectic colour, all told of the slow progress of that 
 disease which inch by inch bears its victim to the 
 tomb. 
 
 Confession had probably gone before; all the his- 
 tory of that young life had been told to God and to 
 his minister, and the words of peace and pardon had 
 been poured into her ear the "go in peace" of the 
 very Saviour, who now had come in person to fill her 
 heart with hope and her soul with joy; and hope, and 
 joy, and heaven itself were all so vividly impressed 
 upon her pallid face, that but for the poverty in which 
 she was enveloped, and the lights around her bed, and 
 the tears of the widowed woman (so soon to be a 
 childless mother) who knelt beside her, she might have 
 seemed to the excited imagination of Lady Oranmore 
 not a dying woman, but an angel not a spirit ascend- 
 ing to the sky, but one descended thence, to speak by 
 her looks of the happiness of heaven. She felt all this, 
 for she had hardly time to think it, or to place herself 
 on her knees in a distant corner, where she could see 
 without being seen, before the voice of the priest was 
 heard, and the mother hushed her sobs, and the girl 
 seemed to try and still her laboured breathing, in order 
 to catch the import of his words. It was the Sacra- 
 ment of Extreme Unction which he was about to ad-
 
 36 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 minister, and Lady Oranmore soon became absorbed 
 in her deep attention to that most touching ritual, by 
 which the Catholic Church invokes the pardon of an 
 offended God upon every faculty of the dying person. 
 The service was in Latin, but the priest translated 
 each separate invocation into Italian, which every one 
 present understood, and none seemed more entirely to 
 comprehend, or more fully to enter into their spirit 
 and their meaning than the invalid herself. She an- 
 swered every prayer as well as her failing voice would 
 let her, holding out her hands spontaneously, and it 
 almost seemed joyfully, for the sacred oil with which 
 they were to be anointed ; and when the last and most 
 sacred of all rites was given, when Jesus, as the Viati- 
 cum, the companion of her voyage, descended into her 
 bosom, such a sweetness stole over her pale face, that 
 Lady Oranmore felt as if she could have gazed upon 
 her for ever. Never before had she seen such a con- 
 scious joy in the hour of death. But the priest and 
 the people were all departing, one or two sisters of 
 charity alone remaining to aid the mother in the last 
 offices to her dying child; and thus reminded that she 
 herself was only an intruder, she turned to look for 
 the child who had so unconsciously conducted her 
 hither. Agnese was kneeling a little way apart, in 
 the very attitude in which she ever knelt before the 
 altar, only now she held in her clasped hands the 
 string by which her dog was fastened, while the animal 
 itself lay at her feet still and quiet, as if well accus- 
 tomed to such scenes, and possessed of an instinctive 
 consciousness of their awful nature. In a few minutes 
 more, however, the child arose, laid a piece of silver
 
 BLIND AGNESE 37 
 
 on the pillow of the invalid, and glided softly to the 
 open door. Lady Oranmore followed her directly into 
 the open street, which, lately so full of light and 
 people, was now as dark and silent as the grave ; and 
 she could not help shuddering at the idea of this poor 
 child, whose misfortune would have rendered her so 
 peculiarly helpless in the hour of danger walking alone 
 at that late hour through the deserted city. Suddenly 
 as this thought crossed her mind, she resolved to fol- 
 low and see her to her home; but she did not tell 
 Agnese of her intention, nor did she even acquaint 
 her with her presence, for she had a sort of desire 
 to accompany her without her knowledge, and 
 to behold her in a place where she could not 
 be supposed to be influenced by the presence of 
 strangers. 
 
 In taking this resolution, no thought or fear of 
 personal annoyance presented itself to her. She was 
 little in the habit of calculating consequences, and at 
 this moment was wrought up to a pitch of enthusiasm 
 which carried her so far beyond the ordinary rules of 
 prudence, that she ever afterwards felt as if through- 
 out the night she had been acting in a dream. With 
 all her courage, however, perhaps she was not sorry to 
 find that Agnese's route, traced out for her with un- 
 erring certainty by Perletta, brought her to a part of 
 Naples with which she herself was perfectly ac- 
 quainted ; so it was with more of curiosity than of any 
 other feeling that she followed the child into one of 
 the poorest houses of the poorest streets of the city, 
 and up flight after flight of stairs, into a small close 
 room, where, by the light just dawning in the east,
 
 38 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 she could dimly discern a table and a chair, and in one 
 corner something like a bed, with a human figure 
 stretched upon it. 
 
 "Agnese," said a voice from beneath the coverlet, 
 which was unmistakably that of the old dame of the 
 fountain. 
 
 "Grandmother!" replied the child, kneeling by the 
 bed. 
 
 "Where have you been, my child?" 
 
 "I have been with Him, mother; He went to visit 
 Sister Rosalie." 
 
 "Sister Rosalie, who is Sister Rosalie, Agnese?" 
 
 "She is of the Order of Penance of the Blessed 
 Father St. Francis. All Naples know her well, mother. 
 She lived among the poor, and served them as she 
 would have served Jesus himself had she lived in the 
 .days of Magdalen and Martha." 
 
 "Mother," said Agnese again, after a little pause, 
 "when I heard His bell, I guessed it was to the poor 
 He was going ; so I took the piece of money which the 
 lady gave me, for Rosalie is very poor, and the little 
 she has she gives it to those who are even pporer than 
 she is." 
 
 "It is well, my child ; you did right. Now, come to 
 bed, Agnese ; it is time you took some rest." 
 
 "Say rather it is time to rise, mother, for day is 
 dawning in the east, and I have promised Francesco 
 to bring him the corporals this very evening. Sleep 
 still, dear mother. I will call you when your hour 
 arrives." 
 
 The old woman made no answer she was already 
 fast asleep, and then Agnese set about her task with
 
 BLIND AGNESE 39 
 
 as much precision as if in perfect possession of her 
 eyesight. 
 
 Lady Oranmore watched her for a few minutes; 
 but fearing the old woman might awaken and dis- 
 cover her at her post, she at last reluctantly withdrew. 
 The Church bells were all ringing, and the people 
 everywhere astir in the city by the time she gained 
 her Palazzo, and, feeling far too excited for sleep, she 
 ordered her carriage, and drove at once to the Church 
 of the Blessed Sacrament, with the intention of ques- 
 tioning Francesco concerning his blind protege. For 
 this purpose she thought it best to go at once to the 
 door by which she had seen him enter the Church in 
 his search for Agnese; but it must be confessed that 
 when he himself opened it to her little tap for admit- 
 tance, she felt rather embarrassed how to begin the 
 conversation. After the awkward pause of a moment, 
 however, she succeeded in shaking off her little hesi- 
 tation, and in saying, with all the frankness so natural 
 to her 'You will think me mad, I suppose, if I tell 
 you I have come to make inquiries about the blind 
 child I saw you speaking to yesterday. She has in- 
 terested me most strangely." 
 
 "The signora's madness is not so strange to me," 
 said the old man, with a smile, "for it is one in which 
 I share." 
 
 "But who is she what is she what makes her so 
 unlike other children of her age?" 
 
 "Who is she? She is Blind Agnese. What is she? 
 A little beggar-girl that is her only dignity, except 
 when children call her, in sport, 'the Little Spouse of 
 the Blessed Sacrament,' so devoted is she to this
 
 40 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 mystery of love. And what makes her so unlike other 
 children? Even He himself who loves them all in- 
 deed, but who seems to have called this one more 
 especially to live at His feet." 
 
 "I can comprehend this child being very dear to 
 God, but I cannot fathom the mystery of such deep 
 thoughtfulness in one so young." 
 
 "That is as much as to say we cannot fathom the 
 mystery of His deep love for his creatures. But if 
 the signora will believe me, there are many little ones 
 full as thoughtful as Agnese, only we do not often see 
 them, for they perish early young flowers they are, 
 forced into premature bloom, to be cast on 
 the path of the Lamb in heaven. And then," 
 yet more earnestly the old man went on "and 
 then, see you not, lady, that God is so good! He 
 seldom denies one gift without bestowing a greater 
 in its place, and if Agnese is blind, He has yet given 
 her to behold her Saviour in His own Sacrament of 
 Love, by a clearness of spiritual perception which the 
 saints might even envy." 
 
 "And has she been ever thus?" returned Lady 
 Oranmore. " Was she never a child like the rest ? Or 
 is this a second nature, the offspring of her misfor- 
 tune?" 
 
 "She has been thus ever since I have known her, but 
 possibly it is a mixture of nature and of grace. There 
 was a calm and thoughtful nature to begin with, and 
 the grace of God took that nature and replenished it 
 with sweetness." 
 
 The old man raised his eyes to heaven, his coun- 
 tenance overflowing with the very expression of sweet-
 
 BLIND AGNESE 41 
 
 ness of which he spoke. Lady Oranmore began to 
 think him almost as interesting, and quite as incom- 
 prehensible as Agnese herself. She had yet to learn 
 the spirit of joy which Jesus pours out upon the soul 
 that touches Him, as it were, in the Sacrament of His 
 Love. 
 
 "Tell me how you first became acquainted with her, 
 for you say, 'since I have known her/ " she said. 
 
 "It was about this time last year. I had some cor- 
 porals and other linen to be washed for the altar, and 
 I went into the church to seek for some child who 
 might do it" 
 
 "Child!" echoed Lady Oranmore; "I should have 
 thought an older person better suited to the task." 
 
 "It is only a fancy of my own. The signora must 
 understand I always give them to a young child to 
 wash. It seems to me He will be best pleased after- 
 wards to repose in the Blessed Sacrament, upon linen 
 which only such innocent hands have touched. And 
 then, He so loved the little ones the sweet and loving 
 Jesus ! Surely the signora has not forgotten how He 
 bade them to approach, and would not have them to be 
 forbidden, seeing that of such is the kingdom of 
 heaven." 
 
 Lady Oranmore was silent. The loving faith of the 
 old man seemed to rebuke her own hardness and in- 
 credulity of heart. And, finding she made no answer, 
 Francesco proceeded 
 
 "As the signora already knows, I went into the 
 church, and there, just as she beheld her yesterday, 
 was blind Agnese kneeling before the altar. It seems 
 to be her natural position. I never saw her in any
 
 42 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 other at her prayers. Not liking to disturb her I went 
 back again, and returning in half an hour found her 
 still in the same attitude of devotion. This gave me a 
 feeling of curious interest about her, so I waited until 
 she rose of her own accord, and then followed her 
 to yonder orange grove, and to the fountain, where an 
 old woman sits, preparing iced water and lemonade. 
 If the signora ever passes that way, and feels weary 
 with her walk, she will find a chair placed pleasantly 
 in the shade the perfume of the orange and acacia 
 will revive her the lemonade is excellent and then 
 the signora will be doing an act of charity to blind 
 Agnese, for that old woman is her adopted mother." 
 
 "That old woman I know her well. But is not, 
 then, Agnese her real grandchild?" 
 
 "God only knows to whom the orphan really be- 
 longs. I questioned the old woman, but all she could 
 tell was, that she herself had been an itinerant water- 
 seller, and that one day, in the course of her trade, 
 she had offered refreshments to a foreign lady sitting 
 at the corner of the street, with an infant in her arms. 
 The lady eagerly accepted a glass of water, but before 
 she could carry it to her lips she fainted way. Happily 
 she had fallen into the hands of a good Samaritan. 
 The old woman had her carried to her own home; 
 but it was a hopeless case ; the poor lady was dying." 
 
 "Dying!" said Lady Oranmore, in a strange, un- 
 natural tone; "of what, I pray you, was she dying?" 
 
 "Poor lady, of hunger in the first instance, but I 
 fear of a broken heart in the second. She had not 
 long to live, but she had time at least to tell her story 
 before she died."
 
 BLIND AGNESE 43 
 
 "And that story?" 
 
 "It was a sad one. She was not of Italy; but in 
 the distant land from whence she came, religion, it 
 seems, is made a subject of oppression, and he who 
 dares to worship God after the fashion of the ancient 
 Church is liable to fine, imprisonment, and perhaps to 
 death." 
 
 "No, no," said Lady Oranmore, "not now to death, 
 my friend. But tell me of the lady." 
 
 "Her mother, it seems, was of the king's religion, 
 and made it a part of her creed to hate all who did not 
 think fit to profess it." 
 
 "Was it thus she spoke of her mother?" Lady 
 Oranmore asked, in a quick, agitated voice. 
 
 "Alas, no, signora! Her words were full of ten- 
 derness and love. It was I who spoke, in the bitter- 
 ness of my soul, to think how religion could ever be 
 made a source of disunion between child and parent." 
 
 "Her heart was always loving and forgiving," said 
 the lady, with difficulty repressing her tears. 
 
 "The signora knew her, then?" 
 
 "Go on, friend. What next?" 
 
 "But little. Poor lady ! her story was as short as it 
 was sad. She married a Catholic, became one, and 
 displeased her mother. Still, in her husband's love, 
 and the approval of her own conscience, she was happy 
 and so she might have remained to this very hour, 
 had it not been for another law of that unhappy land, 
 by which, as well as I could understand it, one brother 
 conforming to the king's religion might claim the 
 property of the elder."
 
 44 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 Lady Oranmore groaned aloud. 
 
 "The gentleman," pursued Francesco, "was one of 
 three brothers; and the youngest of three was such a 
 one as I have described. So one night, just after the 
 birth of the poor, blind child, he came, claimed the 
 property as his own, turned the sick lady, the new- 
 born babe, and another child, some years older, out 
 of the house, and sent them adrift upon the world." 
 
 Lady Oranmore now sobbed aloud. 
 
 "The signora has a good heart she can feel for the 
 distress of those poor outcasts of religion. That night 
 they took refuge in the house of a poor retainer, who 
 braved the anger of the new lord, to show his grati- 
 tude to the old one. It was necessary, however, that 
 they should fly the country ; for the renegade, not con- 
 tent with reducing his brother to beggary, had likewise 
 accused him of malpractices against the government. 
 On hearing these sad tidings the mother of the lady 
 relented; she came and begged her daughter to reside 
 with her; but the wife felt it both her duty and her 
 happiness to cleave to her husband; so a very few 
 hours afterwards they were together on the wide 
 waters of the ocean, seeking, with their poor blind 
 child, in a foreign land, the protection denied them 
 in their own." 
 
 "And the eldest child?" asked Lady Oranmore, 
 quickly. 
 
 "Ah !" said Francesco, shaking his head sadly, "that 
 was the deepest grief of all I think to the dying lady. 
 She could not tell what had become of it. It must 
 have been left behind in the hurry and confusion of 
 their flight, which, of course, was made in the hours
 
 BLIND AGNESE 45 
 
 of darkness. But unhappily they only missed it on 
 boarding the vessel in which they were to sail, and no 
 entreaty could prevail on the captain to delay their 
 voyage even for an hour. Poor mother! She never 
 mentioned her lost one without piteous moans. The 
 murder of her husband scarce seemed to have made 
 such an impression on her mind." 
 
 "Murdered! Good God! was, then, poor Edward 
 murdered ?" 
 
 Francesco looked curiously at the lady. 
 
 "Ill luck attended them from first to last," he said. 
 "They were scarcely in the Italian seas before their 
 vessel was attacked and taken by pirates. The poor 
 gentleman fell fighting gallantly, under the very eyes 
 of his unhappy wife." 
 
 "Alas ! alas !" cried Lady Oranmore, weeping ; "my 
 poor, unhappy May a prisoner among pirates !" 
 
 "She was not with them long. Two or three Nea- 
 politan vessels were in sight, so the pirates took every- 
 thing of value out of the ship, and then set it on fire. 
 The lady was rescued from this grave of mingled fire 
 and water, and landed on the coast, from whence, 
 with her infant in her arms, she begged her way to 
 Naples. Happily she had learned our language from 
 her husband, who had been brought up among us 
 education being, it seems, one of the blessings denied 
 in his own country to men of the proscribed religion ; 
 and yet, starving, heart-broken, helpless, and a stran- 
 ger, how she managed to make her way so far has 
 ever been a mystery to me." 
 
 "Go on, old man! What next? I conjure you, 
 what next?"
 
 46 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 "Why, finding herself so near to death, she sent for 
 a priest to make her peace with Heaven. From him 
 she received all the last rites of our holy religion. The 
 old woman has often told me since, that it was a touch- 
 ing sight to see; for nothing would content her but 
 she must have her infant in her arms when she 
 received Jesus in the Viaticum; so I always think 
 it was then and there the child imbibed her strange 
 love for Him in His Sacrament of Love. Surely He 
 passed in that hour from the bosom of the mother 
 into the heart of the child!" 
 
 "And then ?" sobbed Lady Oranmore. 
 
 "And then," echoed Francesco, "she died, as might 
 have been expected. In peace she died. God stilled 
 the violence of the storm which had swept her young 
 days in sorrow to the grave. To his fatherly tender- 
 ness she consigned her child; and in the sacramental 
 embraces of her Saviour, she herself went down to 
 death, amid such sentiments of love and peace as St. 
 John may have felt when resting his head on the very 
 bosom of his living Lord." 
 
 "And left no message no memorial?" 
 
 "I had forgotten. She gave a packet to the old 
 water-vendor, charging her to keep it safely, together 
 with the signet-ring which she wore upon her finger. 
 Poor thing! She fancied some of those whom she 
 loved so well might one day come and seek her out, 
 and adopt the poor blind child for the sake of its dead 
 mother. She was mistaken, however; years have 
 passed away, and Agnese knows no other relative than 
 the poor old beggar-woman whom Providence sent as 
 the protectress of her infancy."
 
 BLIND AGNESE 47 
 
 "Old man ! old man !" cried Lady Oranmore, wring- 
 ing her hands in anguish, "accuse me not I am the 
 mother of that unhappy creature." 
 
 "Yes," she continued, after a long pause, during 
 which her sobs and tears had prevented her from speak- 
 ing ; "I quarreled with her because she obeyed the dic- 
 tates of her conscience, and became a Catholic; and 
 when I afterwards beheld her driven a fugitive from 
 her native land, I stole her eldest child, intending to 
 undo the wrong I had done her, by making her the 
 heiress of all my wealth. I had not had the child a 
 year when it disappeared, and God forgive me if I have 
 done him wrong, but I have ever believed it was stolen 
 by its unnatural uncle, and perhaps put to death, lest 
 it should hereafter prove a troublesome claimant of 
 his wealth. But you wrong me if you fancy I aban- 
 doned my unhappy May, without inquiry, to her fate. 
 I did all I could to find out the place to which she and 
 her husband had retreated. You see yourself this was 
 no easy matter, and it was all the more difficult because 
 of the wars which so often interrupted the communica- 
 tion between the countries. Unable, however, any 
 longer to endure suspense, I have spent the last two 
 years wandering about Italy, seeking my lost child from 
 city to city, but until this day without the slightest clue 
 to the right one." 
 
 Francesco was moved at her evident distress. 
 
 "Providence has been good to the signora," he ob- 
 served at length; "he has been over her in all her 
 wanderings, and has at last guided her to the very 
 spot where she may recover all that remains to her of 
 the treasure she has lost."
 
 48 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 "Old man," cried Lady Oranmore, dashing away 
 her tears, "where is this precious packet? Come with 
 me, I pray you I must see this old woman this very 
 instant." 
 
 "It is not in possession of the old woman, signora; 
 she confided it to the care of the Nuns of the Perpetual 
 Adoration; their convent is not far from hence: if 
 the signora pleases, I will gladly guide her hither." 
 
 "I thank you," said Lady Oranmore, lowering her 
 len had not Francesco given her the support of his 
 been seated; but she staggered, and would have fal- 
 len, had not Francesco given her the support of his 
 arm. 
 
 "The signora is not well," he observed; "had she 
 not better defer this visit?" 
 
 "No, no," cried Lady Oranmore, impetuously; "any- 
 thing is better than suspense. I must see this packet. 
 Yet surely, I have not a doubt Agnese is my grand- 
 child, the child of my poor, unhappy May." 
 
 Francesco was well known at the convent, and the 
 superioress made no difficulty in submitting the packet 
 and the signet-ring to Lady Oranmore's inspection; 
 the latter gazed at it long and silently, through her 
 tears. 
 
 "Yes," she murmured, "it is her own handwriting, 
 I cannot be mistaken; and this is her signet-ring, 
 which I gave her myself on her wedding-day. I must 
 have this packet," she said, suddenly looking up; "it 
 will be needful, should the identity of the child be dis- 
 puted by her relations." 
 
 The superioress coloured; but no human respect 
 could deter her from her duty.
 
 BLIND AGNESE 49 
 
 "The signora must pardon me," she said; "I doubt 
 not it is all exactly as she says, but the packet was in- 
 trusted to my care, and should any others hereafter 
 inquire for it, how am I to show that I was justified 
 in delivering it now?" 
 
 Lady Oranmore pulled a pocket-book from her 
 bosom; it contained a lock of golden hair, and a few 
 papers, yellow and worn, not so much with age as with 
 constant reading, and perh?ps also with the tears of 
 the reader. 
 
 "Here," she said, "is all that remains to me of my 
 ill-treated child. Never does this packet leave my 
 bosom; sleeping or waking it is ever on my person. 
 See here is the copy of her marriage certificate the 
 original, I doubt not, is sealed up in your packet, and 
 here is a long letter addressed to me, on her change of 
 religion ; it is in English, so you cannot understand it ; 
 but here is something that you can the note in which 
 she informed me of the barbarous conduct of her 
 brother-in-law; happily, she wrote it in Italian, that 
 it might not be deciphered, should it fall into hands 
 for which it was not intended. Read it, read it." 
 
 The superioress took the note from the lady's trem- 
 bling hand. It told, in sweet and touching language, the 
 misfortunes of the writer of her husband's flight, a 
 few hours after the birth of his child on a groundless 
 suspicion of treason of the rage of his brother at the 
 escape of his victim of his cruelty, in turning her and 
 her children out of their home and of the blindness 
 which had fallen on the youngest, in consequence of 
 cold caught by the sudden exposure. It named the 
 place to which she had retreated, and the arrangements
 
 50 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 which her husband was making for their flight into 
 Italy; and it ended by a moving appeal to a mother's 
 love for an only child, beseeching her to pardon and 
 send her such a benediction as, had she been dying, 
 she might have craved at her hands. 
 
 It was impossible to doubt the evidence of this note ; 
 handwriting, seal, and signature, all perfectly agreed 
 with the packet already in the possession of the nun. 
 She no longer had any difficulty in surrendering it into 
 the hands of its new claimant. Lady Oranmore 
 eagerly broke it open and found it to contain, as she 
 had expected, the marriage certificate of May Netter- 
 ville, with the copies of the baptismal register of both 
 her children, as well as the beginning of the Gospel 
 of St. John, which, in Ireland, was generally sus- 
 pended from the neck of a new baptized infant. 
 
 "Yes," said Lady Oranmore, "it is sufficient; this 
 will make Agnese the heiress of her mother's fortune, 
 and, perhaps, even the lawful claimant of her uncle's 
 ill-gotten wealth should the man ever become a Ca- 
 tholic again, as, in a fit of remorse, I sometimes 
 imagine he will." 
 
 She spoke in English ; the superioress, therefore, did 
 not understand her; but there was a harshness in her 
 tones which she did not like; and how, indeed, could 
 it be otherwise ? The voice is so often an index to the 
 thoughts, and Lady Oranmore's were, at that moment, 
 less with her unhappy child than with the man who 
 had done her wrong. 
 
 "There is a lock of hair which has escaped the 
 signora's observation," said the mild religious, hoping 
 thus to recall her to gentler meditation.
 
 BLIND AGNESE 51 
 
 Lady Oranmore took it up ; it was indeed a lock of 
 her own hair, and tears gushed in torrents from her 
 eyes at this new proof of the enduring affection of her 
 child. 
 
 The superioress saw she had produced the wished- 
 for emotion, and she went on, although with some em- 
 barrassment, caused by the fear of giving pain. 
 
 "There is yet another visit which, perhaps, the sig- 
 nora would like to make before she leaves the con- 
 vent." Lady Oranmore shuddered she felt she was 
 summoned to the grave of her child. 
 
 "It is true," she stammered ; "I had intended to have 
 asked it, as soon as I could find courage." 
 
 The superioress took her arm, and in a few min- 
 utes they were in the little cemetery belonging to the 
 convent a lovely spot it was, shut out from all, save 
 the eye of heaven, by the tall ilex trees with which it 
 was surrounded each little lowly grave was sur- 
 mounted by a cross, telling of the hope of those who 
 slept beneath, but bearing neither name nor date upon 
 it. Name and date were unneeded there, for the slum- 
 berers in that sanctuary of peace were all the faithful 
 spouses of a crucified God, who had written their 
 names in the palm of His hand from the day, when, by 
 their life-long dedication to His service, they had 
 spiritually died for His love to the world and them- 
 selves. One grave there was, however, which was not 
 so nameless it was beautiful, with many flowers 
 springing from the turf, and white with the blossoms 
 of the orange and the myrtle, which had fallen in 
 showers upon it ; and the cross above it bore a prayer 
 for the repose of the soul of May Netterville, to whose
 
 52 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 remains the rare privilege of burial within the ceme- 
 tery of the convent had been accorded, because (so 
 the inscription stated) she had died far from her 
 home and her own country, poor, and alone, and 
 friendless, in a foreign land. The superioress pointed 
 to the name, and then, with intuitive delicacy, silently 
 withdrew, leaving the unhappy mother to her own re- 
 flections. Bitter, very bitter, because mingled with 
 much of self-reproach, they must have been, and when, 
 half an hour afterwards, the nun returned, she saw 
 that Lady Oranmore had been weeping violently, and 
 guessed, from the disordered state of her dress and 
 bonnet, that she must have been prostrate on the 
 grave of her child. 
 
 "Weep not for her, dearest lady," said the nun, 
 kindly; "she died happily, and she rests in peace. 
 See, we chose the sweetest spot in all the cemetery 
 for her, just beneath the shadow of this beautiful 
 myrtle and we took all the rarest flowers of our gar- 
 den to plant them on her grave. We did not then 
 know that she had a mother; but I well remember it 
 was agreed among us, to receive her precious remains 
 with all the love and reverence a mother's heart would 
 have been consoled to offer, or see offered to her 
 child." 
 
 Lady Oranmore could not speak her thanks just 
 then, but, before she left the convent, she pressed 
 Mother Matilda's hand to her lips, and besought her, 
 in moving terms, to continue her kind care of the 
 grave, where all her own hopes of happiness lay buried. 
 Then with a myrtle branch, which she had brought
 
 BLIND AGNESE 53 
 
 from thence in her hand, she left the convent, leaning 
 as before on the arm of the good Francesco. 
 
 "And now where does the signora wish to go?" he 
 asked. "She is tired, and would she not like to go to 
 her palazzo for a little repose?" 
 
 "No, no," said Lady Oranmore; "I can have no 
 repose until I have embraced my grandchild. Let us 
 seek the old water-seller at her stall." 
 
 "Ah, poor Benita," said Francesco, shaking his 
 head, "it will go hard with her to lose her darling; 
 I greatly doubt she will break her old heart." 
 
 "I should be very sorry so to grieve her," said Lady 
 Oranmore, compassionately. "Think you she would 
 come with me ? I would gladly give her a home." 
 
 "It is kind of the signora to say so but no I 
 think Benita would not be happy that way either ; she 
 is too old for new friends and a new country. Bet- 
 ter to promise the child shall sometimes return to 
 visit her." 
 
 "That I can readily do," said Lady Oranmore, sigh- 
 ing, "for I also have an attraction in the grave of my 
 child, which will often bring me to revisit this land. 
 
 "Yonder is the orange grove, where we shall find 
 Benita and her grandchild; and now that the signora 
 has found her own, may heaven prosper her as she 
 deals rightly and fairly by the child, whom Providence 
 has so wonderfully restored to her care." 
 
 Lady Oranmore changed colour; her conscience 
 told her she was neither going to act rightly nor 
 fairly by the child or its dead mother; for well she 
 knew that mother's heart, and she felt that May Net- 
 terville would rather have bequeathed her little one to
 
 54 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 the care of the poorest beggar in the land than to 
 the guardianship of any one who would tamper with 
 her faith. 
 
 "But, what then?" thought Lady Oranmore, seek- 
 ing her excuse, as all worldly-minded people do, in 
 the expediency of the thing. "The happiness of my 
 poor May is no longer dependent on the religion of 
 the child; and, besides, she did not bequeath Agnese 
 to me. I found her for myself; and this, surely, 
 gives me a right to do as I please; and if I do not 
 please to bring her up a Protestant, she will not only 
 lose her chance of the broad lands of Netterville, she 
 will even forfeit all right to the estate she ought to 
 inherit from me ; for the next in succession is a Prot- 
 estant; and I know him too well to suppose he will 
 forego his legal claim from any sense of justice to- 
 wards me or mine." 
 
 By such a train of reasoning as this she contrived 
 to stifle her own scruples on the subject; but feeling 
 instinctively that her arguments would have little 
 weight with Francesco, she made no other reply to 
 his observations than the very significant one of 
 quickening her footsteps on her way to the fountain. 
 
 Three days afterwards Agnese knelt for the last 
 time before the altar of the Blessed Sacrament, in 
 her favourite church, and Francesco stood beside her ; 
 she was in tears, for she had that morning bid adieu 
 to the kind old woman who, for so many years, had 
 cherished her as her own ; and now, a yet more cruel 
 separation was awaiting her, in her parting with Fran- 
 cesco, and her farewell to the dear little church where 
 she had enjoyed so many hours of calm and heavenly
 
 BLIND AGNESE 55 
 
 devotion. Little less sorrowful was the old man him- 
 self. Something there was in Lady Oranmore's man- 
 ner which made him tremble for the future religion 
 of his darling, and he was sorely perplexed how to 
 fortify her against this danger, and, at the same time, 
 to avoid filling her mind with fear and distrust of one, 
 whom it would be her duty henceforth to reverence 
 as a mother. Small time had he to revolve the matter 
 in his own mind, for a servant entered the church to 
 say, that the travelling carriage was at the door, and 
 her ladyship desired the presence of Agnese. The 
 child arose; but Francesco laid his hand on her 
 shoulder, and said to her, in a voice so solemn that 
 she was startled by its strangeness 
 
 "Tarry yet another instant, my child, and listen to 
 my words. Agnese, Jesus is on that altar: He is 
 looking on you listening to you; and if ever, on 
 this holy spot, you have promised to be faithful to 
 Him in the Sacrament of His love, renew that prom- 
 ise now; give it into the hands and heart of the Im- 
 maculate Mother, and she will place it for you in the 
 sacred heart of her Son." 
 
 The words of the old man seemed to penetrate 
 Agnese's very soul; she sank on her knees, and said, 
 in a low but earnest voice 
 
 "I do promise to be faithful to Jesus, even unto 
 death." 
 
 "Unto death," repeated Francesco; "ay, that is the 
 right word for the child of martyrs. Be faithful to 
 Jesus unto death, if you would have Him faithful to 
 you unto life everlasting. Agnese, they may seek to 
 make you desert the religion in which He alone is to
 
 56" BLIND AGNESE 
 
 be found ; but believe them not, my child. Never pray 
 in a church where He is not." 
 
 "I will not," said the child; "but how am I to 
 know ?" 
 
 With something almost like inspiration, Francesco 
 answered 
 
 "Ask whether a lamp is burning before the altar. 
 If there is not, leave the church, for Jesus is neither 
 in it nor of it. 5 ' 
 
 "I will, Francesco." 
 
 "You may have much to go through of trouble and 
 persecution, my child. But here is a picture; it is of 
 the sacred hearts of Jesus and of Mary, and they are 
 wreathed together by thorns." 
 
 Agnese kissed and placed it in her bosom. 
 
 "Thorns, Agnese," proceeded Francesco, "are rude 
 to the touch, but the flowers they guard are always the 
 most safe, often even the most full of sweetness. What 
 heart so pure what heart so sweet what heart so 
 sorrowful as the heart of the Virgin Mother of God. 
 And of her it is written, 'She was a lily among thorns/ 
 Think of this, my child ; and should the thorny diadem 
 ever descend upon your brow, receive it lovingly and 
 thankfully, seeing it will make you resembling to her." 
 
 There was so sad a foreboding in Agnese's heart, 
 as she listened to these words, that, in her fears for 
 the future, she almost forgot her present sorrow, 
 hardly heard the remaining words of Francesco, was 
 hardly conscious of his final benediction, although she 
 had fallen on her knees to receive it, hardly even felt 
 Lady Oranmore embracing her as the child of her lost 
 May. She only knew distinctly that she was leaving
 
 BLIND AGNESE 57 
 
 the land where Jesus dwelt upon every altar; and, 
 sinking back in a corner of the carriage, and burying 
 her head in the neck of Perletta, the Little Spouse of 
 the Blessed Sacrament murmured through her tears 
 "Oh ! that the dove would descend and give Him to 
 my prayers !"
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ! that the dove would descend and give Him to 
 my prayers!" It was Agnese's last prayer on 
 leaving Naples; it was her first on arriving at Oran- 
 more Castle. Her troubles, in fact, seemed about to 
 commence just where most little heroines of romance 
 find a termination to theirs that is to say, in a loving 
 protectress and a magnificent home. 
 
 Not that she had felt positively unhappy during 
 the journey; her feelings had been rather stunned than 
 excited by the sudden change in her position; she 
 could not perfectly understand its reality, or compre- 
 hend how it was, that a few days before she had been 
 the grandchild of a poor water vendor, and now stood 
 precisely in the same relationship to a lady ranking 
 among the richest and noblest in the land. Neither 
 did she imagine herself so entirely separated, as, in 
 truth, she was, from all she loved and cared for 
 upon earth. She would revisit Italy, so Lady Oran- 
 more had promised her grandmother; she would sit 
 once more beside Benita, near her orange-shaded 
 fountain; she would kneel with Francesco before the 
 altar of the Blessed Sacrament ; and then nothing, she 
 knew, could separate her from Jesus ; His altars were 
 everywhere, and He was everywhere on His altars; 
 and never did she pass a single day during their jour- 
 ney without seeking Him there. 
 
 Long before Lady Oranmore or her attendants were 
 58
 
 BLIND AGNESE 59 
 
 awake, Agnese was on her way to the church of the 
 town or village in which they had spent the night. 
 And for this happiness she was indebted to the un- 
 erring sagacity of Perletta, who knew her wishes 
 quite as well as she did herself. She had only to say, 
 "Alia chiesa, alia chiesa!" and Perletta looked to the 
 right and looked to the left, pricked up her ears, and 
 set off directly in the direction in which the church 
 bells were ringing, nor did she ever fail in the object 
 of her search. Sooner or later the church was found, 
 and the blind child conducted through the gates, and 
 along the aisle, and up even to the very rails of the 
 sanctuary ; and there Perletta would coil herself com- 
 fortably up into a little round ball, and fall fast asleep ; 
 while Agnese, on her part, reverently knelt down to 
 pray, by the modesty of her attitude and tenderness of 
 her devotion unconsciously preaching the sweet Jesus 
 to all who saw her. 
 
 It cannot be supposed that Lady Oranmore par- 
 ticularly fancied these lonely expeditions, yet she did 
 not forbid them, because unwilling to commence her 
 guardianship by such a disagreeable act of authority; 
 and finding, at last, that Agnese always returned with- 
 out accident, she took confidence in the good guidance 
 of Perletta, and lost all her anxieties on the subject, 
 if, indeed, she did not forget it altogether. Her mem- 
 ory, however, was suddenly refreshed by a rather un- 
 pleasant incident which took place on their arrival at 
 Dover. They had only landed the night before, but, 
 though feeling sick and giddy from the rough sea 
 voyage, Agnese could not resolve upon giving up her 
 visit to the church, so she rose early, and, descending
 
 60 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 into the street, shook the ribbon round Perletta's neck, 
 and said, as usual, "Alia chiesa ! alia chiesa !" 
 
 Alas! for poor Perletta! For once her sagacity 
 was completely at fault. She had hitherto always had 
 a clue to her destination in the ringing of the bells, 
 the thronging of the people without, the low murmur 
 of prayer from within; but now, in vain she snuffed 
 the air in vain she ran backwards and forwards, up 
 the street and down the street. The poor dog was 
 completely bewildered. It is true she came to a 
 church, but the doors were closed; the bells were 
 silent; not a creature was lingering near it. Perletta 
 was not used to see deserted churches, so she very 
 naturally passed it by. Her next essay was the 
 market-place. There was plenty of people here, and 
 something more than the murmur of voices among its 
 buyers and sellers. But Perletta understood markets 
 quite as well as she did churches ; and, being a dog of 
 sagacity, knew this was not precisely what Agnese 
 wanted, therefore she trotted on until she arrived at 
 the theatre. It so happened that a celebrated actor 
 was to perform there that night, and hundreds of 
 people were already at the doors to secure themselves 
 places. Perletta began to think she was right this 
 time, but a kick from an impatient bye-stander speedily 
 convinced her of her error, and, howling with pain, 
 she ran off so fast that Agnese had some difficulty in 
 keeping up to her paces. On their way back, they 
 once more stumbled upon the church; and this time 
 the bells were tolling, for a funeral was to take place 
 there that day. What wonder if Perletta was deceived. 
 She trotted up the steps, and, finding the gates still
 
 BLIND AGNESE 61 
 
 closed, very contentedly coiled herself up at their en- 
 trance, thus giving Agnese intelligibly to understand 
 that she had accomplished her mission, and would go 
 no further. The blind child took the hint and sat 
 down on the steps, resolving to wait there until the 
 church should be opened. But minute after minute 
 passed away, and no one came. And now the poor 
 little Italian began to shiver in the cold; yet, perhaps, 
 it was not altogether the unaccustomed rawness of a 
 British morning which made her tremble: there was 
 a vague fear also falling around her, which seemed to 
 penetrate and chill her very heart. It was so strange 
 to her that a church should be there, and no one to 
 enter it; that the bells should be tolling, and no one 
 found to obey the summons. Poor Agnese! she was 
 not much of a philosopher, I am afraid, for at last, 
 finding herself disappointed in her hopes, and fright- 
 ened and confused, she could scarcely tell wherefore, 
 she put her arms around the neck of her faithful 
 Perletta, and burst into tears. Her foreign dress, her 
 desolate attitude, the dog, which everywhere betrayed 
 the secret of her blindness, soon drew a crowd around 
 her; and innumerable were the conjectures, some in 
 jest and some in earnest, elicited by her singular ap- 
 pearance. "Who is she? What is she? Has she lost 
 anybody, or has anybody lost her?" Sometimes the 
 spectators addressed these queries to Agnese, some- 
 times to each other. The child grew every moment 
 more bewildered. She felt the crowd pressing heavily 
 around her; she heard their questions, though she 
 could not understand their import. And once she even 
 rose with the intention of making her escape, but sud-
 
 62 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 denly recollecting her inability to do so, she sat down 
 again, trembling violently, and weeping more bitterly 
 than ever. 
 
 "Do be quiet," said an elderly gentleman; "you ter- 
 rify the child with your chatter. What is it, my little 
 one, and why do you weep so sadly?" he added ad- 
 dressing Agnese. 
 
 The blind child did not understand this speech, but 
 she answered in the only English word she could as 
 yet perfectly pronounce 
 
 "Church church!" 
 
 "She must be a furriner," said a sailor. "They are 
 used to having their churches always open in furrin 
 parts." 
 
 "That's it," said another. "Look at all her furrin 
 gew-gaws. I suppose that this little Papist spawn is 
 one of the party from the packet last night." 
 
 "A Papist!" said a tall, evangelical-looking person, 
 with a very vinegar aspect; "the Lord preserve us. 
 It would be a charity to send her to the poorhouse, 
 poor benighted individual." 
 
 "It would be a greater charity to see her safe home 
 to her friends, I should say," said Agnese's self- 
 elected champion, indignantly eyeing the vinegar- faced 
 evangelical. "Harkee, Mr. sailor, what inn did this 
 foreign party put up at?" 
 
 "Star and Garter, sir; and I won't take upon me 
 to say, this young un was among them. But there 
 wor some furrin parrots, that I'll take my oath of; 
 they were chattering at such a precious rate as they 
 stepped out of the packet." 
 
 "Well, we can but try. Come along, my little maid ;
 
 BLIND AGNESE 63 
 
 I will see if I cannot make out your friends for you," 
 said the gentleman, taking her hand; and Perletta, 
 starting forward at the same moment, Agnese had no 
 choice but to obey. 
 
 The inn was easily found, and Agnese restored to 
 her grandmother, who had begun to feel exceedingly 
 alarmed by her absence. 
 
 "Explain to your grandchild, madame," said the 
 old gentleman, with a caustic severity of phrase, which 
 might hardly have been expected from one of his sin- 
 gularly mild and benevolent appearance, "that we are 
 a commercial people, and have no idea of giving more 
 than is asked for anything, however important. Six 
 days in the week we keep for ourselves; the seventh 
 we give to God. 'Tis what He himself demanded, 
 and we stick to our agreement. We are too business- 
 like to do more than is necessary; it would be a waste 
 of both time and capital." 
 
 The old gentleman spoke in a kind of jesting earn- 
 est; and Lady Oranmore felt so provoked both at 
 the truth and freedom of his words, that she did not 
 thank him, perhaps, quite so graciously as she might 
 otherwise have done. The reserve did not seem at all 
 to afflict him, however ; he patted Perletta on the head, 
 shook Agnese by the hand, and, in reply to her little 
 speech of gratitude, uttered in Italian, but made quite 
 intelligible by its tone and manner, he only answered 
 
 "It is nothing, my child, absolutely nothing ; only as 
 you are a Papist, and do not belong to this mercantile 
 people, perhaps you had better go back to the land 
 from whence you came. I am told you can there 
 waste your time in the churches all the day long, if
 
 64 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 you like it; if, indeed, waste of time it be, to bestow 
 it on Him who is the Lord of time as well as of 
 eternity." 
 
 He laid his hand on her head as he spoke in token 
 of farewell; and the action recalled Francesco so 
 vividly to her mind, that Agnese burst into tears. The 
 stranger cast one more glance of compassion upon 
 her, bowed to Lady Oranmore, and abruptly quitted 
 the room. As soon as he had fairly closed the door, 
 the latter tried to make Agnese comprehend the in- 
 utility of seeking for open churches in England upon 
 any day but Sunday. Had she told her the sun had 
 left the heavens, the blind child would probably have 
 been infinitely less astounded. To all her ladyship's 
 arguments, as to the necessity of attending to busi- 
 ness, the duty men owed to themselves and their chil- 
 dren of unceasing toil from morning until night, 
 Agnese only answered 
 
 "Then He is left alone, no one to pray to Him all 
 the week long ; no one to worship Him; no one to love 
 Him; and yet, He is there, only that we may love Him 
 and speak to Him quite at our ease." 
 
 Lady Oranmore felt at last she was only wasting 
 her rhetoric ; so she ceased to argue, and endeavoured 
 to console the weeping child by assuring her that, on 
 their arrival at Oranmore Castle, she would take her 
 to the village church which she had always been in 
 the habit of attending herself ; and in which, on Sun- 
 days, at least, she might pray all the day long if she 
 liked it. Agnese did not seem quite so enchanted with 
 this assurance as her ladyship had expected; in fact, 
 she began to doubt seriously as to the nature of her
 
 BLIND AGNESE 65 
 
 grandmother's religion. The prediction of Francesco 
 appeared on the point of fulfilment, and she felt it was 
 not, perhaps, in vain that he had required her so 
 solemnly to promise to be faithful to Jesus even unto 
 death. How far she was right in her conjectures my 
 readers already know; but, although Lady Oranmore 
 had fully resolved upon changing the religion of her 
 grandchild, she yet shrunk from inflicting the pain 
 which she felt such a resolution would cause to its 
 object. The possibility of Agnese's resisting her au- 
 thority never, for an instant, occurred to her mind. 
 "Such a mere child," thought she; "what on earth 
 difference can it make to her?" And yet, something 
 in her own heart told her there was a difference a 
 difference which she had felt herself a difference 
 which would be yet more distasteful to the feelings of 
 Agnese, than she was forced sometimes to acknowl- 
 edge she had found it to her own. She determined, 
 therefore, to do nothing in a hurry, but to wait until 
 Agnese's Italian recollections had faded away, and 
 until her young heart should have been chilled into in- 
 difference by the absence of all the sight and cere- 
 monial of the Catholic Church, which she fancied had 
 nursed it into its fervent religion, before venturing 
 to propose a new form to its worship. She little knew 
 the strength of mind, young as it was, with which she 
 had to deal, still less did she comprehend the endur- 
 ing character of that faith which had early stamped 
 itself on Agnese's heart, for she felt that she herself 
 at the same age had been totally without any fixed 
 religious principle of any kind, and that, at the bare 
 instigation of a superior, she would have gone quite
 
 66 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 willingly to any church, chapel, or meeting-house in 
 the land. With such a recollection in her own heart, 
 it was not difficult to argue herself into a belief in 
 the growing indifference of Agnese a supposition, 
 certainly, in some degree countenanced by the quiet 
 way in which the latter received the customary Sun- 
 day speech of "We cannot go to church to-day, Agnese ; 
 the weather is too cold, or too damp, or too foggy. 
 Remember we are not in Italy, dear child." Poor 
 Agnese! she remembered it all too well; but she also 
 had taken her resolution "to wait and see ;" and, strong 
 in her determination of passive resistance, she suffered 
 nothing of this bitter recollection to be visible in her 
 manner as she left Lady Oranmore's presence, and 
 sought in the solitude of her own little turret-chamber 
 spiritually to unite herself to the various services of 
 her church. 
 
 After the accomplishment of this first beloved and 
 for her daily duty, there was nothing the lonely child 
 loved so well as to ramble by the sea-shore, under the 
 guidance of Perletta, or to sit and muse away the 
 hours on the sunny spot which r>he had chosen for 
 her summer seat among the cliffs. I know not by 
 what secret instinct she was led, yet certain it is, that 
 she chose the holiest spot in all the country round, and 
 one which the peasant never passed but with bare 
 head and reverent mien, for the scene of her lonely 
 meditations. And it was fair as it was holy; lovely 
 even in its ruins was the little church which crowned 
 the cliffs, and looked down, in its calm sanctity, on the 
 broad waters of the Atlantic, beating idly and angrily 
 against the rocks below; lovelier still, if possible, the
 
 BLIND AGNESE 67 
 
 quiet cemetery by which it was surrounded, and in 
 which every wild flower the country side could boast 
 of seemed to have made for itself a garden prim- 
 rose, and violet, and wood anemone, and wild sorrel 
 clustering among its tombs in rich abundance, and con- 
 trasting their scentless blossoms with the sweet flowers 
 of the May, and the meadow sweet, and that white 
 wild rose which is so fragrant and so fair, that though 
 it blooms freely by the way side, it is not out of place 
 in the garden of a monarch. Agnese could not see 
 them, but the summer's breeze often reminded her of 
 their presence ; and something there was in their soft 
 perfume recalling the orange-scented groves of her 
 native Italy, and bidding her dream sweet dreams of 
 the land which now, more than ever, she deemed to 
 be the land of Jesus. She did not know that a church, 
 where once He dwelt upon the altar, was close at hand, 
 or that her favourite resting-place was a tomb-stone, 
 beneath which, perchance, some village saint lay bur- 
 ied. But there was a holy stillness ever resting on the 
 spot, which soothed her spirits; and so, by degrees, 
 she came here oftener, and lingered longer, until the 
 servants learned to seek her, whenever she was miss- 
 ing, among the ruins of St. Bride's ; and the very coun- 
 try people came to call her lowly resting-place among 
 its tombs the summer seat of Lady Oranmore's blind 
 child. Here she nursed her soul in that deep thought 
 which Lady Oranmore fancied had disappeared, only 
 because it was no longer visible on the surface, but 
 which, in truth, became all the deeper, now that it could 
 no longer flow forth into the observances of religion. 
 Had she remained in Italy, in the free exercise of her
 
 68 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 religion and under the guidance of its ministers, thought 
 would have resolved itself into action, and action would 
 have been made pleasant and sanctified by thought. As 
 it happened, her life became one uninterrupted medi- 
 tation; and a state of things so unnatural to one of 
 her tender years soon told its tale upon her bodily 
 health. She had not been three months at Oranmore 
 before there seemed every probability that the observa- 
 tion of Francesco would be realized in her regard, and 
 that the flower would early fall, which circumstances 
 had thus forced into premature bloom and sweetness. 
 Lady Oranmore watched the vivid flush on the cheek, 
 and the strange brightness of the eye, and she trembled 
 for the life of her darling; but she could not pene- 
 trate the secret of her malady: she had not sufficient 
 sense of religion herself to be able to comprehend how 
 its deprivation might affect a mind which, like Ag- 
 nese's, had fed on it from infancy. She knew not how 
 the daily prayer of the blind child was for the dove, 
 that it might descend how her nightly dream was of 
 the dove, that it had descended. Neither did she see 
 the bitter tears in which she was accustomed to in- 
 dulge, when believing herself alone and un watched, in 
 her lonely rambles on the cliffs. One there was, how- 
 ever, not quite so ignorant of Agnese's sorrow one, 
 ever hovering near her and around her, even in the 
 hours when the child fancied herself alone; and some- 
 times a light step in the grass, or a sigh, or a long- 
 drawn breath, almost betrayed the presence of this in- 
 visible guardian. This had occurred so frequently of 
 late, that by degrees a kind of mysterious awe began 
 to mingle with her musings; she never felt as if she
 
 BLIND AGNESE 69 
 
 were quite alone. It was always as though a spirit 
 was lingering near; and one evening (it surely could 
 not have been her fancy) she even imagined a sweet, 
 low voice pronounced her name "Agnese !" 
 
 Trembling violently, she started to her feet, but no 
 answer was returned to her eager questions, only she 
 thought she heard a deeper sigh, and then a receding 
 footstep, and then all was once more silent as the 
 grave. Agnese sat down again, for she felt she could 
 not stand, and her heart throbbed so wildly that she 
 almost fancied she could hear it beating; a few min- 
 utes afterwards she was once more startled by the 
 sound of her own name, but this time it was Lady 
 Oranmore, who came to tell her that the next day, 
 being Sunday, she would take her with her, if she 
 liked, to Divine Service at the Church of Oranmore. 
 Agnese listened, but she was not glad, and she thanked 
 her, but it was mechanically. There was no real joy 
 in her words and feelings. She did not feel sure Lady 
 Oranmore was a Catholic, and it was therefore with 
 depressed spirits and trembling heart that she pre- 
 pared the next morning to accompany her to Church. 
 
 If ever our angel guardians give warning of the pres- 
 ence of danger, as I devoutly believe they often do by 
 their secret inspirations to the innocently unconscious, 
 Agnese received such a warning in the hour when she 
 stepped over the threshold of that Church. She felt 
 as if the very air were too heavy for her breathing. 
 The service had commenced already, and she paused 
 for a moment, in hopes of catching those dear, famil- 
 iar sounds to which she had listened from her child- 
 hood, until it almost seemed as if she understood them
 
 70 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 by mere force of intimacy with their terms. Alas ! the 
 language that now met her ear was not the language 
 of the Mass, by which the Catholic is made equally at 
 home in the observances of his religion, whether he 
 attend them in the wigwam of the savage Indian, or 
 the cathedral of the civilized European. It was not 
 the language of the Mass, and the words of Francesco 
 flashed upon her memory. 
 
 "No! no! not here!" she said, quick as lightning, 
 resisting the hand which urged her into the well- 
 cushioned pew of the Oranmore family. "Under the 
 lamp! under the lamp! It is there I ever pray the 
 best !" "There is no lamp here," said Lady Oranmore, 
 thrown off her guard by the suddenness of the request, 
 and closing the door of the pew, into which she had 
 now drawn her grandchild almost by force. Agnese 
 heard, and for one brief instant there was a struggle 
 in her heart, a struggle such as seldom occurs more 
 than once in the life of a human being, but which 
 sometimes earlier, sometimes later, is almost sure, not 
 only to come at last, but to be made far oftener than 
 we imagine the turning-point at which the happiness 
 or misery of an eternity is decided. 
 
 "What will Lady Oranmore say? what will the 
 people think?" It was so her human nature ques- 
 tioned; but in truth it required something of the 
 faith and courage of a martyr to brave the scrutiny 
 of the hundred eyes that would be fixed upon her, if 
 she attempted to leave the Church. But it must be 
 done no Latin Mass, no lamp. Jesus was neither in 
 the Church nor of it, and not another instant might 
 the Little Bride of the Blessed Sacrament kneel be-
 
 BLIND AGNESE 71 
 
 fore an altar where He was not. One prayer to Him 
 one word to Perletta, and, before Lady Oranmore 
 could interpose to prevent it, the pew door was un- 
 fastened, and the long length of the Church traversed, 
 with a steady heart, although it must be acknowledged 
 a most uncertain footstep. Up to this point Agnese 
 had managed to restrain herself to a walk; but no 
 sooner had she gained the portals of the building 
 than, yielding to the fear of being pursued, she shook 
 the ribbon round Perletta's neck, and set off at a rapid 
 pace towards her summer seat upon the cliffs. There, 
 casting herself on her face, she burst into tears; by 
 degrees, however, her agitation subsided, and she fell 
 fast asleep, yet even in her dreams the scene of the 
 morning was not absent from her imagination, and 
 more than once she murmured half aloud, "Jesus is 
 not here where is He, then ? my God, where is He ?" 
 "Jesus once was here," said a sweet, low voice in her 
 ear. Agnese started up, fancying at first the words 
 to be only a portion of her own dream. But now she 
 was wide awake, and still the plaintive melody of that 
 voice was heard. "Time was that He was here, and 
 yonder church was His house and home. But sacri- 
 legious feet have defiled the sanctuary, and sacrileg- 
 ious hands have overturned the altar, and now the 
 thistle and wild nettle grow, and the fox has made for 
 itself a home, even here where He once dwelt in the 
 very sacrament of His love for man." 
 
 "Where am I? where am I?" said Agnese, scarcely 
 able to believe her own ears, and tempted to fancy she 
 was again in Italy, or dreaming of it, so familiar were 
 the soft Italian in which those thoughts were uttered.
 
 72 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 "Where are you?" returned the voice. "In the 
 churchyard of lone St. Bride's on the very spot 
 where, if tradition tells the truth, St. Patrick built his 
 first altar, and said his first Mass in the land of Erin.* 
 
 "Then I am close to the Church of Jesus, and I 
 knew it not," said the wondering child. 
 
 "To what once was a church of Jesus. The church 
 is now in ruins; and they who hare made it so have 
 run a public road right among the tombs of the dese- 
 crated dead. Well! well! nature has been more con- 
 siderate than man, as they say she ever is in this land, 
 and so she has made the holy resting-place of our 
 fathers beautiful in flowers, some of the pale blos- 
 soms she has garnered here even vicing, methinks, in 
 beauty with the fairest that you know of in your own 
 fair land." 
 
 Agnese was too much lost in astonishment to an- 
 swer; and, after a moment's pause, the invisible went 
 on 
 
 "Would that you could see them! The crowds of 
 primroses; the clusters of white roses; the delicate 
 little hare-bell ; the wood anemone ; and that other, the 
 wild sorrel the fairest flower that grows, to my mind 
 'lady flower,' I would name it, if I had my way; it 
 is so fragile and so fair, that it looks like to Mary, 
 and ought to be called after her. There I have gathered 
 some of each for you, and they shall be to you as a 
 relic of this holy spot, where (so the poor people say) 
 no worm or creeping thing is ever found, to defile the 
 slumbers of the dead below, or to mar the beauty of 
 the flowers above." 
 
 * Tradition in the north of Ireland.
 
 BLIND AGNESE 73 
 
 "Come hither," said Agnese; "I am blind, and I 
 cannot see; but if you are not the guardian spirit of 
 these tombs, come hither, and take my hand in yours, 
 and lay my head upon your bosom, and speak to me of 
 Jesus. Never have I heard any one speak of Him 
 as you do, since the day I left that land where He is 
 everywhere, and everywhere people love Him." 
 
 Agnese felt the unknown draw near; and the hand 
 that was laid on hers was small, and soft, and delicate, 
 evidently the hand of a girl, and a very young girl, too. 
 
 "Neither a spirit, nor yet of Italy, am I," the voice 
 replied; "although I use its language." 
 
 "Not of Italy," said the blind child, sadly. "Then 
 you know not of its churches, where the lamp is ever 
 lighting, and where Jesus ever dwells." 
 
 "Do I not?" said the voice, with sudden quickness. 
 "To what purpose, then, have I listened so often to 
 tales of that fair land, and of one sweet saint who 
 sleeps among its flowers?" 
 
 There was something inexpressibly mournful in its 
 tones, as it added, after a moment's pause 
 
 "My child, no blood of Italy is flowing through 
 these veins ; yet have I dreamed of it so often that it 
 seems to me, if the kingdoms of the earth were set in 
 array before me, I could choose it out from among 
 all the rest, and oh! believe me, I should choose the 
 fairest" 
 
 "And the holiest," said Agnese, eagerly. 
 
 "I know not that. It is holy, indeed, to cling to the 
 thought of Jesus, as they do in your land; but holier 
 still to suffer persecution for His sake; and that is 
 what we do in ours."
 
 74 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 ''Halloa! young woman," cried another voice, "saw 
 you ever a man pass this way within the last half 
 hour?" 
 
 The new speaker was a hard-looking elderly man, 
 standing on the other side of a hedge and deep ditch 
 which separated him from the churchyard. He spoke 
 in Irish, probably imagining he would be more easily 
 understood in that language; but Agnese's unknown 
 companion answered him in English: and the voice, 
 so lately full of plaintive melody, was now as clearly 
 expressive of cold contempt as were the words it ut- 
 tered. 
 
 "Squire Netterville is early in the field this fine Sun- 
 day morning. Well ! the better day the better deed, I 
 suppose. And what may be the present game a rebel 
 or a priest ?" 
 
 "If it were a rebel, I need not go much farther," re- 
 turned the surly voice, in the same language in which 
 he had been addressed. "Every Papist is alike a 
 croppy man, woman or child all tarred with the 
 same brush." 
 
 "True; and not very extraordinary either. When 
 the brush is in such clumsy hands as Squire Netter- 
 ville's, no wonder, we all take a touch of the tar. Why, 
 they say the very parson in your fine church up yonder 
 is not altogether free of taint. To be sure he is only a 
 wolf in sheep's clothing a cowardly renegade so 
 Squire Netterville will know how to excuse him." 
 
 "Will you give an answer to my question, or shall 
 I jump over the hedge and thrash one out of you!" 
 roared the man, stung to the quick by the biting sar- 
 casm of the speaker.
 
 BLIND AGNESE 75 
 
 "Mother of heaven!" burst from the lips of the 
 terrified Agnese, who now pretty well understood 
 English, the language in which the conversation was 
 kept up : but her companion only answered 
 
 "To thrash a woman! truly it would be a deed 
 worthy of Squire Netterville's ancient fame!" 
 
 "See if I don't, then," cried the man, stepping back 
 a few paces, and taking a flying leap at the hedge. 
 Unluckily for him, however, he missed his footing, and 
 tumbled hopelessly into the ditch, from whence he 
 emerged in a very deplorable condition, covered with 
 mud, and not altogether free of blood, drawn from 
 him by the thorns and briars which had saluted his 
 ;descent. 
 
 The ironical laugh of his tormentress rang through 
 the air. 
 
 "Squire Netterville has dirtied his coat; but, if re- 
 port speaks true, it is not the first time he has daubed 
 his escutcheon by a fall." 
 
 Squire Netterville was busy at the moment in brush- 
 ing the mud off his coat ; but he looked up scarlet, at 
 this wicked allusion to his apostasy, and shook his 
 horsewhip in the air. Suddenly, however, changing 
 his intention, he caught Agnese roughly by the arm. 
 
 "Here, you beggar's brat, take this fi'-penny, and 
 tell me whether you saw any one pass this way of 
 late." 
 
 "I am blind, sir; I cannot see," cried the terrified 
 child, trembling from head to foot beneath his grasp. 
 
 "You lie, you young rebel!" growled the savage, 
 with a terrible oath, whirling his horsewhip, at the 
 same time, so close round the head of the shrinking
 
 76 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 child, that it lifted her long curls from her brow. 
 Twice he repeated this manoeuvre; but the third time 
 it would have descended in right earnest, had not some 
 one suddenly flung her arms round Agnese, and re- 
 ceived, on her own person, the blow that was intended 
 for hers. It was her invisible friend, who thus inter- 
 posed in her behalf; and she was a young girl, not, 
 perhaps, more than sixteen years of age. Yet was 
 there no sign of fear on her flushed cheek, or in the 
 proud eye which she fixed upon the squire. He him- 
 self seemed to quail for a moment beneath its steady 
 gaze. 
 
 "Squire Netterville surpasses himself this morning," 
 she said; and it was impossible for human voice to 
 convey deeper abhorrence than hers expressed at that 
 moment. "To hunt an old man, as if he were a mad 
 dog, is not enough for a zeal like his; he would set 
 the seal on his good deeds by the murder of an in- 
 nocent child." 
 
 "You have seen him, then. Now, hark ye, young 
 mistress! if you will not tell me which way he took, 
 I will leave a mark upon you which you will carry 
 with you to your grave." 
 
 "You have done that already," said the girl, draw- 
 ing one hand across her brow, from which the blood 
 was flowing rapidly. 
 
 "I will do it again, then, if you don't choose to an- 
 swer my question." 
 
 "Now, look you, Squire Netterville," the girl an- 
 swered, proudly; "and mark what I say. I might pre- 
 tend I didn't know the man for whom you are looking 
 or that I hadn't seen him, but I scorn the poor evasion.
 
 BLIND AGNESE 77 
 
 I do know him; and I have seen him; and I know 
 which way he went ; and where he is at this moment. 
 And now, if you flog me alive for it, you shall not get 
 another word from me about him." 
 
 "I will flog you alive both of you," shouted Netter- 
 ville. "Here, you little wretch," he cried, shaking Ag- 
 nese by the arm : "have you found your tongue yet, or 
 do you want a cut of the whip to make you speak?" 
 
 "I am blind ! I am blind !" screamed the child, cling- 
 ing, with all her might, to her self-elected champion. 
 
 "Peace, child, he shall not harm you," said the latter. 
 
 "Shan't I, though shan't I?" vociferated Netter- 
 ville, lifting his whip, and making a cut in the air, 
 which, however, fell short of its object, and descended 
 right upon Perletta, who had sprung up on hearing 
 the screams of her mistress. 
 
 "Curse the brute it spoiled my aim," said the sav- 
 age, dealing, at the same time, a kick at poor Per- 
 letta, which sent her flying through the air. Here, 
 Rover! Rover!" he added, whistling and making a 
 well-known sign to the fierce blood-hound by which 
 he was accompanied. 
 
 "Do not set the dog, Squire Netterville; do not set 
 the dog. It will destroy the poor beast," said Agnese's 
 defender, earnestly, stooping as if to pick up something 
 from the ground. 
 
 "That's what I mean him to do. Here, Rover, have 
 at him, my boy have at him !" said Netterville, patting 
 the blood-hound encouragingly on the back. 
 
 "You will have it, then," retorted the girl. 
 
 And still holding Agnese with one hand, she drew 
 the other suddenly back, and flung a heavy stone at
 
 78 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 the dog, before the squire could interpose to prevent 
 her. Never was stone sent with a truer aim or better 
 will: it hit the savage beast right in the eye; and, 
 howling with pain, and half blinded in his own gore, 
 Rover rushed ingloriously from the field of battle. 
 Netterville uttered a fearful imprecation. 
 
 "If you have injured him I will ring your head off 
 your shoulders ; anyhow, I will teach you what it is to 
 meddle with my dog, my young mistress." 
 
 And, half beside himself with passion, it is hard to 
 say what he would not, indeed, have done to his daring 
 antagonist, had not another man shouted out from the 
 other side of the hedge. 
 
 "What are you doing here, squire ? Why, the priest 
 was down on the beach half an hour ago ; one of our 
 people saw him sneaking about. There, let the chil- 
 dren alone. If you have a score to wipe out with them, 
 it will keep for another time, I suppose." 
 
 "Ay, ay ; it will keep," said the squire, with a brutal 
 laugh. "And I am not the man to forget it either. 
 You are down in my book for a drubbing, mind that, 
 you she croppy," he added, scowling terribly at Ag- 
 nese's defender, while he turned to the blind child 
 herself, with something like an awkward attempt at 
 good nature. 
 
 "There, little one, I suppose you are blind, as you 
 say so ; pick up the fi-penny yonder, and buy a plaster 
 for your dog." 
 
 "Touch it not, child," said the young unknown, fear- 
 lessly and authoritatively to Agnese. "Touch it not; 
 the coin of the blood-hunter can bring you nothing but 
 sorrow. And you, bad man, take back your money
 
 BLIND AGNESE 79 
 
 and enjoy it while you may, for the curse of the widow 
 and the orphan is on it; and the day is coming fast 
 when the wealth so won in crime will heap shame, 
 and woe, and degradation, and fruitless tears, and 
 vain repentance on your head. And now, why are you 
 so still? and why do you stare so wildly? Away, 
 away! the chase is onward, and the prey escapes you 
 while you linger here." 
 
 The squire did, indeed, stare wildly at her; but the 
 man who had come to seek him having, by this time, 
 cleared the ditch rather more successfully than he had 
 done himself, took his arm and drew him rapidly down 
 the mountain-path. 
 
 "Do not cry, dear child do not cry," said the girl 
 to Agnese, her voice resuming all its former tender- 
 ness of tone; "they are quite out of sight now; and 
 the dog is not much hurt, and will, I am sure, be able 
 to lead you safely to the Castle." 
 
 "Oh, do not leave me," cried Agnese; "I dare not 
 go home without you." 
 
 "Well, then," said the other, a little reluctantly, 
 "I will walk with you as far as the gates of the 
 avenue." 
 
 But when they had reached this point, Agnese clung 
 to her still, and cried so piteously, that almost, in her 
 own despair, she was forced to proceed with her to 
 the castle. Lady Oranmore met them on the steps, 
 and nearly forgot Agnese's bold secession from her 
 Church, in terror at the vision of her pale face and 
 the blood-stained forehead of her companion. 
 
 "It is nothing," said this last, in answer to her lady- 
 ship's horror-stricken looks; "at least, nothing but
 
 8o BLIND AGNESE 
 
 what they may look for who find themselves aban- 
 doned to the tender mercies of Squire Netterville." 
 
 "Netterville, again !" cried Lady Oranmore. "What 
 wickedness is that man plotting now?" 
 
 "Nothing new, madam," said she; and the girl's 
 kindling eye strangely contradicted the assumed non- 
 chalance of her manner. "Only plying his ancient 
 trade more vigorously than ever: hunting priests and 
 Papists from land to water, and from water to land, 
 as if they had only been sent by Providence to serve 
 as otters or wild foxes for his especial amusement." 
 
 Lady Oranmore shuddered. She had once detested 
 priests and Papists as much as Squire Netterville him- 
 self ; but of late her thoughts on the subject had been 
 rapidly changing. She made no direct reply, however, 
 although she kindly, and almost affectionately, joined 
 Agnese in her entreaties to her unknown protectress, 
 that she would come in, and suffer the wound on her 
 forehead to be properly cared for. They were both 
 refused, with a look of proud embarrassment, which 
 Lady Oranmore took, at first, for natural timidity; so 
 she would listen to no excuse, hurrying her guest, with 
 a kind of good-natured violence, into the castle hall, 
 and from thence to her own private sitting-room, to 
 which none but her especial favourites ever found ad- 
 mittance. The blood rushed into the stranger's face 
 as she crossed the threshold; and for a moment she 
 stood gazing so silently around her that Lady Oran- 
 more might again have fancied her overcome by shy- 
 ness, had not something in her look and attitude con- 
 tradicted the idea. In spite of her shabby dress for 
 to say the truth, the close, black gown she wore was
 
 BLIND AGNESE 81 
 
 both old and faded, and deserving of no better title 
 in spite, too, of her blood-stained features, and the 
 uncouth bandage which she herself had wrapt around 
 her forehead, the girl still looked as if to tread the 
 hall of princes was no new thing to her. 
 
 She was thinking (that was plain), but not of the 
 present splendors with which she found herself sur- 
 rounded ; it might, perchance, be the memory of some 
 distant time to which her mind reverted, and, for a 
 moment, a look of pleasure stole over her face, despite 
 the settled look of pain there. 
 
 "I have never seen you before," cried Lady Oran- 
 more, suddenly, "yet is your face familiar to me, as 
 if I know you from your mother's arms." 
 
 The girl sighed more deeply than before ; and with- 
 drawing her eye slowly from an arm-chair, of antique 
 fashion, upon which they had been a long time rivet- 
 ted, fixed them steadily on the speaker's face; and 
 said, after a moment's pause 
 
 "Have you never felt that before, Lady Oranmore? 
 Have you never found a conversation a turn of 
 thought a mere word, perhaps, come upon your ear, 
 as if it were the echo of one long listened to before? 
 it is so, likewise, with pictures and with landscapes, 
 and it may well be with faces, also. We look upon 
 them, as if they had been with us in a dream already." 
 
 "Strange girl!" cried Lady Oranmore; "what is 
 your name?" 
 
 "Grace," answered her visitant, shortly and with 
 peculiar emphasis on the word. 
 
 "Grace what? you have another, I suppose?" 
 
 "I have no other, lady; or if I ever had, they have
 
 82 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 taken it away they who hate us for our race and for 
 our country but yet more, thanks be to God, for our 
 religion." 
 
 "You are a Catholic, then, and have suffered for 
 your faith?" 
 
 "I have suffered in the person of those I loved. 
 My father had a brother, who, being of the law re- 
 ligion, the law gave him a right to dispossess his el- 
 der of his fortune. He had no scruples in his con- 
 science no kindness in his heart to deter him from 
 the deed and so he did it; and the poorest tenant on 
 the land was, on that day, a richer man than he who, 
 a few hours before, had been lord of all." 
 
 "Good God! whose child are you?" cried Lady 
 Oranmore in great agitation, catching the speaker by 
 the arm. 
 
 "The child of oppression, madam." 
 
 "But you are so like your story is so like ," 
 
 faltered Lady Oranmore 
 
 "Like the story of many another crushed heart and 
 fallen race in this unhappy land," the stranger coldly 
 rejoined. "Nay, if fame speaks rightly, lady, even 
 among your own kith and kin, such things have hap- 
 pened before now." 
 
 Lady Oranmore dropped the arm she held, and 
 breathed a long-drawn sigh. 
 
 "Stay with me, child," she said at last. "If you 
 have no home, no relation, no friend, you shall find all 
 these in me, and more." 
 
 Moved, it would seem, by a sudden impulse, the 
 girl stepped forward, knelt down, and kissed Lady 
 Oranmore's hand. There was nothing abject either in
 
 BLIND AGNESE 83 
 
 the look or manner with which this lowly action was 
 performed, although there was something of humility 
 (all the more touching, perhaps, for the proud heart 
 from whence it came), mingling with the deep and pas- 
 sionate gratitude by which it was inspired. 
 
 "Stay with me," repeated Lady Oranmore, earn- 
 estly, as she felt the girl's warm tears falling on her 
 hand. 
 
 "I thank you, madam, for the kind thought and the 
 kind word ; but God is good, and He has not left me 
 friendless. And as for my home, it is better than His, 
 who had no spot whereon to lay His head; and so it 
 is surely good enough for one who would fain, though 
 she does not, follow in his footsteps." 
 
 "Indeed but you do, though," said Agnese, for the 
 first time joining in the conversation. "You bore the 
 hard word and the hard blow for me this very day; 
 and surely, that was what he would have done has 
 done already for us all." 
 
 "No, I do not,"- said the girl sadly. "He prayed for 
 his persecutors, and, God, help me, I little love the 
 man who made me an orphan." 
 
 She kissed Agnese, and pressed Lady Oranmore's 
 hand once more to her heart.' 
 
 "May God keep you and guard you ; and, surely, He 
 who would not break the bruised reed, or quench the 
 smoking flax, will give a blessing, if even for your 
 kindness this day to a nameless creature." 
 
 "Stay with me," Lady Oranmore once more whis- 
 pered through her tears. 
 
 "I cannot, madam; I am wanted and waited for 
 elsewhere. Yet, pardon me if I add another word: it
 
 84 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 is about the child. Be not worse to her than Squire 
 Netterville. He might strike the body, he could not 
 harm the soul. You can, madam, and you will, if, for 
 her worldly interests, you seek to warp her conscience. 
 She is a Catholic; in God's name let her remain a 
 Catholic still." 
 
 "She shall," said Lady Oranmore. 
 
 "It is well, madam. And in His name I thank you, 
 who said, in behalf of the little ones He loved so 
 well 'He that shall scandalize one of these little ones, 
 that believe in me, it were better for him, that a mill- 
 stone should be hanged about his neck, and that he 
 should be drowned in the depth of the sea.' "
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Ave Mary! night is shielding 
 
 In its darkness, earth and sea 
 Yet, ere yet, to slumber yielding, 
 
 Lift we up our souls to thee. 
 Forehead brent, and wrinkled brow, 
 
 Voice of age, and infancy, 
 All are turned upon thee now 
 
 All are whispering prayer to thee 
 All, if not in careless gladness, 
 
 Still mid thoughts that make it be 
 Sweeter, far, to share thy sadness, 
 
 Than to smile apart from thee. 
 
 Ave Mary! night is shielding 
 In its darkness, earth and sea 
 
 Yet, ere yet, to slumber yielding, 
 Lift we all our souls to thee. 
 
 ClNG to me again, dear Grace. Never have I 
 heard music that I loved so well, since the night 
 poor Rosalie went up to heaven." 
 
 Agnese was seated, as usual, on her summer seat; 
 but this time she was not alone. Her unknown de- 
 fendress was at her side, for, though she obstinately 
 refused to return to Oranmore Castle, she often met 
 the blind child upon the cliffs near to St. Bride's 
 churchyard, and there she would sit or walk with her 
 for hours, and sing her hymns, tell her tales of mar- 
 tyrs and of saints, and speak to her in tones so full of 
 love and sweetness, that, in her own despite, the lat- 
 ter was forced to confess the nameless Grace had be- 
 
 8S
 
 86 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 come dearer to her than any one on earth besides 
 dearer than Lady Oranmore than Francesco or 
 even, she hardly dared (it seemed so like ingratitude) 
 to say it, than poor, old Benita, the voluntary protec- 
 tress of her forsaken infancy. 
 
 GRACE'S SONG 
 
 Oh! Erin, my country, beloved of the sea, 
 
 Which clasps not an island more beauteous than thee; 
 
 Shall I tell of thy glories, or weep for the day 
 
 When, like snow in the sunshine, they melted away? 
 
 Or say, shall I sing of thy joy, when that sea 
 
 Bore a saviour, a saint, and apostle to thee: 
 
 And, sole amid nations, thou beautiful isle, 
 
 The cross that he preached was received with a smile? 
 
 Yes! hallowed for ever thrice hallowed the spot, 
 
 Where the blood of the martyr besprinkled it not; 
 
 And religion was seen for the first time below, 
 
 Not a stain on her garments, or shade on her brow. 
 
 "No! I cannot sing that; and it is not true, now," 
 said Grace, suddenly breaking off her song. "Woe is 
 me! the cross has been well drenched in blood since 
 the day when St. Patrick bore it in peaceful triumph 
 through the land. Well, well ! it is not we who have 
 shed it ; and it is better to be the children of persecu- 
 tion than its parent." 
 
 "Dearest Grace, how strange you are! One while 
 so gentle and so sad, and then so so " 
 
 "So fiery and so passionate is it so, my little sis- 
 ter?" 
 
 For by this affectionate appellation, the Irish girl 
 had, early in their acquaintance, learned to address 
 Agnese.
 
 BLIND AGNESE 87 
 
 "No! no! not quite that. But still you are a mys- 
 tery; even Lady Oranmore says she cannot under- 
 stand you." 
 
 "Lady Oranmore ! What does she know of me ?" 
 
 "Nothing! but she would give a great deal to know 
 something. She says you have interested her strangely." 
 
 "And what says our little sister?" said Grace, play- 
 fully, and yet with a shade of anxiety in her manner. 
 
 "What can she say but that she loves you dearly, 
 for your own sake, and for the sake of the sweet 
 hymns you sing ; but most of all, for the sake of Him 
 whom you know and worship as she does herself." 
 
 "No! not quite as you do, dear Agnese; for you 
 worship Him in his own spirit of meekness, while I 
 bring Him but a proud and angry heart, which, God 
 help me, I often find it difficult to subdue." 
 
 "But no one has done me any wrong, and so I have 
 nothing to subdue; and then, they say, the blind are 
 always patient." 
 
 And, as ever happened when she alluded to her 
 blindness, the voice of Agnese became so full of 
 plaintive melody, you felt as if her soul was rather 
 steeped in heavenly sweetness, than herself grown 
 calm in the endurance of her sorrow. 
 
 "I wish, then, I was blind," said her companion, 
 quickly; "for then, perhaps, I should be patient also." 
 
 "There is a blindness for you also, Grace. If you 
 choose to take it, close your eyes to yourself. Open 
 them to Jesus. Behold His sufferings if you will, but 
 blind yourself to your own." 
 
 "And that is what I am trying to do ; but then, see 
 you, little sister, I am like a child playing at blind-
 
 88 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 man's buff: I bind my eyes willingly, yet I cannot 
 help sometimes taking a peep from under the ban- 
 dage." 
 
 "But surely it is sweet to suffer for the sake of 
 Jesus." 
 
 "Yes, dear Agnese, in one's own person, very sweet 
 to suffer," said Grace, eagerly, and there was no 
 touch of human pride in the lofty enthusiasm of her 
 look and tone. "Very sweet it is to say, and feel, 'I 
 might be rich, and I am poor ; I might move among the 
 lofty of the land, and lo! I am a beggar, an outcast, 
 a wanderer on its surface.' My God!" she added, 
 rising from her seat, and looking like a beautiful in- 
 spiration, as she cast her eyes upward and proceeded 
 "it is sweet to suffer thus for Thee; to suffer in one- 
 self, and by oneself; but it is hard to endure it in 
 those we love better than ourselves harder still to 
 look upon the man who did it, and not to feel all one's 
 human nature up in arms against him." 
 
 "And against yourself," suggested Agnese gently. 
 
 "And that is very true, my sweet Agnese. I feel my 
 anger does deeper injury to myself than to my human 
 foe." 
 
 "Forgive him, dearest Grace ! perhaps of him also, 
 Jesus would have said He knows not what he does." 
 
 For a moment the young girl looked as if she 
 thought her foeman knew very well indeed what he 
 was about; but she tried to shake off the feeling and 
 the look; and then she said, with all the truth of her 
 generous heart 
 
 "From my very soul I do forgive him, and morning 
 and evening I pray for him ; and not for him alone, but
 
 BLIND AGNESE 89 
 
 for all (and their name is legion) who have done us 
 wrong." 
 
 "You pray ah, dearest Grace, where do you pray ? 
 How often have I asked in vain this question, and yet 
 Lady Oranmore says, there is no law now against 
 the free exercise of religion." 
 
 "No, Agnese, but there is one against large as- 
 semblies of people; you know rebellion is rife through 
 the land, and our doughty militiamen are not always 
 so discriminating as to make it certain they would 
 not mistake for a political meeting one solely intended 
 for the purpose of worship." 
 
 "But surely not if it were held in a church?" 
 
 "Church church," repeated Grace impatiently, "I 
 tell you we have not a church left standing within 
 twenty miles, and when we do meet to pray, it must 
 be by the hill side, or the sea shore, or in the fields, 
 or the caverns of the islands Church, church ! Come 
 with me, and I will show you how, even in the be- 
 ginning, they treated such of our churches as they 
 thought it not worth their while to steal ; and then, lit- 
 tle sister mine, you will no longer wonder if a church 
 has become a kind of religious luxury, to which in this 
 part of the island we are as yet almost strangers." 
 
 She took Agnese's hand, and led her by a rocky 
 path up to a ruin, perched picturesquely enough on 
 the very brow of the hill. 
 
 "See here, Agnese! But I forget you cannot see; 
 well, these ruined, blackened walls around us were 
 once a church." 
 
 "A church a real, real church!" cried Agnese, 
 with a look of most joyful surprise.
 
 90 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 "A real church," repeated Grace, "and you may 
 kiss the ground, Agnese, for it once was steeped in the 
 blood of martyrs. A hundred years ago, or more," 
 she continued, "and this was a stately building. 
 Neither art nor labour had been spared in its erection. 
 Perhaps, like the Israelites of old, men gave their time 
 and talents women, their ornaments of gold and sil- 
 ver, their rings, their bracelets, their costly stuffs, 
 purple and fine linen, for the enrichment of a temple 
 to the Living God. They built it for themselves, and 
 by themselves; and so, good, easy folk, they thought 
 they had a right to worship in it as they pleased. They 
 were mistaken, however, and so they soon discovered 
 to their cost. It was early of a Sunday morning, and 
 the blue waters of the Atlantic flashed and glimmered 
 beneath the rising sun, and the white cliffs looked 
 whiter still, and the very flowers seemed to spring 
 more gladly from the turf, as if rejoicing in the glor- 
 ies of the summer tide. It was a Sunday morning, 
 and thousands came thronging down from the moun- 
 tains, and thousands came flocking up from the val- 
 leys, every cabin gave its quota of inhabitants, men 
 and women, and children, infants even in their 
 mothers' arms, to swell the living tide which poured 
 towards the newly erected church upon the cliffs ; and 
 happy young hearts there were among them, and happy 
 old ones too, I dare say, for the bishop was to be 
 there that morning, and to give it the Sacrament of 
 Confirmation, the strength so needed for the storm of 
 persecution, which just then had begun to sweep over 
 the land. Some few there might perhaps even be, 
 who came to receive the rite, after having wept and
 
 BLIND AGNESE 91 
 
 done penance over former vacillations from the faith, 
 but the holy chrism would be also poured upon brows, 
 from whence sin had not yet dashed the innocent dews 
 of their baptism, for in those days of uncertainty and 
 tribulation, children, almost infants by their age, were 
 often admitted for Confirmation, either that they 
 might not die without it, or that they might derive 
 from it the courage they were often called upon to 
 exert, even in their tenderest years. The church was, 
 therefore, crowded. Within it there was peace, and 
 love, and hope, and prayer ! without it ! but I must 
 not anticipate. Enough that information had been 
 given, of the bishop, and the Mass, and the holy rite ; 
 and suddenly, in one of the pauses of the service, a 
 sound, the well-known tramp of the soldiery, was 
 heard. People began to listen in breathless silence 
 the bishop ceased to speak the bell was rung no 
 longer, and still the sound without grew louder the 
 tramp, tramp, tramp, more distinct upon the turf. At 
 length it seemed almost under the walls, and then it 
 ceased, and the shrill notes of a bugle rang through 
 the air. Some one looked forth from the window. 
 Mother of God! the Cromwellians were upon them! 
 They were unarmed, therefore they did not think to 
 fight, neither did they seek to fly. They knew their 
 doom too well. There was no hope for them beyond 
 the church ; so they barricaded the doors, and crowded 
 round the altar, where mercy alone might be found 
 for them. Now mark you, Agnese, if these men were 
 rebels, the soldiers might have broken open the doors, 
 dispersed the people, or taken them to prison; or if 
 they were wild beasts, they might have fired in at the
 
 92 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 v 
 
 window, and, packed and cabined as they were, ten 
 rounds of shot would have sent them to their doom. 
 But they were neither rebels nor wild beasts they 
 were simply Papists. Prison would have been too 
 easy, and such a death too speedy. There was a bet- 
 ter vengeance in the heads and hearts of Cromwell's 
 band of ruffians. Higher than door or window, they 
 piled up wood, and hay, and straw, and every combus- 
 tible thing they could lay their hands on, and, with 
 a wild shout of triumph, set the whole of it in a blaze. 
 The red light upon the windows soon told the fell deed 
 to those within. At first they sat gazing upon one 
 another, like men stupefied by terror, and then, as if 
 moved by one simultaneous impulse, they all knelt 
 down at the feet of their bishop, men and women, im- 
 ploring absolution; children, so lately full of childish 
 joy, now screaming, and struggling, and clinging to his 
 feet. Good old man! he wept over them, and blest 
 them; but tears might not quench that funeral pile! 
 The windows soon melted away in the heat, and then 
 the red fire poured rapidly in, flying like a living crea- 
 ture along the walls, taking the rafters of the ceiling, 
 licking up everything it found that might give its fury 
 food, until the soldiery without, no longer seemed so 
 terrible as the circling flames within, and half mad 
 with heat, and smoke, and terror, the miserable victims 
 sought escape by flight. And now a terrible scene 
 ensued, as it has been described by one who shared 
 in its barbarities ; wretches, scorched, and burned, and 
 blackened, beyond the semblance of human beings, 
 shouting, screaming, raving in their madness, the 
 mighty crowd swaying hither and thither in its various
 
 BLIND AGNESE 93 
 
 efforts at escape, as some rushed to the gateway (the 
 doors had long since been burnt into cinders), and 
 others clambered up to the window to cast themselves 
 down, and each and all were driven back into the piti- 
 less flames, at the point of the yet more pitiless sol- 
 dier's lance. At length the shout and scream were 
 heard no more, and silence fell on the multitude the 
 silence of despair; and then the bishop rose he had 
 hitherto remained prostrate at the foot of the altar, 
 and over the dead and dying, the faithful shepherd 
 looked. They knew him in the midst of their agony 
 and fear, they knew him, and guessing his intention, 
 bowed down their heads to receive his absolution. 
 They were spoken those words which gave them 
 hopes of the peace in heaven they had never known 
 on earth; and then the bishop once more lifted up 
 his arms to impart his final benediction, and in this at- 
 titude, and while yet the words were quivering on his 
 lips, he fell down dead before them. In an instant 
 afterwards, the whole of the building gave way with 
 a terrible crash, and all was over. 
 
 "This is the tradition of the country; it is but one 
 tale amid a thousand others, and it has been repeated, 
 even in these our days of enlightened civilization. Not 
 twenty miles from these very ruins, and not three 
 months from the hour in which you have listened to 
 this story, three Catholic chapels have been burned to 
 the ground, by men who write themselves worthy de- 
 scendants of Cromwell's ruthless soldiers. And now, 
 dear Agnese, see you not how our forefathers were 
 forced to worship God in secret and in lonely places, 
 and can you wonder if we, their children, have often
 
 94 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 neither hearts nor means left to do otherwise than 
 they did?" 
 
 "Dear Grace," said Agnese, "I could almost fancy 
 I was listening to a tale of the old Christian martyrs." 
 
 "The martyrs of the old Christian times were better 
 off than we. They suffered for their faith, and their 
 very foes denied them not their crown. Verily! ver- 
 ily! ours have been wiser in their generation. They 
 have robbed us of the glory of our martyrdom to 
 clothe us in its shame. True, they persecute us as 
 Papists, but then, it is as rebels that they hang us. It 
 was so in England also. They did not put a man to 
 torture and to death for being a Catholic, but only 
 for refusing an oath which no Catholic could in con- 
 science take." 
 
 "And yet, at Oranmore Castle, I have heard them 
 talk so often, as if we were the persecutors, and they 
 the persecuted," replied Agnese. 
 
 "Yes! poor, injured lambs," said Grace, laughing 
 through her tears. "They preach liberty of conscience, 
 and then show us fire and faggot when we dare to 
 take it, yet I ought not to grumble at these laws, for 
 they made a Catholic of my grandfather." 
 
 "I should have thought they would have kept him a 
 Protestant." 
 
 "They did not, however. He was travelling for the 
 first time through the north, for he had been educated 
 in England, and he came suddenly upon a vast as- 
 semblage of people, hearing Mass in an open field, 
 every man bare-headed, and upon his knees, although 
 the mud was deep beneath, and the rain descending in 
 torrents from above. He went home and became a
 
 BLIND AGNESE 95 
 
 Catholic, for he said there could be no true religion 
 upon earth if the faith which produced such fruits 
 were false." 
 
 "I do not wonder!" said Agnese. "Oh, that I also 
 might be present at such a scene!" 
 
 "Dear Agnese ! I have told you why, just now, we 
 fear to meet in public. There is yet another reason. 
 The priest, the only one now left in this immediate 
 district, has most unjustly become suspected as a rebel 
 and a favourer of rebellion, and informations to this 
 effect have been lodged against him." 
 
 "But he is not he cannot be a rebel!" cried Ag- 
 nese. 
 
 "Far from it. He holds rebellion in abhorrence, as 
 a foul offence against the laws both of God and man, 
 and it is mainly owing to his influence that the people 
 about here have been kept from joining in the wild cry 
 of vengeance which, north and south, and east and 
 west, is sweeping through the land. He knows this, 
 and therefore he has rejected many an opportunity of 
 escape, which has offered itself, to foreign shores. He 
 will not even give up his ministry among them, though 
 the mere fact of saying Mass to some hundreds of 
 people must lead in the end to an unfortunate dis- 
 covery. The very first day I met you, Squire Net- 
 terville was almost on his track; and if I had not kept 
 him in play, by my idle chatter, the father would have 
 been caught long before he had reached the cave, 
 where, woe is me, he is forced to find a home." 
 
 "Ah! that is the reason you were so saucy and so 
 brave," said Agnese, smiling. 
 
 "Yes, Agnese ! but do you know I got a scolding af-
 
 96 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 terwards? The father said, I had no right to do evil 
 that good might come of it, or to work up the wild 
 passions of the man to frenzy, even to save a priest's 
 neck from the hangman's rope; so you see I had my 
 horse-whipping for nothing after all, Agnese." 
 
 "For nothing, except the pleasure of saving him, 
 dear Grace." 
 
 "Ah, that was a pleasure, and to see the Squire 
 tumble into the ditch, too, was an agreeable little di- 
 version of its kind," said Grace, laughing merrily. 
 "But it is all in vain; he is saving hundreds from the 
 certain death which is ever the consequence of rebel- 
 lion, but his own will be sacrificed in the effort. Well ! 
 well ! we must not repine. The Good Shepherd gives 
 His life for his flock, and if ever there was a good 
 shepherd, Padre Francesco is the man." 
 
 "Francesco, is that his name ?" said Agnese, a whole 
 host of recollections rushing upon her mind "but not 
 my Francesco," she added with a sigh "He is not a 
 priest." 
 
 "Like myself he is without a name, but we call him 
 Francesco, because he was ordained in Italy, and that 
 was the name he took in the religious order to which 
 he belongs. And now, see you not, little sister, what 
 a dilemma I am in ? I would trust you as myself, but 
 I fear, if I take you to our rock-cave chapel, Lady 
 Oranmore may miss you, and her servants track you 
 out." 
 
 "I see," said Agnese, "and I must submit." She 
 covered her face with her hands, and tears from her 
 sightless eyes trickled slowly through her fingers. 
 
 "My child, my child," cried her companion, "I can-
 
 BLIND AGNESE 97 
 
 not bear to see you weep; you are unhappy, dear 
 Agnese." 
 
 "How can I be otherwise, so far from my own dear 
 land, in the very bosom of which the sweet Jesus 
 dwells, and what is there for the blind child but Jesus ? 
 You have the flowers and the fruits, the bright blue 
 skies, the stormy waters, and the pleasant earth but 
 Jesus is all in all to me. My God and my all! my 
 present consolation and my future joy ! Oh ! that the 
 dove would descend and give Him to my prayers !" 
 
 "You shall have Him," cried Grace, suddenly; 
 "weep no more, my own Agnese, but meet me to- 
 morrow in St. Bride's churchyard." 
 
 "Ah! no, dear Grace, not for worlds would I en- 
 danger the safety of the father of the flock." 
 
 "It will not be endangered," said Grace. "I have 
 thought of all go to Lady Oranmore; tell her all I 
 have said to you. Say to her that I know her to be 
 honour itself, and that our secret will be safe in her 
 keeping; and tell her furthermore, that the life of 
 your nearest relative upon earth is involved in this 
 confidence, for the priest is your uncle, Agnese, the 
 brother of your father, and, Mother of God! I can 
 keep the secret no longer, I am your sister." The 
 .words had scarcely burst from her lips, before Agnese 
 was in her arms, and for a long time the young sis- 
 ters, so long separated, and so strangely re-united, 
 wept together in silence. "Yes, dear Agnese," said 
 Grace, at last speaking through her tears, "the tall, 
 grave-looking man, who rescued you from the crowd 
 at Dover, and who would not speak Italian, lest his 
 own mission should be endangered by any discovery,
 
 98 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 of his calling, was your father's brother. After the 
 persecution which drove your father and my father, 
 Agnese, from his native land, this brother, who, being 
 next in age, might have claimed the property had he 
 chosen to change his religion, resolved, on the con- 
 trary, upon renouncing the little that was left him, 
 and becoming a priest, in hopes of supplying the spiri- 
 tual wants of the poor tenants of Netterville. Be- 
 fore, however, he went to Italy," continued Grace 
 Netterville, yielding to the gay humour which often 
 found her even in her tears, "this good uncle of mine 
 resolved on committing a petty robbery " 
 
 "Robbery !" cried Agnese, with a look of horror. 
 
 "Yes, robbery," said her companion laughing out- 
 right. "But I believe he could not have been hanged 
 for sheep-stealing, seeing it was only a poor lamb that 
 he abstracted." 
 
 "But what good could the theft of a lamb do him, 
 dear Grace?" 
 
 "Not much good to him, certainly, but a great deal 
 of good to the poor animal itself: I was the lamb, 
 Agnese. He foresaw that my grandmother, Lady Oran- 
 more, would bring me up in the religion of the 
 worldly-wise, so, one day, when I was playing in the 
 shrubbery, he pounced like a great eagle upon me, 
 and bore me in his talons to a convent in Italy, where 
 I remained for many years; and he was bringing me 
 from thence when he stumbled upon his other niece 
 at Dover. He did not then know who you were ; but 
 as Lady Oranmore made no secret of your story, he 
 found it out soon after your arrival at Oranmore : and 
 from the hour when he gave me to understand I had
 
 BLIND AGNESE 99 
 
 a sister, I haunted your footsteps, darling. I used to 
 follow you along the cliffs, dreading, at every turn, 
 lest you should miss your footsteps and tumble over, 
 and I be deprived of my little sister. And I used to 
 sit beside you for hours in the churchyard of lone St. 
 Bride's, longing so longing to take you into my 
 arms, that I felt it quite impossible to address you 
 coldly as a stranger. I followed you even to Lady 
 Oranmore's church." 
 
 ''Into her church!" 
 
 "To it ; not into it, darling. And then, indeed, when 
 I found your religion endangered, I resolved to speak 
 out. I was even tempted to rob Lady Oranmore's 
 sheep-fold of another lamb ; but your first words con- 
 vinced me there was no need. A faith so vivid I had 
 never seen; and I felt directly you were the stuff of 
 which a martyr might be made, but an apostate never." 
 
 "But surely you named me once?" 
 
 "Yes !" said Grace, laughing. "Like a baby with a 
 new toy, I could not resist the pleasure of seeing how 
 it would sound to talk to you: and so I tried to say 
 your name just in the careless, common-place sort of 
 way in which I should have done if I had known 
 you all my life. But, bless my soul, you jumped up 
 and looked as frightened as if a ghost had spoken to 
 you out of the grave you were sitting on. I declare 
 I caught the infection, and ran away much faster 
 than I should have done if a ghost, or Squire Net- 
 terville himself, had been at my heels." 
 
 "Squire Netterville! Grace, Grace! do you not 
 know ?" 
 
 "I yes, yes! I do know, Agnese. He is the third
 
 ioo BLIND AGNESE 
 
 of those ill-fated brothers the renegade to his religion 
 the traitor to his blood the blot on his escutcheon 
 the stain on the fair name of Netterville for ever !" 
 
 "Hush, hush, dear Grace! remember he is our 
 uncle." 
 
 "It is true ; and I am silent. But how did you know 
 that or did you only guess?" 
 
 "Lady Oranmore told me long ago. And now, dear 
 Grace " 
 
 "Not Grace in earnest, sweet sister mine. I was 
 called after my mother, and my name is May, but I 
 thought it would cause Lady Oranmore to suspect me ; 
 and then, you know, May means Mary, and she was 
 full of grace, and the mother of grace itself. So the 
 name was not ill-chosen; only it did not suit me very 
 well. Don't you think I ought to have called myself 
 Graceless ?" 
 
 "Indeed I don't," said Agnese earnestly ; "and I was 
 going to have told you, my gracious, graceful May, 
 that I loved your invisible presence long before you 
 said a word to me. I used to feel as if my guardian 
 angel was seated at my side." 
 
 "Not your angel, but your guardian only, dear one. 
 And now, adieu until to-morrow. Meet me here at 
 six o'clock, and I will bring you to an uncle something 
 better than Squire Netterville, and a grandmother not 
 better, but full as good as Lady Oranmore." 
 
 "A grandmother, dear Grace?" 
 
 "Yes, Agnese! the mother of the three brothers is 
 still alive. She had a high spirit and a noble heart; 
 and when she found the part her youngest born had 
 played in this domestic tragedy, she sent him word
 
 BLIND AGNESE 101 
 
 that she would never look upon his face again. She 
 would neither break the bread nor drink the cup with 
 one who was a renegade to God a traitor to his blood. 
 So she shook the dust from off her feet, and went 
 forth from the halls of Netterville for ever." 
 
 "And then," said Agnese. 
 
 "And then, like her eldest son, she sought first a 
 refuge in the cottage of a peasant, but finally followed 
 the fortunes of Francesco, in whom she has concen- 
 trated the affections she has taken from his brother. 
 He is, indeed, her rich consolation for the disgrace 
 which has fallen on her name. She loves him as a 
 saint, reveres him as a martyr ; and poor, and old, and 
 paralytic as she is, she often says she is happier with 
 her priestly son in his cave by the sea-shore, than 
 ever she was amid the rank and riches of her sunnier 
 hours." 
 
 "And you, dear Grace? It makes me sad to think 
 that you should have so poor a home, while I, who 
 have really been used to poverty from my childhood, 
 am set at my ease in yonder castle." 
 
 "Console yourself, my own Agnese; the cottage or 
 the cave, by the wild sea waves, is the home of my 
 choice. When I asked to be allowed to leave my con- 
 vent, in order to nurse my dear, old grandmother, my 
 uncle represented to me the sort of life I would have 
 to lead, and she herself wrote to dissuade me from the 
 project. But I answered almost in the words of Ruth: 
 The land that shall receive thee dying, in the same 
 will I die, and there will I be buried : the Lord do so 
 and so to me, and add more also, if aught but death 
 part me and thee.' And never, for an instant, have
 
 102 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 I repented of my words. But my task is nearly over. 
 She is very old now broken down, perhaps, less by 
 age than by the heavy sorrow which has come upon 
 her through her children. Every day may be her 
 last ; and I almost pray that the last may be soon." 
 
 "She longs to see Jesus, I suppose," said Agnese, 
 innocently. 
 
 "It is not that ! it is not that !" said Grace Netterville, 
 clenching her hand, and speaking through her closed 
 teeth. "But he will soon be taken in their toils; and 
 once taken, will be executed by martial law that is 
 to say, without judge or jury justice or mercy. They 
 have marked him for their prey ; and oh ! how I trust 
 she may be dead, if it be only one day or hour, before 
 they have succeeded in hunting him to his doom. 
 Think, Agnese, think what a blow for the mother's 
 heart to know that her second Cain has shed the blood 
 of his brother Abel." 
 
 "Good God! It is, then, Squire Netterville who is 
 hunting down his brother?" 
 
 "It is, indeed, he who has lodged information of a 
 rebel-priest lurking in the neighbourhood. But O 
 Agnese," cried Grace, speaking with a kind of agony 
 in her voice and manner, "I would not do the man 
 injustice; I do not believe he knows the wrong he is 
 doing ; I do not believe he knows him to be his brother : 
 and sometimes, I have half been moved to go to him 
 and say he, for whose neck you are weaving the 
 hangman's hope is the son of your mother. But then, 
 I dare not do it: I could not risk the life of the noble 
 and the kind upon the chance repentance of such a 
 man."
 
 BLIND AGNESE 103 
 
 "O Grace! do not speak of him so proudly. His 
 sin is terrible but think how terrible his doom. He 
 has cast off Jesus, and Jesus has abandoned him to 
 the devices of his own heart even to the unconscious 
 seeking of his brother's blood." 
 
 "Terrible! terrible! it is, indeed, Agnese," said 
 Grace, sitting down, and covering her face with both 
 her hands. 
 
 "We will not speak proudly or harshly of him," the 
 blind child continued, kneeling down and taking 
 Grace Netterville's hand in hers. "We will pity and 
 forgive him ; we will pray for him ; we will even love 
 him, for the sake of the sweet Jesus who loved him 
 once who loves him, perhaps, even at this instant, 
 for the future penance by which he will repay the past 
 sins of his life." 
 
 "Dear Agnese, what a sweet little saint you are," 
 said Grace, stooping reverently to kiss her forehead. 
 "Would that I could feel as you do." 
 
 "We will pray for him, most especially to-morrow," 
 Agnese went on to say. "We will pray for him in our 
 wild chapel by the sea-shore, when Jesus descends in 
 the midst of us, and for our sakes reposes on the hard 
 rock, instead of the golden altars to which, in happier 
 lands, He is invited; then we will pray to Him with 
 all our hearts and souls for this unhappy man. We 
 will say to Him My God, I give thee all, my own 
 interests, and the interests of all who are dear to 
 me my hopes, and fears, and joys, and sorrows ; the 
 life of this dear uncle, and the heart-break of his 
 mother. I abandoned them to thee ; I will ask nothing 
 for them or for myself, only grant me, in exchange,
 
 104 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 the conversion of him who has caused as all our sor- 
 row." 
 
 "Surely, dear child, He will grant you such a prayer 
 as that." 
 
 "Surely He will," answered the Little Spouse, with 
 a look of most loving confidence. "Other things the 
 sweet Jesus may deny us ; but mercy he never refuses, 
 whether we ask it for ourselves or for another." 
 
 "You put me to the blush, Agnese. I thought I had 
 forgiven him long ago, but I see it was only with half 
 a heart, while you have done it with a heart and a 
 half. Well, you will see to-morrow how fervently I 
 will pray for the man's conversion." 
 
 "Do not call him 'man/ that way," pleaded Agnese. 
 "Do, dear Grace, try and think of him as your uncle, 
 and yet more as the creature of Christ Jesus crucified, 
 who suffered for him and died for him as well as for 
 us all." 
 
 "Yes! it is very true," thought Grace Netterville, 
 as she stept into the little boat which was to convey 
 her to her home among the rocks. "Squire Netterville 
 is the creature of Christ crucified, and my father's 
 brother ; my own uncle, and the uncle of the only real 
 little angel I ever met with on earth and that is Ag- 
 nese."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 TTHE day was dark and stormy, the boat tossed 
 roughly on the waters, and Agnese shivered with 
 fear and cold, as the spray dashed wildly over her face 
 and person. 
 
 "You are cold, Agnese," said her sister, the sole 
 other occupant of the boat, and manager of its oars. 
 
 "I am afraid," the blind child answered; "it seems 
 so strange to be tossing up and down so wildly, and 
 not to know the reason why." 
 
 Grace Netterville took the cloak off her own shoul- 
 ders and put it round her sister. 
 
 "There, dear child," she said, in her most cheerful 
 voice, "with your pretty dress beneath, and my old 
 frieze above, you look like a travelling fairy, or a prin- 
 cess in disguise. But would you rather I should put 
 back to land? It is a wild morning, and almost too 
 rough for you." 
 
 "Oh, no," cried Agnese, after a moment's hesita- 
 tion ; "I am going to Him, so I ought not to be afraid." 
 
 "You need not, dear one. Did not Peter walk to 
 Him in safety over the stormy waters? and why not 
 you?" 
 
 "Thank you, Grace, for putting me in mind of that ; 
 I will think of it, and try and not be afraid again." 
 
 Grace said no more, for the storm was rising fast, 
 and it was all she could do to manage her little vessel ; 
 at last, however, she succeeded in nearing the island 
 
 105
 
 io6 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 towards which its course had been directed, and in 
 guiding it into a creek, serving as an entrance to one 
 of those caves everywhere so common on that part of 
 the Irish coast, and with which this little island, in par- 
 ticular, was almost honeycombed throughout. 
 
 The sea penetrated a considerable way beneath the 
 rocks, but they were now floating upon smooth waters, 
 and a few lazy strokes of the oar sufficed to bring 
 them to the shallows, where a strong hand laid hold 
 of the boat and drew it high and dry upon the sands, 
 and Grace Netterville jumped out. 
 
 "God save you, Dan," she said to the man, at the 
 same time assisting her little sister to follow her ex- 
 ample. 
 
 "The same to you kindly, mavourneen," replied the 
 man; 'you have had a rough passage of it, Miss May." 
 
 "Aye, aye," rejoined Grace, or May, as we ought 
 now to call her ; "the white horses are playing strange 
 pranks out yonder upon the ocean." 
 
 " 'Tis a spring-tide, too," said Dan, "and if the 
 wind continue in this quarter, his reverence won't 
 read Mass dry-shod this blessed mornin', I'm think- 
 ing." 
 
 "Well, well," said Grace, with her merriest laugh, 
 ""his reverence can change his shoes afterwards, and 
 most of his congregation, God help them, have no 
 shoes to change." 
 
 "Merry Asthur, to me, if you ever said a truer 
 word nor that, Miss May," said Dan, holding his own 
 bare foot to the light of the bog-wood torch which 
 he had kindled during this conversation, and now pre- 
 sented to his young mistress.
 
 BLIND AGNESE 107 
 
 May took it, and twining her other arm round her 
 little sister's waist, and whispering to her not to be 
 afraid, drew her forward into the cavern. It grew 
 very dark as they proceeded; and had it not been 
 for her blazing torch, May Netterville might have 
 found some difficulty in steering clear alike of the 
 sharp-pointed rocks everywhere scattered around, and 
 of the pools of water, some of them looking fearfully 
 black and deep, which had been left there by the high 
 tides. Presently the dark wall of rock receded upon 
 either side, springing up into wide and lofty arches 
 over their heads, and instead of the stony surface 
 which had wounded her feet sadly, Agnese felt she 
 was walking on smooth sands, though even these in- 
 dicated, by their unusual moisture, the presence of 
 the ocean at no very distant period of time. An enor- 
 mous mass of black stone, perfectly detached from 
 the surrounding rocks, stood in the midst of this kind 
 of cavern chamber; it resembled, in some degree, a 
 boulder- stone of unusual size, only the back part, 
 which rose considerably higher than that in front, was 
 fashioned into something of the likeness of a rude 
 stone cross, while the lower portion was quite flat 
 enough to admit of its serving for an altar, a purpose 
 to which the lighted candles, in their tin or wooden 
 candlesticks, and the few poor vestments laid upon 
 it, sufficiently indicated it was now to be devoted. 
 Behind this Druid-like looking altar, in a little nook, 
 where she was completely screened from observation, 
 May Netterville placed her sister, kneeling down at 
 the same time beside her, and still holding her round 
 the waist, in order to give her courage. She had
 
 io8 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 previously cast away the bog-wood torch, which a 
 wide fissure in the rocks above caused to be no longer 
 needed. Daniel, however, was apparently of a dif- 
 ferent opinion regarding its necessity, for he picked 
 it up, while it was yet smoking on the floor, re- 
 lighted it from one of the candles burning on the 
 altar, and very gravely presented it to his young 
 mistress. 
 
 "What is it, Daniel?" said May, it must be con- 
 fessed, a little pettishly. "Why waste the good bog- 
 wood? I don't want it here." 
 
 "Maybe not, Miss May, but somebody is wanting 
 you for all that. Here is little Paudeen without says 
 the mistress is in a great hurry to see you, and won't 
 have you wait for his reverence's Mass." 
 
 "Is, then, my grandmother ill?" said May, rising 
 hurriedly from her knees. 
 
 "Not as I know on, Miss May; but Paudeen says 
 she is very wake and low like, and his reverence would 
 have stayed with her till you came, only old Norrishea 
 is dying, and he was forced to go off to the other side 
 of the island to see her, and so he bid you come as 
 quick as you could." 
 
 Daniel looked as if there was more the matter than 
 he chose to tell of, and May turned anxiously to her 
 sister 
 
 "My grandmother wants me, darling; will you be 
 afraid of staying here alone? I will come or send 
 for you directly after Mass." 
 
 "Oh, never mind me; I am not a bit afraid, dear 
 Grace," said Agnese, earnestly. 
 
 "Agnese," whispered her sister, in a low voice, "I
 
 BLIND AGNESE 109 
 
 feel as if our grandmother were to die to-day pray 
 for her to Jesus, dear one." 
 
 Agnese kissed her sister's hand in token of assent, 
 and May, taking the torch from Daniel, threaded her 
 way rapidly among the pools of water, and soon dis- 
 appeared at the entrance of the cave. She had not 
 been long gone, when the poor people began to ar- 
 rive from the mainland, dropping in by twos and 
 threes, and crowding towards the altar, before which 
 they prayed so fervently and so loudly, that the air 
 seemed filled with the murmur of their voices. A 
 whisper of "hush, his riverence" soon afterwards 
 announced the coming of the priest, and, amid many 
 a blessing given and received, Father Netterville ad- 
 vanced to the foot of the altar, where, after a few 
 minutes spent in deep recollection of spirit, he began 
 to vest himself for the celebration of the Divine Sac- 
 rifice; and now the low, fervent tones of his voice 
 reached Agnese's ear, and she drank them in as the 
 sweetest music, for theirs was the genuine language 
 of the church, and the announcement to her of the 
 true coming of Jesus. The bells rang out the "Gloria 
 in Excelsis," and her heart re-echoed the song of the 
 angels, which it is intended to recall; the Gospel was 
 said, and, to her vivid faith, it was as if she stood up* 
 to hear that voice which once spoke its wisdom 
 throughout Israel. The "Holy, holy, holy" of the 
 preface, found her walking in spirit beside Him on 
 His entrance into Jerusalem and "holy, holy, holy," 
 she once more said in spirit, with the bright bands of 
 the cherubim and seraphim, who well she knew were 
 crowded into every nook of that dark cave, in the
 
 i io BLIND AGNESE 
 
 solemn hour of the consecration, when the word was 
 spoken, though not aloud, which drew Him once more 
 from the bosom of His Heavenly Father, to receive the 
 adoration of His earthly creatures. Upon that rude 
 rock He was amid the wild waves, and the moaning 
 winds, and the prostrate people and not in spirit 
 only, but in the very form which He took from Mary. 
 Joy was in Agnese's heart, for now she knew she 
 was kneeling in very deed at His feet; and so she 
 said the "Our Father," as she might have said it had 
 she been present when He taught it to His disciples, 
 waiting still to hear, and repeating all the words, as 
 if from His very lips she took them. At the "Agnus 
 Dei," she kissed in spirit His sacred hands, imploring 
 the gifts of His mercy from them. At the "Dominus 
 non sum Dignus," she craved a yet closer union with 
 Him, saying over and over again, with clasped hands 
 and streaming eyes "Oh, that the dove would de- 
 scend and give Him to my prayer." And, if not 
 sacramentally, spiritually at least, He did descend into 
 that loving little heart, blessing it so entirely by His 
 presence that she became as one insensible to external 
 objects, unconscious of the presence of others, and 
 deaf even to the strange muttering sounds that now 
 filled the cavern, giving fearful evidence of the coming 
 storm. Long, indeed, before the conclusion of the Di- 
 vine Sacrifice, the people had begun to look upon 
 each other with pale faces and anxious eyes here 
 and there those who had wives and children gathered 
 them together, and then hurriedly departed and, just 
 after the consecration, Daniel, approaching Father 
 Netterville, whispered a few words in his ear.
 
 BLIND AGNESE in 
 
 "Tell the people to depart directly, if there is time," 
 was the hurried answer. 
 
 "There is plenty of time, if they go at once, for the 
 tide won't be at its full for another hour. But won't 
 your riverence lave it with them ?" asked Daniel, anx- 
 iously; "it wouldn't be safe to remain much longer." 
 
 "Then see that the people do not linger," replied 
 the Father. "I must finish what I have begun" and, 
 satisfied of the safety of his flock, he resumed the in- 
 terrupted service with as calm composure as if his 
 life were not perilled by the delay. Daniel lost not a 
 moment in communicating this mandate to the congre- 
 gation, and a simultaneous rush instantly took place 
 to the entrance, but the faithful fellow lingered yet 
 a few minutes longer, looking wistfully towards the 
 Father, until, at a sigh from this last, he also reluctantly 
 withdrew, and now there only remained the priest at 
 the altar and the blind child, and but we must not 
 anticipate. A few minutes more brought the service 
 to a conclusion, and then Father Netterville likewise 
 left the cave, in total ignorance of the presence of 
 another human being within it, for, as I have said 
 already, Grace had placed her sister in a nook behind 
 the rock, where she was completely hidden from ob- 
 servation. The ceasing of his voice roused her at 
 last from her dream of prayer, and then she began to 
 wonder why it was she heard no longer any stir among 
 the people. At first she attributed this to the thousand 
 voices of the storm, which every moment raged louder 
 and louder, but at last she became conscious of her 
 solitude, and, chilled with cold and a thousand vague 
 apprehensions, listened anxiously for the footsteps of
 
 112 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 her sister, seeking in vain to conjecture the cause of 
 her absence. Poor child, she was little aware of the 
 real nature of her situation that May, at the bedside 
 of her dying grandmother, was wholly unconscious of 
 the danger to which she was exposed that, when the 
 north wind and the spring-tide came together, the 
 cave was often many fathoms under water, and that 
 Father Netterville had himself departed in the very 
 last moment when an escape by a boat was possible. 
 Minute after minute of the hour noted by Daniel 
 passed away, and every minute brought the danger 
 nearer to its unconscious victim. Rapidly the advanc- 
 ing tide poured itself into the dark, deep pools, filling 
 every empty nook and cranny with its water, then it 
 dashed madly against the rocks, which at first bravely 
 repelled the foe, sending it upwards to the caverned 
 roof in showers of spray; but wave followed wave 
 with irresistible perseverance, and at last they also 
 were surrounded and submerged, their sharp, black 
 points appearing yet a moment longer above the sur- 
 face of the foam, and then swept entirely out of 
 sight beneath one triumphant billow. This obstacle 
 overcome, the waters flowed in more calmly, and, al- 
 though deafened by the storm, and drenched by the 
 spray, Agnese was not entirely aware of her danger 
 until the tide swept her very feet, like a greedy mons- 
 ter crouching for its prey. Then all at once the truth 
 flashed upon her mind, and, springing to her feet, she 
 endeavoured to clamber up the steep sides of the rock, 
 close to which she had been kneeling. In a calmer 
 moment, even with the full possession of her eye- 
 sight, she could not have succeeded in such an under-
 
 BLIND AGNESE 113 
 
 taking, but now, under the influence of that instinct 
 for self-preservation which often suggests, and en- 
 ables us to accomplish things we should have other- 
 wise deemed impossible, in the twinkling of an eye, 
 how or in what manner she never afterwards could 
 explain, Agnese found herself panting and trembling 
 on the altar above. A loud groan soon announced to 
 her that she was not its only tenant, and she might 
 have fancied Father Netterville to have been the com- 
 panion of her danger, had not the succession of groans 
 and cries which followed been mingled with impreca- 
 tions and blasphemies which she felt never could have 
 been issued from the lips of a priest; and, after lis- 
 tening for a few minutes, unable, even in that hour of 
 terror, to restrain her holy indignation, she cried out 
 in Italian 
 
 "O man! cease to blaspheme your Saviour cease 
 to crucify your God anew." 
 
 An icy cold hand was laid on hers. 
 
 "Say, child, is there no hope ? Must we indeed per- 
 ish thus?" 
 
 "I trust not," said Agnese, speaking with some dif- 
 ficulty in English, which the shock had almost ban- 
 ished from her memory. "God is good. He yet may 
 save us." 
 
 "Fool! there is no hope," roared the voice. "Do I 
 not know this cavern well? In a few minutes more 
 the waves will have reached this rock, and even if 
 they do not rise much higher, their strength alone 
 will sweep us from its surface." 
 
 "And if indeed it be so," said Agnese, with a calm- 
 ness which, in such an hour, and from so young a
 
 H4 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 creature, was, in truth, sublime, "know you not, man, 
 that each of us must die in the very hour when God 
 doth call us? Oh, creature of Christ Jesus crucified," 
 she added, suddenly changing her tone, and grasping 
 the terrified wretch by both his hands, "why should 
 you fear to die ? Has He not also died for you ?" 
 
 "You talk bravely," said the other in a scoffing tone. 
 "Have you, then, no fear of death, that you pretend 
 not to shudder at its approach ?" 
 
 "What for should I fear death?" the child replied, 
 in her sweet, broken English. "I have often asked to 
 go to Him, and if He say, 'Come to me over the stormy 
 waters,' why indeed should I be afraid of going?" 
 
 For a moment the man fixed his eyes in wonder 
 upon this frail child, so fearful by nature and yet so 
 fearless now. There she knelt, calmly, as if before 
 some sainted shrine, her hands crossed, her head 
 bowed, her lips moving, not in impatient murmuring, 
 but in prayer. A huge wave almost dashing him from 
 his rock of refuge, soon recalled him to remembrance 
 of his own fearful situation, and, uttering a terrible 
 imprecation, he cast his eyes upwards, not, alas! in 
 supplication, but despair. Through the wide rent 
 chasm in the roof, he could see the bright, blue skies 
 above, looking down upon him, calm and holy, as if to 
 rebuke his desperation, but the next moment a dark 
 shadow passed him and them. At first he thought he 
 had lost his eyesight, then a vague hope began to 
 creep into his soul. He strained his eyes until the 
 balls seemed starting from their sockets. It was in- 
 deed as he had hardly dared to fancy a human form 
 was visible above, and a face of ashy paleness was
 
 BLIND AGNESE 115 
 
 gazing through the chasm. "Mother of God!" cried 
 the voice of a woman, "the child is below." 
 
 It was May Netterville who spoke. She had found 
 her grandmother apparently sinking fast, but even 
 this deep anxiety could not banish her blind sister 
 from her thoughts. 
 
 She felt uneasy at having left her alone, and, fore- 
 seeing the impossibility of going in search of her her- 
 self, sent little Paudeen down to the shore, with di- 
 rections to inform her the moment he should see Dan- 
 iel returning from the cave. As we have already seen, 
 this event occurred much sooner than could have been 
 expected, but Paudeen, who knew nothing of the high 
 tide, and who was well aware that, under all ordinary 
 circumstances, it would be at least half an hour before 
 he could make his appearance, thought it would be no 
 great injury to his employer if he spent the interven- 
 ing moments in bird-nesting along the cliffs. The 
 consequence was, that he missed Daniel altogether, 
 and the latter had been some time on shore, when May 
 Netterville, becoming feverishly impatient at the long 
 delay, left her grandmother to the care of an attendant, 
 and went in search of him herself. He was soon vis- 
 ible coming from the cliffs ; but the instant she named 
 the child, the alteration in his countenance filled her 
 with horror. 
 
 "What is it, man ? Speak ! speak !" she cried, strug- 
 gling with her apprehensions. 
 
 "The spring-tide the spring-tide," gasped the man ; 
 "the child is lost." 
 
 For a moment May Netterville felt as if life were 
 ebbing from her veins. One hope remained.
 
 ii6 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 "Father Netterville !" suggested Daniel, "maybe his 
 riverence brought her back with him ?" 
 
 "No, no," cried May*; "he knew not she was there." 
 
 "Yonder he is, coming over the cliff; he must have 
 landed full a quarter of an hour ago; no boat could 
 live in such a surf as that," and Daniel pointed with 
 a tremulous finger to the mighty billows that now 
 dashed against the beetling rocks, marking the entire 
 line of coast with their sheets of foam. 
 
 White as ashes, and shaking from head to foot. 
 May turned her eyes in the direction of his hand, and 
 saw indeed there was no hope among those breakers. 
 But she was not one to sit down in despair while a 
 chance or possibility urged her to exertion. 
 
 "A rope, Daniel, a rope. Through the chasm in the 
 rock she may yet be saved!" 
 
 Daniel took the hint, and, in an inconceivably short 
 time, had joined her at the "Devil's bite," as the open- 
 ing into the cave was named among the people, bring- 
 ing with him a basket and a rope, .such as was used 
 by the bird-nesters on the cliffs, to lower them to the 
 objects of their perilous pursuit. He was accom- 
 panied by the men from whom he had borrowed the 
 machine, and May recognized among their faces some 
 of the most reckless and well-known smugglers on the 
 coast, men of lives so desperate, that at any other time 
 she would have shrunk from their contact, but at this 
 moment she cared not who or what they were, so they 
 could give her assistance in her need. 
 
 "I see her, I think," she said to Daniel. "She must 
 be saved, Daniel, she must be saved." 
 
 Daniel cast a despairing glance, first down into the
 
 BLIND AGNESE 117 
 
 deep chasm, then on the old and knotted rope by 
 which the basket was to be suspended. 
 
 "It is sartin death to whoever thries it," he muttered 
 between his teeth. 
 
 "She must be saved," repeated May. "Will they 
 hold the rope firm and steady, Daniel?" 
 
 "The rope 'ill hardly bear a man's weight, let alone 
 a child along wid him," said one of the smugglers, 
 giving the basket a contemptuous kick with his foot. 
 "It is worn and twisted almost out iv its strength al- 
 ready." 
 
 "It will bear mine, then," said May, fixing her brave 
 eyes on the man who had spoken. 
 
 "Yours, a-chorra," cried Daniel. "No, rather nor 
 that I will thry it myself; and Miss May, darlin, I 
 know I needn't say a word about the little ones at 
 home, for you war always tindher and kind, and a 
 mother like to them as had no other, and so were all 
 y're race afore you, for the matther of that, barrin 
 the ould rogue up at the hall, my heavy curse upon 
 him for the shame and sorrow he has brought on the 
 name." While speaking these words, as rapidly as 
 ever they could come out of his mouth, Daniel busily 
 employed himself in arranging the rope and the basket 
 for immediate descent, but May Netterville touched 
 him on the shoulder. "I thank you, Daniel ; but I put 
 no man's life in peril mine will be sufficient." 
 
 "You will perish in the attempt, Miss May; see 
 what a depth it is below, and iv the rope twist ever 
 so little, you will be dashed to atoms against the 
 rocks." 
 
 "Men do these things every day for birds' nests,"
 
 ii8 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 said May, speaking rapidly, but rather to herself than 
 to her companion, "and shall I not do it for Agnese ?" 
 
 "Only look down, Miss May," continued Daniel 
 "Iv yer senses fail iv the rope break look down a- 
 lanna, look down!" 
 
 May Netterville did look down, and felt her brain 
 grow dizzy as she looked. The descent was fearful, 
 and the rocks beneath, all the more terrible for the 
 darkness in which they were partially enveloped, while 
 the roar of the winds and of the waves, coming up in 
 hollow and confused murmurs from out of the depths 
 below, seemed to tell of the certain death awaiting her 
 among them. 
 
 "Think of the ould lady, think of his riverence 
 what would they say?" pleaded Daniel in his most 
 imploring accents. 
 
 Miss Netterville made no reply she was battling 
 with the mighty terror which had seized upon her, 
 and which almost threatened to deprive her of her 
 senses ; but the struggle was over in a moment ; down 
 to the very bottom of her heart she sent her fear, 
 down so deep, that she herself was no longer con- 
 scious of its existence. 
 
 "What would they say, Daniel? They would say I 
 had done my duty." 
 
 "Lower away, my men, lower away !" she cried, seat- 
 ing herself in the basket, her free, firm voice belying 
 the deadly paleness of her lip and brow. 
 
 "Stop, for the love of the great God above ye, stop," 
 cried Daniel, laying fast hold of her by the skirt of 
 her dress. "Let me go in your room, Miss May, and 
 sure I will bring her back to you, iv I have to go
 
 BLIND AGNESE 119 
 
 look for her at the bottom of the say, only let me go 
 in your room, a-chorra!" 
 
 "Away, away," cried May Netterville, struggling 
 violently to free herself from his grasp. 
 
 "I am ould, and it's no great matther to any one 
 whin I go!" sobbed the poor fellow, falling on his 
 knees, and putting his arms round her and the basket, 
 so that she could not move. "But, Miss May, darlin, 
 all your young years are bright before you; do not 
 cast them from you, as iv you war ungrateful to their 
 giver." 
 
 "Stand back, man, stand back," cried May; "you 
 peril the life of my sister in these vain delays." 
 
 The suddenness of the announcement threw Daniel 
 off his guard ; he cast up his eyes and arms to heaven 
 in the excess of his astonishment ; the smugglers seized 
 the favourable moment, and Grace Netterville was 
 half way down the chasm, before he had in any de- 
 gree recovered the use of his senses. Small time had 
 she for thought or terror, while hanging thus fear- 
 fully midway in the air. Sight and sound, the boiling 
 surge, the beetling rocks, the howling storm, all passed 
 confusedly through her brain, and not until she was 
 safely landed on the altar rock, not until she had 
 clasped her blind sister with all the wild energy of her 
 nature to her bosom did she fully realize the danger of 
 her situation. 
 
 "I knew you would come, I knew you would come !" 
 sobbed the child, twining her arms round her sister's 
 neck; and more moved, as it sometimes happens, by 
 the prospect of rescue than she had been in the pres- 
 ence of danger. "I knew He would send you to me."
 
 120 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 "Yes, yes! dearest child, but we must hasten away 
 now, for the tide is rising fast. Ah!" cried May, re- 
 coiling from another hand laid upon her garments, 
 "you here," she added, when, her eyes becoming ac- 
 customed to the dim light, she recognised the terror- 
 stricken features of Squire Netterville. "Unhappy 
 man! pray well to God, for death is coming fast on 
 yonder breakers." 
 
 "Save me, save me!" gasped the wretch, already 
 almost choking in his agony. 
 
 "I came to save my sister, and I will save her, so 
 help me God," said May, resolutely, unbinding the 
 girdle from her waist, and fastening Agnes to her own 
 person with it. 
 
 "May Netterville, May Netterville! by the blood 
 that flows in both our veins, have pity on your father's 
 brother." 
 
 "Agnese first," said May, "I will send the rope 
 for another turn." 
 
 "There will be no time no time," shrieked the 
 squire, as a huge wave struck him on the shoulder. 
 
 "And what of my life what of the child?" said 
 May, almost fiercely, in her deep disgust for his sel- 
 fish egotism. 
 
 "It is not my life I crave," sobbed the renegade at 
 her feet; "it is my salvation." 
 
 May hesitated: she saw there was, indeed, but little 
 time to lose. A few more such breakers as the last 
 would clear the rock of its living occupants; and her 
 human nature struggled hard with the holy inspiration 
 which suggested the sacrifice of her own life and that 
 of the child she so dearly loved, for the sake of one
 
 BLIND AGNESE 121 
 
 who had been, not merely the destroyer of her own 
 earthly prospects, but who could scarcely be held 
 innocent of the lives of her parents. 
 
 "Water may drown fire will not burn you," mur- 
 mured the unhappy man. "You are innocent you 
 may go to God; but I have the sin of Judas on my 
 soul." 
 
 "Save him, save him, dearest Grace," Agnese whis- 
 pered now. 
 
 May looked at her, and for a moment thought of 
 sending her up with the squire, but she changed her 
 mind, fearing that, in his selfish terror, he might seek 
 to lighten the rope by casting her from him. 
 
 "Even now," thought she, "he is so mad with fear, 
 he sees not how easy it would be for him, a strong 
 man, to rob a poor girl like me of the rope, which is 
 our only chance of safety." 
 
 "Save him, save him," Agnese once more pleaded, 
 as she saw her sister's hesitation. 
 
 But it needed not the urging. The large, noble 
 portion of her nature had conquered the little, inferior 
 part. May put the rope in Squire Netterville's hand, 
 and saying 
 
 "Place yourself in the basket, and hold fast the 
 rope it is your only chance." 
 
 "I cannot," said the squire; "my arm is useless. 
 I put out the shoulder in climbing this accursed 
 rock." 
 
 "This, then, is the secret of your submissiveness," 
 thought May. But she said nothing, merely passing 
 the rope round the waist of her enemy, and securing 
 him as well as she could to the basket.
 
 122 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 "Save yourself also, dearest Grace," cried Agnese. 
 "Indeed, I am not afraid to stay alone." 
 
 "No, dear child ; we will live and die together," said 
 May, folding her arms round her sister, and giving 
 the preconcerted signal for the hoisting of the rope. 
 
 Up went the basket directly, and a shout of execra- 
 tion hailed the appearance of the squire overhead : but 
 May Netterville heard it not. With her blind sister 
 bound tightly to her bosom, one hand yet clasping 
 her for greater security, while the other grasped 
 the stone cross of the altar, all her energies of soul 
 and body were concentrated in the effort to preserve 
 herself and her precious charge from being swept 
 away by the breakers. Quicker and stronger every 
 minute they came dashing over her ; one had scarcely 
 retired, before another, yet more terrible, leaped 
 into its place, threatening to bury her beneath its 
 waters, and scarcely able to breathe, half drowned, 
 half blind beneath the merciless showers of spray, 
 her bodily power was rapidly failing, and even 
 her high courage almost exhausted, when some- 
 thing dark passed through the air, and the rope and 
 the basket lay at her feet. Too late, too late all 
 her strength was gone; sight and sense had nearly 
 failed her : the hand that grasped the cross fell power- 
 less at her side ; and the next wave would have borne 
 her far from her rock of refuge, had not a strong 
 arm been thrown around her, and a strong hand bound 
 her and her half dead sister to the basket; and when 
 next May Netterville opened her eyes, she found 
 herself lying on the rocks, from whence she had de- 
 scended only half an hour before. With the excep-
 
 BLIND AGNESE 123 
 
 tion of one old woman, busily occupied in the care of 
 Agnese, there seemed no one near her. May felt as 
 if she had been in a terrible dream. 
 
 "Daniel, Daniel," she cried, sitting up, and trying to 
 recall her scattered senses. "Surely, Daniel was with 
 us among the waters." 
 
 "To be sure he was to be sure he was," cried Dan- 
 iel, darting from behind the rocks which had kept 
 him out of sight, and crying and laughing both at the 
 same time, in the excess of his delight, at once more 
 hearing her speak. "And did you think, a-lanna, that 
 poor Daniel was goin' to let you be dhrownded, for 
 the sake of the precious ould rogue you sent us up 
 in the basket?" 
 
 "Hush! hush!" said Grace, something like a smile 
 playing round her own pale lips, while she took her 
 still insensible sister from the arms of old Moya. 
 "But I thank God you are safe, Daniel. I never should 
 have felt happy again, if you had lost your life in 
 my service." 
 
 "Now, may heaven's blessin' be upon you for that 
 very word, Miss May," said the poor fellow, grate- 
 fully. "And niver think, a-chorra, that I risked your 
 precious life by puttin' my clumsy self in the basket 
 along wid ye. No, no; I knew betther nor that, I 
 hope. Manners, says I to myself; Misther Daniel, 
 ladies first, iv you plaise. So wid that I made the 
 rope tight round your own purty little waist; and 
 stuck like an oyster to the rock whiles they were hoist' 
 ing yes up." 
 
 "I am, indeed, most grateful for your generous de- 
 votion," murmured Grace, still speaking and feeling
 
 124 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 like one in a dream, so completely had her strength 
 been exhausted in the struggle. 
 
 "May I never sin, Miss May, if I didn't think the 
 good people had been at some of their thricks, when, 
 instead of the sweet little dove that went down in the 
 basket, I seed the ugly ould squire, lookin' for all the 
 world like a carcumvinted magpie, half dhrownded in 
 its nest." 
 
 "The squire; the squire!" cried May, springing to 
 her feet, as all the particulars of her adventure now 
 flashed on her memory. 
 
 "Ah! now you look like yourself agin, Miss May; 
 so I may vinture to tell you, I'm afeard there 'ill be 
 wild work among the smugglers this mornin'. It 
 seems Squire Netterville has been a huntin' some of 
 thim for croppies these six months, so they swore they 
 would spoil his sport for the future. And troth," 
 continued Daniel, not looking, it must be confessed, 
 much distressed at the prospect, "it's like enough 
 they'll be as good as their word, for Shane iv the 
 Lift Hand is among thim, and he fears neither 
 man or devil, when he has a mind for a bit of 
 revinge." 
 
 "Good God, Daniel ! and whither have they brought 
 him?" 
 
 "Down yonder to the dead man's cave, Miss May; 
 and a bad place it is; and many a bad deed it has 
 seen; and not the last either, I'm thinkin', for Shane 
 is a terrible man for a bit iv revinge ; and he says the 
 squire swore three of his sons to the gallows, for 
 
 rebels; and . But where are you startin' off to 
 
 in such a hurry, Miss May?"
 
 BLIND AGNESE 125 
 
 "To prevent murder, to be sure," cried May. "Run, 
 Daniel, to my uncle, and bring him hither directly. 
 Moya, stay with the child, or rather take her to my 
 grandmother's. And you, Daniel, run for your very 
 life." 
 
 And having rapidly given these directions, May Net- 
 terville darted off, like lightning, in the direction of 
 the dead man's cave. She was not a minute too soon. 
 By the light of a torch, which one of the smugglers 
 held in his hand, she beheld her unhappy uncle, bound, 
 hand and foot, to a projecting portion of the rock, 
 and gagged so tightly, to prevent him from screaming, 
 that his face was completely distorted, and his eyes 
 almost starting from his head by the pressure. The 
 smugglers were crowding fiercely round him, with 
 many a muttered threat and half-suppressed execra- 
 tion; and a vessel full of tar, and a great heap 
 of feathers, too plainly proclaimed the terrible 
 fate in preparation for him. As she entered the 
 cave, the quick eye of May Netterville took in 
 all this at a glance, and without bestowing a 
 thought on her own safety, or the risk she was 
 running, she passed right through the crowd, and 
 interposed her slight form between them and their 
 victim. 
 
 "What are you about, my men?" she cried. "Would 
 you commit murder?" 
 
 "We would give to the duoul his own," said Left- 
 handed Shane, eyeing the squire with savage malig- 
 nity. 
 
 "Then you should give your own necks to the hang-* 
 man," retorted Grace, fearlessly. "Think you not the
 
 126 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 whole country would rise to avenge such an outrage 
 as this?" 
 
 "The whole country would belie its own thoughts 
 and feelings, then," muttered Shane. "From the 
 young girl who, they say, is still to the fore, to step 
 into his shoes, down to the poorest craytur on the es- 
 tate, not a man, woman, or child that wouldn't dance 
 with joy over the renegade's grave." 
 
 "Now, at least, you lie, man," said May, drawing 
 her slight form to its utmost height, and looking 
 proudly on the wondering men. "For I am the young 
 girl of whose will you prate so freely ; and I swear to 
 you, if you do this deed, I will pursue you to the gal- 
 lows. Yes ! though the broad lands of Netterville were 
 to be sold for the money." 
 
 "You talk big, Miss Netterville," said Shane, a 
 shade of respect unconsciously mingling with his for- 
 mer manner; "but you forget that you, also, are in 
 our power." 
 
 "I do not forget it," said May; "you shall kill me 
 before you touch one hair of his head ; and see if the 
 country will be as lenient upon you for the murder 
 of the niece as for that of the uncle. Now, man, 
 come on ! You may tar and feather us both together if 
 you will." 
 
 And in her lofty self-forgetfulness, May actually 
 flung her arms round the neck of the man, from 
 whose touch she would, at any other time, have re- 
 coiled with as much loathing as she would have done 
 from that of a serpent. 
 
 "Miss Netterville," said Shane, impatiently, "I 
 mane you no harm, but I have sworn to have the life of
 
 BLIND AGNESE 127 
 
 this man; and by the dark duoul I will have it: so 
 stand back, iv you value yer own." 
 
 Miss Netterville, however, stirred not an inch. 
 
 "Work your will, if you list," she contented her- 
 self with saying, "but it must be upon us both." 
 
 The smuggler's brow grew dark, and he seized her 
 with no gentle hand. 
 
 "Loose him," he cried; "loose him! or by all the 
 powers above and below, I'll do ye a mischief." 
 
 But still May clung closely to her uncle, uttering 
 scream after scream, in hopes of bringing some one to 
 her aid. 
 
 "Hould yer tongue, will you, or shall I make you ?" 
 said the savage, fumbling in his pocket as if for a 
 knife; happily one of the others now interfered, by 
 catching hold of his arm, and' saying 
 
 "No, no, Shane! For the ould one it's all fair 
 enough. He's a spy and a thrayter, and desarvin' his 
 doom. But you shan't touch the young one, with my 
 good will." 
 
 "Nor with mine, nor mine," echoed several voices 
 among the men, many of whom knew May by sight, 
 although not by name, and loved her for her good 
 and gentle deeds among the poor. 
 
 "Shan't I, though?" cried Shane, dropping May's 
 arm, and turning round upon his new opponents. 
 "Dhar-a-loursa, and who is to prevent me, I wonder ?" 
 
 "He who would avenge her," said a voice at his el- 
 bow. The smuggler turned, with something like fear 
 depicted on his bold countenance, and met the eyes 
 of Father Netterville gazing sadly upon him. "My 
 children," continued the good man, looking slowly
 
 128 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 round, and recognizing many of his own flock in the 
 fierce-looking group before him "what are you about, 
 my children? Is it to see you commit deeds like this 
 one that I have laboured among you for so many 
 years ?" 
 
 "Sure, y're riverence, he dhrew it on himself," said 
 one of the men in an exculpatory tone, while others 
 hung back, apparently fearful and ashamed at the re- 
 buke of their priest. "What is he on the island for, at 
 all, at all, the black villain, iv it isn't as a spy and a 
 thrayter?" 
 
 "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay 
 it," shouted Father Netterville, "and who are you, my 
 children," he continued more mildly, "that you should 
 usurp the privileges he has reserved for himself? or 
 is His arm shortened, or His eye no longer upon you, 
 that you dare to take His deed upon yourselves?" 
 
 " 'Tis a silf-defince, and not a vingeance," said 
 Shane, speaking for the first time since the priest had 
 entered the cavern. "For, by the gonnies, if we let 
 him off now, he'll have a hempen cravat for some of 
 our necks afore another blessed month is over our 
 heads." 
 
 "It is written," said the Father, sternly, "Thou shalt 
 do no murder. Loose him, May," he continued, un- 
 twining his niece's arms gently from around the pale 
 victim's form "if he were ten times a spy, he shall 
 go forth in safety from this cave;" and picking up 
 Shane's own knife, which he had dropt upon the floor, 
 Father Netterville deliberately cut his intended vic- 
 tim's bonds, and loosed the gag which had all but 
 choked him.
 
 BLIND AGNESE 729 
 
 As he did so, the features of the squire assumed 
 their natural appearance ; his senses, almost banished 
 by pain and fear, gradually returned; and he looked 
 long and steadily on the face of his deliverer. Father 
 Netterville returned his troubled gaze, and for the 
 first time for many years brother looked on brother, 
 until, like a second Joseph, the memory of the Chris- 
 tian priest seemed to leap over years of injury and 
 ill deeds ; his heart yearned towards the companion of 
 his childhood, and, falling on his neck, he wept over 
 him with a loud voice. 
 
 "Brother, forgive me," murmured the squire, in an 
 inarticulate voice. 
 
 "My son, my brother, you are forgiven," said the 
 Father; and then he lifted up his face, still wet with 
 his tears, towards the crowd that now pressed around 
 him, all their fiercer passions lulled into sympathy for 
 one whose saintly deeds had won their love, full as 
 'much as his saintly character had commanded their 
 respect. 
 
 "My children, you must let this man go free. I 
 will answer for him, that he will intrude upon you 
 no more." 
 
 "We will, your riverence for your riverence's sake, 
 he is free." 
 
 "Not for mine," said the priest, reverentially uncov- 
 ering his head, "but let it be for His who died for him, 
 and for us all." 
 
 Involuntarily, the men lifted their hats. Bold and 
 lawless as they were, and wrought, by ill usage, to 
 many an evil deed, they were not merely susceptible 
 of generous impulse in themselves, but deeply cap-
 
 130 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 able of appreciating it in others. And in their rever- 
 ence for Father Netterville, as a minister of God, and 
 yet more in their admiration of his meek forgiveness 
 of the life-long injuries inflicted on him by his brother, 
 there was not one among them, with the exception of 
 Left-handed Shane himself, who would not now have 
 risked his life in defence of the very man whom, five 
 minutes before, they were intent upon torturing to 
 the most hideous of deaths. 
 
 Father Netterville read their altered feelings at a 
 glance ; but there was something in Shane's eye which 
 convinced him, he was not to be so easily persuaded 
 or convinced. 
 
 "In the name of Him who pardoned His enemies 
 with His dying breath, I thank you, oh, my children. 
 But you have a right to demand every security in my 
 power to offer, and therefore he shall swear." 
 
 "Swear!" echoed Shane, with a most disdainful 
 movement of the upper lip "his oath ! the man who 
 swore away his brother's life and lands poh! poh!" 
 
 Father Netterville sighed it was indeed vain to 
 put trust in the renegade's oath. He thought of an- 
 other and a better security. 
 
 "How did you bring him hither?" 
 
 "We brought him blindfolded," said Shane, fiercely. 
 "We wouldn't trust the renegade, even in his grave." 
 
 "Then bind his eyes again," said Father Netter- 
 ville, "and I swear to you he shall not look upon the 
 light again, until he open them in his mother's cham- 
 ber. To the bedside of a dying parent you will surely 
 believe that he would not, willingly, bring strife and 
 bloodshed."
 
 BLIND AGNESE 131 
 
 May undid the kerchief from his neck, but Shane 
 snatched it rudely from her, and bound it so tightly 
 round the eyes of Squire Netterville that he uttered an 
 involuntary expression of pain. "Curse ye," Shane 
 fiercely muttered below his breath, "it's better than 
 the cravat you twisted round the necks of my brave 
 boys." Father Netterville overheard the words, and, 
 unwilling to try the temper of such a man much longer, 
 he took the arm of his brother, and led him from 
 among them. "Whither do you bring me?" said the 
 squire hoarsely. 
 
 "To the bedside of our mother. I would have her 
 to bless you, my brother, before she departs." 
 
 Squire Netterville shuddered, and suffered his 
 brother to lead him forward in silence. The dead 
 man's cave communicated, by an underground passage, 
 with the one in which Father Netterville had found a 
 temporary home for himself and his mother; and 
 through this he now led the squire, but he paused at 
 the further end of the gallery, and said to May 
 "Stay you here, my child, and watch him, while I go 
 in and prepare my mother." 
 
 The squire seemed struggling with some terrible ap- 
 prehensions. "Do not go in, brother ! Do not go in," 
 he cried vehemently. 
 
 "And wherefore not ? I will be with you in a mo- 
 ment," said the priest; mildly and gently disengaging 
 himself from his brother's detaining hand, he pro- 
 ceeded at once into the recess of the further cavern 
 a wild shout from their depth instantly succeeded 
 his disappearance. May uttered an exclamation of 
 horror, and darted after him like an arrow, and tear-
 
 132 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 ing the bandage off his eyes, the squire followed in her 
 footsteps just in time to behold his brother seized and 
 handcuffed by a party of soldiery, under the command 
 of one whose name is yet held in execration by the 
 Irish peasantry, as that of a man altogether reckless 
 of human life, and, under the specious pretext of mar- 
 tial law, steeped to the eyes in the blood of the guilt- 
 less as well as the guilty. 
 
 "You have done this," cried May, turning round 
 upon Squire Netterville, with a flashing eye and quiv- 
 ering lip. 
 
 "Brother !" faltered the unhappy man ; "as God sees 
 me, I knew not that you were my brother. It was 
 only by a conversation I overheard this morning in 
 the cave, that I learned I had a mother and a brother 
 yet existing. I thought you had perished long ago." 
 
 "My son my brother I do believe you," said 
 Father Netterville, mildly. 
 
 But May looked fiercely incredulous 
 
 "Save him, then," she said, "if you would have us 
 believe you innocent of his blood; you have brought 
 these men hither; you can send them away again, I 
 suppose, if you will." 
 
 "Your pardon, madame," said the officer, coldly. 
 "Mr. Netterville certainly gave information of a 
 croppy priest lurking in these caves, who, some 
 months ago, had been openly seen with a party of 
 armed rebels but there his duty ceased. I alone am 
 in authority here." 
 
 Father Netterville might easily have brought wit- 
 nesses to prove that he had been among the rebels only 
 to induce them to disperse quietly to their homes, but
 
 BLIND AGNESE 133 
 
 he was silent, for he knew the man he had to deal 
 with, and he felt that any one speaking in his favour 
 was more likely to be hanged as a rebel than heard as 
 a witness. In his fear of compromising others he even 
 congratulated himself upon having, previously to his 
 visit to the dead man's cave, sent his faithful Daniel 
 on a message to the dying Norisheen, which would in- 
 sure his absence for a least an hour longer, so fear- 
 fully uncertain was life and liberty in the days when 
 martial law held sway over the land. 
 
 "My uncle is neither a rebel nor a croppy," said 
 May, proudly, in answer to the officer's last insinua- 
 tion. 
 
 "We shall see that presently, madam," said the 
 officer : "martial law is a great enlightener in these in- 
 tricate cases. Mr. Netterville, will you kindly lead 
 the young lady hence ? Justice is a hard-hearted dame, 
 and loves not the presence of the young and lovely at 
 her counsels; and, besides," he added, with a bitter 
 sneer, "I would spare your feelings also the hard task 
 of bearing witness against a brother." 
 
 May cast a troubled look upon the speaker; there 
 was something in his face which made her tremble, 
 and, weeping bitterly, she threw herself at the feet of 
 Father Netterville. He also read his doom upon that 
 darkling brow, but, faithful to the principle which 
 had guided him through life, he prepared to meet his 
 impending fate in the same spirit of simple firmness 
 with which he would have accomplished any other 
 duty arising from his mission among a suspected and 
 much persecuted people; and, when he spoke again, 
 his voice was as calm and soothing as though he did
 
 134 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 not know that the hand of violence was about to hush 
 its accents for ever. 
 
 "Grieve not, my child, for I am innocent of all re- 
 bellion; take your uncle to my mother, but say noth- 
 ing to her of all this ! it would only give her causeless 
 sorrow." 
 
 May caught hold of his hands, and deluged them 
 with her tears. 
 
 "My uncle, my father," she whispered; "give me 
 your blessing." 
 
 "May heaven bless you, my own my only one," he 
 answered, laying his hands in solemn benediction on 
 her head, and then, stooping down, he gently kissed 
 her brow. Well he knew it was his final blessing 
 his last farewell to the child of his life-long love and 
 care. "And now," he added, placing her reluctant 
 hand in that of her less worthy relative ; "lead him to 
 my mother. Brother, farewell! you are forgiven." 
 
 May rose from her knees; she dreamed not of the 
 instant death awaiting the priest, but the Squire knew 
 it well, and he saw, by the emphasis laid upon the word 
 "forgiven," that his brother knew it also. 
 
 In that terrible moment, shame, remorse, and horror 
 were all busy at his heart, so choking him and paralyz- 
 ing all his powers, that he could neither ask forgive- 
 ness of his victim nor yet return the embrace in which 
 it was imparted ; cold, silent, and despairing he turned 
 from the brother, whom unconsciously, but surely, he 
 had pursued to the death, and followed the footsteps 
 of his niece, looking, feeling, and moving all the while 
 like one under the influence of a horrible night-mare. 
 May laid her hand upon the curtain which separated
 
 BLIND AGNESE 135 
 
 her mother's chamber from the outer passage of the 
 cave, and he would have stepped beneath it, had she 
 not stopped and laid her hand on his arm. Mechani- 
 cally he paused, and looked upon her, but it was with 
 eyes which had lost all consciousness of her presence. 
 
 "John Netterville," said May, with a kindling eye 
 and heightened colour ; "you have come hither to-day 
 as a spy on the life and liberty of the best and gentlest 
 being upon earth the nearest and dearest yet left for 
 me to love. Long ago, you drove my father and my 
 mother from their home and their own country one 
 to perish on a field of blood, the other to die in sorrow 
 and in want. Me you have beaten, as you would not 
 have beaten the very hound at your feet, and for all 
 these things I have twice this day given you back your 
 life; all I ask of you in return" she added, in softer 
 and milder accents than she had used in the begin- 
 ning "is, that the last half of your life may be spent 
 in weeping for tho first." 
 
 John Netterville listened to her at first with the 
 same lack-lustre eyes and vacant stare, but as she pro- 
 ceeded, his consciousness gradually returned, convul- 
 sion after convulsion shook his frame; he tried to 
 speak, but could not; the wondering girl was about 
 to go and fetch him some water, but he caught her by 
 the arm, staggering, as he did so, like a wounded man. 
 Just th^n a hand from within drew aside the curtain 
 and the tall, wasted form of a woman appeared at the 
 opening, gazing silently upon him. 
 
 "Mother, forgive me," burst from his lips, and he 
 fell on his knees. 
 
 The dying woman moved her bloodless lips; she
 
 136 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 was about to speak, when a confused sound of voices 
 and footsteps was heard from without theni there 
 was an ominous pause then a frightfully prolonged 
 scream and then old Moya rushed into the cavern, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 "Gracious God ! they have murdhered his riverence." 
 
 "Oh, curse him not, curse him not," cried May, ter- 
 rified at the expression of the mother's face "bless 
 him, mother, before you go." 
 
 The dying woman opened wide her arms. "May 
 God forgive you as I do my son, God bless thee !" 
 
 John Netterville caught her to his bosom but the 
 mother's heart was broken she was dead before she 
 had touched his shoulder. 
 
 The prayer of Agnese had been heard in heaven 
 the sacrifice accepted in its utmost rigour. 
 
 Father Netterville the good and the kind was 
 dead. The shepherd had laid down his life for his 
 flock, and the mother had departed in sorrow to her 
 tomb; but the price was paid the prodigal was won 
 and John Netterville wept over her corpse a peni- 
 tent, indeed!
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 "'T'HERE it is again," said Agnese, as out of the 
 confusion of sound in the streets below, the 
 Hymn of the Blessed Sacrament came faintly to her 
 ear. "Look out from the balcony, dearest Grace, and 
 tell me if he is coming this way." 
 
 The Little Spouse of the Blessed Sacrament was 
 laid upon a light couch, placed sufficiently near the 
 open window to admit the visit of the soft summer 
 breeze on her fevered brow. A loose, white dressing- 
 gown was wrapt around her, for she had been very 
 ill, and even now the colour on her cheek was all too 
 bright for health, and the lustre of her eyes too daz- 
 zling.^ May Netterville, who never left her night or 
 day, was seated at her side, and Lady Oranmore, 
 sorrow in her heart, and tears, which she vainly 
 struggled to repress, often starting to her eyes, was 
 standing in the very same balcony from whence, just 
 one year before she had looked down on the illumi- 
 nated street, and the holy procession, and the fair child 
 now visibly dying beneath her eyes, passing, she could 
 not but feel, from earth to heaven, and going gently, 
 sweetly, almost imperceptibly to the bosom of that 
 God whose path she had so often and so lovingly 
 followed upon earth. 
 
 It seemed as if she were indeed a child of especial 
 predilection, and as if God had resolved upon grant- 
 ing even the smallest of her wishes, before complying 
 with the chiefest of them all, in calling her to Him- 
 
 137
 
 138 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 self. She had prayed to revisit Italy; and they had 
 brought her to die among its flowers. She had 
 mourned for the dear, familiar faces of her child- 
 hood; and now, half as a mother, half as a nurse, 
 the kind old Benita was ever at her side, while not a 
 day passed without a visit from Francesco ; and many 
 a sweet and loving word from him concerning that 
 Sacrament of love, which formed the bond of union 
 between the heart of the old man and the poor blind 
 child. What more was wanting to the happiness of 
 Agnese ? Yes ! one thing more to fill her cup to over- 
 flowing one thing more, without which the contents 
 of that cup would have lost their sweetness to her lips ; 
 and so, that one thing more was granted. He who 
 gave to her the creatures of her love would not deny 
 Himself, whom she loved almost to the exclusion of 
 His creatures; therefore, upon the feast of Corpus 
 Christi, just one week before the period at which our 
 present chapter opens, He, Himself, in her first com- 
 munion, had allowed her, by her own experience, "to 
 taste and see that the Lord is sweet." 
 
 From that moment May Netterville fancied she 
 could perceive more of heaven and less of earth about 
 her dying sister. Each day she spoke less often, and 
 every time she spoke her voice appeared to have a 
 greater sweetness in it. Each day she grew more 
 recollected in herself and more absorbed, or rather, I 
 should say, more forgetful of herself, and more recol- 
 lected and absorbed in Him, who seemed to have 
 chosen, not merely this young spirit, but the very 
 form in which it was enshrined, for the especial tem- 
 ple of His presence. And each day something more
 
 BLIND AGNESE 139 
 
 of reverence seemed to mingle with May's love for 
 the dying child; and she would sit for hours beside 
 her, stilling the regrets of her own loving heart, and 
 resolutely putting back the prayer that, in spite of 
 herself, would sometimes rise to her lips for the avert- 
 ing of a fate which yet she also felt to be less a death 
 than a passing away from one life to another from 
 the life of loving expectation to that of certain and 
 intense fruition. These thoughts were in her mind 
 just now, as, with a half-finished wreath of white 
 roses in her hands, she sat waiting the arrival of Fran- 
 cesco, who had promised to come and carry Agnese 
 to Lady Oranmore's carriage. It was the first time 
 she had been in the open air since she made her first 
 communion ; and, indeed, it was only by reiterated en- 
 treaties she had won the unwilling consent of her 
 grandmother to be present at the evening benediction 
 in the Church of the "Blessed Sacrament." 
 
 The doctors had been appealed to, but they only 
 shrugged their shoulders ; it was evident they thought 
 her past hope or care; and so at last Lady Oranmore 
 yielded, partly because she could deny nothing 
 to her darling, and partly because she felt a 
 kind of necessity in her own heart for revisiting the 
 church where, just one year before, she had discovered 
 Agnese. Besides, she knew it to be the eve of the 
 Feast of the Sacred Heart, when we celebrate Christ's 
 love for man; and possibly she might have indulged 
 the vague hope that in this church God would give 
 back to her prayers the treasure which, in this church, 
 He had vouchsafed to her entreaties; perhaps even 
 she felt that she had need to ask forgiveness for her
 
 I 4 o BLIND AGNESE 
 
 faithless attempt to warp the conscience of the guilt- 
 less being whom, in mercy to her sorrow, He had then 
 confided to her keeping. 
 
 She could not think of it now without remorse, only 
 softened by the feeling, that from the hour in which 
 she had given May Netterville a promise to that effect, 
 she had never interfered with the religion of Agnese. 
 In truth, she needed all the consolation which this 
 thought could yield her, to enable her to look with 
 calmness on the dying child, as she lay, day after day, 
 on her little couch calm, still, and pale, her hands 
 folded meekly on her bosom, and deprived, by her 
 blindness, of the amusements and distractions of other 
 invalids. To Lady Oranmore's fancy this state of 
 compelled inaction added to the sufferings of Agnese ; 
 yet it was not so in reality, for her heart and soul were 
 so constantly with Jesus in the sacrament of His love, 
 that Magdalen, at His very feet, could hardly have felt 
 less need of external occupation. Such was her medi- 
 tation, and such her attitude at the present moment; 
 but after she had lain a little while quite still and 
 silent, her eyes closed, and the bright colour coming 
 up into her face, as the soft strains of the hymn rose 
 louder, she whispered to her sister 
 
 "It is louder now, dear Grace. Look out from the 
 balcony and tell me if He is not coming this way." 
 
 "No!" answered Grace. "I see not the procession, 
 but yet it must be coming, the voices are so distinct. 
 
 There, now it has turned the corner ; and but, holy 
 
 Mother of God, what a sight to see!" she cried, sud- 
 denly interrupting herself, and falling on her knees 
 in the open balcony.
 
 BLIND AGNESE 141 
 
 It was, indeed, as she said, a sight to see. She was 
 looking down upon a large square, full of buyers, 
 sellers, idlers, animals, carriages, ludicrous exhibitions, 
 and spectacles of all kinds. The Neapolitans, who al- 
 most live in the open air, were all in their open stalls, 
 pursuing their several occupations, and knocking, 
 hammering, shaving, weaving, sowing, filing, and plan- 
 ing; water vendors were preparing their beverages; 
 fishwomen selling their fish; housekeepers cooking 
 their dinners fish, chicken, and macaroni : and all 
 the members of this vast assembly were screaming at 
 the very top of their voices, when the procession of 
 the Blessed Sacrament entered the square. 
 
 Then, as if by magic, every voice was mute, every 
 hat was doffed, every craft abandoned. The fish- 
 women ceased to sell; the housekeeper to cook; the 
 showman to display his wares; the jester even to 
 crack his jokes; and every creature, of those busy 
 thousands, was on his knees, awed into silence and the 
 hush of prayer. Grace Netterville well might pro- 
 nounce it "a sight to see." She did not look round 
 again until some few minutes after the procession 
 had passed from beneath the balcony; and when she 
 did so, the square had resumed its usual appearance 
 business and folly being once more mingled together, 
 as the order of the day. 
 
 "In truth, it is wonderful," she said, half aloud; 
 "the faith of this people, and their devotion." 
 
 "And which of them will be the better for it?" re- 
 plied Lady Oranmore, coldly, for she sometimes 
 sought a false peace of mind in contending against 
 her conscience with the religion of her grandchildren.
 
 142 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 "Which of them will cheat the less, or quarrel the less, 
 or gamble the less, for all this display of devotion 
 which seems so admirable to you?" 
 
 "Many, I should hope," said May. "But if it were 
 only one, how often has Jesus preached to the crowd 
 in Judea, and been contended by the conversion of a 
 single individual? Zaccheus, for instance, the sole 
 penitent in the crowd which left Jericho to meet Him ; 
 Matthew, called to His especial service, from amid 
 the multitude, that yet were employed in glorifying 
 God ; and Magdalen, for we read of none but her con- 
 verted iat the supper of Simeon." 
 
 "It is true," retorted Lady Oranmore, "only one 
 convert is particularly mentioned in each of these in- 
 stances, yet it does not follow that many may not 
 have been secretly drawn towards their Saviour, and 
 converted at the same time, though in a less ostensible 
 and singular manner." 
 
 "Well," said May, "admitting it were, indeed, but 
 one in that vast multitude below, He, who died for 
 each individual, surely would not think the conversion 
 of even one a useless labour. And though it were 
 even not an entire conversion but only a crime the 
 less one bargain fairly made one oath unuttered 
 one irreverent jest unsaid surely He, who died for 
 every separate sin, would not deem that He had been 
 borne through the crowd in vain; and though even 
 (which seems impossible) no single crime had been 
 prevented no sinner checked in his evil ways were 
 it but for the comfort of one afflicted heart for the 
 giving of hope to one despairing soul for the re- 
 minding of one in bodily suffering of all that He had
 
 BLIND AGNESE 143 
 
 suffered in the body for them surely, He who passed 
 His life in the consolation of His creatures would 
 not reckon that He had come in vain ; and though none 
 of all these things were done, and that it was but 9 
 single spark of Divine love falling upon a spirit, in- 
 nocent before, but inactive, for want of the high in- 
 spiration of His charity, surely, surely, He who came 
 to cast fire upon earth would not grudge His pres- 
 ence, by which it had been enkindled." 
 
 May Netterville paused in her passionate address, 
 and mutually, as if by a single impulse, she and 
 Lady Oranmore cast their eyes upon Agnese. The 
 child was kneeling on the bed, and with her soft eyes 
 closed, her long hairs parted smoothly on her fore- 
 head, and her white robes flowing round her, she 
 seemed like an answer to the thoughts of each. 
 "Would He grudge it?" 
 
 May could not forbear adding, in a whisper 
 
 "Though it were only to visit such a soul as that." 
 
 Then, without waiting for an answer, she passed 
 to the bed, and drew her sister gently towards the pil- 
 low, saying 
 
 "Lie down, dearest; it is yet a long time to Fran- 
 cesco's hour. Lie down, or you will be weary." 
 
 Agnese lay down as she was desired, whispering, 
 at the same time, with a heavenly smile upon her 
 countenance 
 
 "Is it not lovely, Grace? And did I not tell you, 
 that here the very air was full of Jesus?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed!" Grace answered, in the same sub- 
 dued voice. "And it is sweet to live in such an atmos- 
 phere of love and faith."
 
 144 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 "He is everywhere in Italy," returned Agnese; "in 
 the people's hearts and on their lips, and in the 
 churches ; and even in the very streets we meet Him." 
 
 "And He is in the hearts of our own home people, 
 too, Agnese, if you would but think it," answered 
 May, in a tone as nearly of reproach as she 
 could use towards the gentle creature she so tenderly 
 cherished. "His faith and love are with us also ; only 
 we are forced to lock up in our hearts the thoughts 
 which these may prate of to every idle air. But you 
 won't believe it." 
 
 "Indeed, indeed, I do believe it, May; it would be 
 strange if I could doubt it, after all that passed on 
 that terrible day;" and Agnese shuddered, as she al- 
 ways did whenever she recurred to the day of Father 
 Netterville's murder. Poor child ! she had good reason 
 to remember it with horror, for she had been with 
 (old Moya at the moment when the latter, entering the 
 cavern unperceived, became an eye-witness of the 
 priest's violent death, which her cries soon revealed 
 to her sightless companion; and the shock had gone 
 far to destroy the little strength yet left Agnese, to 
 contend with the various influences that were drawing 
 her towards the grave. 
 
 May Netterville walked to the window she also 
 could never speak of that fearful event without a shud- 
 der, and something more than a shudder of grief and 
 horror, for indignation, in spite of all her efforts to 
 prevent it, would mingle with her feelings; and it 
 cost her many a battle with her proud and passionate 
 nature to still the loathing ever rising within her, at 
 .the bare recollection of the guilty, yet, as she could
 
 BLIND. AGNESE 145 
 
 not but acknowledge to herself, most repentant 
 brother; and she was yet struggling with the storm 
 which her sister's observation had awakened in her 
 bosom, when a servant entered to tell her of a per- 
 son asking an interview with her. May was so com- 
 pletely preoccupied, that she could scarcely be said to 
 hear him, although she mechanically followed him to 
 a room, which he indicated by throwing wide the door, 
 and into this she entered, without having formed one 
 conjecture as to who or what the person was who de- 
 sired to see her. He was sitting near the window, his 
 back towards her, and his face buried in both his 
 hands. May was startled, something in his attitude 
 was so familiar, that she could not help fancying she 
 had seen him before; but as he did not look up, or 
 give any other indication of being aware of her pres- 
 ence, she advanced a few steps towards him, in hopes 
 of arousing his attention. Far from having this effect, 
 however, the sound of her footsteps seemed to shrink 
 him yet more completely into himself, and he bowed 
 himself down, until his brow rested upon the table, as 
 if thus he hoped more entirely to conceal his identity 
 from her. May began to feel exceedingly awkward : 
 
 "You sent for me, sir ?" she said, at last, in English, 
 a secret instinct seeming to tell her that the man before 
 her was not Italian. Something very like a shudder 
 passed over the stranger's frame ; but he made no an- 
 swer. 
 
 "Pardon me, sir," continued May, with a little im- 
 patience in her voice and manner ; "I would not hurry 
 you if I could help it, but I have left the bedside 
 of a dying sister to attend your summons."
 
 146 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 i 
 
 "Believe me, I would not idly have intruded on your 
 
 sorrow." 
 
 "John Netterville !" cried May, recoiling a step in 
 amazement, as the stranger, in saying these few words, 
 stood up and removed his hands from before his face. 
 
 "I knew you must loathe me ; I knew you must de- 
 test and hold me in abhorrence; but I almost hoped 
 you would forgive me," said that unhappy man, in 
 a tone of despair; and, sitting down again, he passed 
 his hands once more over his eyes, as if to shut out his 
 niece's involuntary look of disgust. 
 
 For one moment May was tempted to leave the room 
 in contemptuous silence; and then she had to strug- 
 gle hard against the proud and angry spirit which 
 prompted her to pour out a torrent of stinging re- 
 proaches on the fratricide. But she thought upon 
 Him who but a few minutes before had passed be- 
 neath her eyes, preaching peace, and mercy, and par- 
 don unto men, and she checked the movement. She 
 remembered how He from the very cross had pardoned 
 all His enemies. His "Father forgive them, for they 
 know not what they do," seemed to ring in her ears, 
 and she resolved that she also would pardon, and 
 not coldly or by halves, but fully, generously, and 
 without conditions, even as He had done, when he said 
 to the repentant thief "This day shalt thou be with 
 me in Paradise" and, promptly answering to the in- 
 . spiration, she flung her arms round her uncle's neck, 
 * exclaiming 
 
 "I will forgive you I do forgive you; and I pray 
 you to pardon me, for I have been very guilty in my 
 thoughts of you."
 
 BLIND AGNESE 147 
 
 John Netterville made no reply. This very unex- 
 pected answer to his appeal roused all of good and 
 human feeling that yet lived within him, and, com- 
 pletely thrown off his guard by the suddenness of his 
 niece's movement, he burst into tears. 
 
 "Oh, hush, hush !" cried May, kneeling down beside 
 him, and unconsciously kissing his hand, so moved 
 was she to behold that strong man sobbing like a child. 
 "Do not weep so sadly; I pray you not to weep so 
 sadly. He is happy they are happy they are pray- 
 ing for us even now and the love which on earth 
 they felt for us both, they are at this very moment 
 communicating to us, for each other. Is it not so, 
 dear uncle ? for do I not begin to feel that you are my 
 father's brother? and do you not likewise feel that I 
 am your brother's child?" 
 
 "I feel that you are an angel of pity and of peace to 
 me I who have sinned so deeply against you. Yes, 
 even more against you than against any other, al- 
 though you are too generous to reproach me with the 
 ill-treatment." 
 
 Unconsciously May put her hand to her forehead. 
 There was still a slight scar upon her brow. The squire 
 had made good his threat she felt she would carry 
 his mark to her dying day. 
 
 "To lift my hand against a woman and my own 
 niece, too ! But I did not know then who you were, 
 and, without doubt, God permitted my ignorance, in 
 order to make me more fully the instrument of my 
 own chastisement. Not until long afterwards, when 
 I heard you speak to Daniel in the cavern, did I know 
 that you, or he, or my mother," he added, almost con-
 
 148 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 vulsively, "were yet in existence. From the hour 
 when my own wickedness drove them from their 
 home, I had had no communication with them, or with 
 any other member of my family." 
 
 "But why were you there at all?" asked May, sud- 
 denly yielding to a curiosity she had often felt upon 
 the subject of the squire's presence in the chapel cave 
 "Why were you there? for you sent the soldiers 
 to the other cave." 
 
 "Both were to have been occupied; but the sea ran 
 so high they were afraid of entering the one into 
 which I, more prompt in wickedness, had run my 
 boat an hour or two before; they managed, however, 
 to make good their entrance into the other, and, in 
 exploring it, they came upon the secret passage, by 
 which it communicated with the dead man's cave, of 
 which I myself was not aware." 
 
 "But when you discovered who he was, of whom 
 you were in pursuit, why did you not warn him of his 
 danger ?" 
 
 "I knew it was too late. The whole island was sur- 
 rounded, and the affair had been put into the hands of 
 a man who, as you saw yourself, knew not what it 
 was to pardon or to pity. Still I shuddered to appear 
 as the murderer of my brother, and so I thought I 
 would linger in the mass cavern until all was over. 
 In my horrow and agitation, I quite forgot the spring- 
 tide, and, when I did remember it, it was too late 
 my boat had disappeared, taken, probably, by some 
 of the people in the hurry of departure, and as a last 
 hope of safety I climbed the altar; but I put out my 
 shoulder in doing so."
 
 BLIND AGNESE 149 
 
 May Netterville groaned the whole scene of that 
 woeful day passed so vividly before her imagination, 
 that all her old feelings revived, and she withdrew 
 her hand; but remembering Him whose example she 
 was trying to imitate, she repressed the impulse, and 
 once more replaced it in that of her uncle. Slight 
 as had been the movement, he felt it, guessed its 
 meaning, and sighed as he said 
 
 "You forgive me, May, because it is your duty ; but 
 you do not you cannot love me no one will ever 
 love me any more." 
 
 "Do not say so indeed, indeed, I will love you," 
 May answered earnestly "And there are others who 
 will love you better : you have a wife, a child." 
 
 "No," said the Squire, groaning "she is dead, and 
 the child has learned to shudder at the sight of his 
 guilty father." 
 
 "Dead ! Good God !" cried May "I never saw her ; 
 but they told me she was so young and so fair !" 
 
 "And so she was, both young and very fair. And 
 God is my witness that I loved her truly, and she 
 loved me also, until that fatal day. Oh, my God! 
 May Netterville, how I have been punished; and how 
 He has made my crime to be my chastisement. The 
 brother whom I murdered, not because I hated him, 
 but because I hated the religion of which he was a 
 minister. And I hated it, May! now, I must confess 
 it, only because of its just denunciations against those 
 who deserted from its holiness and truth And the 
 mother whose heart I have broken And now, at last, 
 my wife, the mother of my only child Oh, that 
 was the worst of all! To know that I was loathed
 
 150 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 by one, who had so loved me that she now shrunk 
 from my caresses, who used to smile so brightly at 
 the very hearing of my footsteps to see her grow 
 pale, and languid, and lifeless, in the untold horrors 
 of her soul; to feel she was withering away in the 
 poisonous atmosphere of my guilt; and at last to 
 watch her dying dying, and not in my arms for 
 even in the death agony I saw her struggle with the 
 terror which the very touch of the fratricide im- 
 parted; and I would not add to the anguish of that 
 hour so she died in peace, believing herself alone, 
 and little dreaming of the guilty wretch who lay 
 gasping on the floor of her chamber, and who would 
 gladly how gladly ! have exchanged places with any 
 one of the victims of his crimes." 
 
 "And the child, the poor child !" cried May, wring- 
 ing her uncle's hands in her strong sympathy with 
 his woe. 
 
 "It was all the same he had marked his mother's 
 brow grow pale as I looked upon her, and her voice 
 to quiver as she answered my inquiries and so he 
 learned to do the like! And unused as he is to tears, 
 and almost too old for them (for the boy is nearly ten 
 years of age), he almost screamed himself into fits 
 when I took leave of him over the grave of his 
 mother." May thought the agitation of the father, 
 and the place which he had chosen for their parting 
 scene, might have had something to say to this terror, 
 and she ventured to suggest it to her uncle; but he 
 only shook his head. 
 
 "The mother's mantle has fallen upon the child 
 my son both fears and hates me. But it is no mat-
 
 BLIND AGNESE 151 
 
 ter, for I shall never see him more. To-morrow I 
 enter a convent of the Camaldolesi, and the rest of 
 my days will be spent in complying with your request, 
 May. The last half of my life will be spent in weep- 
 ing over the first." 
 
 "Then you have abandoned your child?" 
 
 "No, May Netterville, I have not abandoned, I have 
 but left him in better hands I have confided him to 
 you." 
 
 "To me?" said the wondering May. 
 
 "See here," said the squire, "is a document signed 
 by me, in which, under age as you are yourself, I have 
 given to you the entire guardianship of my child. No 
 one but myself has a right to interfere with your au- 
 thority, and that right I resign entirely to you; and 
 here is another deed, securing to you the whole Net- 
 terville estates, to which I have no real claim. I have 
 assigned you a guardian, because such was needful in 
 the eye of the law; but he has promised to interfere 
 in nothing, and to leave you as much mistress of your 
 property as if he were not in existence." 
 
 "1 am young for such a charge," said May, un- 
 consciously speaking her thoughts aloud. 
 
 "You are young in years, but, if I have read your 
 soul aright, you will do your duty nobly. Take this 
 paper, which will make you but mistress of your own. 
 I have reserved nothing for my son he is a beggar 
 on the face of the earth, as the child of a blood-stained 
 renegade should be." 
 
 "I cannot accept of it it is impossible," said May, 
 resolutely; "however much I may admire such re- 
 pentance, I cannot consent to be a gainer by it."
 
 152 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 "You cannot help yourself," said her uncle. "This 
 is but a copy the original deed is in the hands of the 
 lawyers who drew it up." 
 
 "But surely," remonstrated May, "you have no right 
 to will away from your son, however the property was 
 obtained. He is now your heir." 
 
 "I have every right the property is not entailed; 
 and this is but an act of simple justice. Think you 
 such ill-gotten wealth would prosper my child? Be- 
 lieve me, it is only by removing it from him that I 
 hope to free himself from that terrible judgment, 
 which avenges the crime of the parents on the chil- 
 dren, even to the third and fourth generation. And 
 now, daughter and niece of my murdered brethren, 
 let me hear you say once more that you forgive me !" 
 
 This time May murmured her pardon through tears 
 of real tenderness and pity it may be even of admira- 
 tion for the heroism of soul which thus proportioned 
 its penitence to the greatness of its crimes. Earnestly, 
 also, she promised love and protection to her little 
 cousin; and the unhappy man, having once more 
 wrung her hand, abruptly quitted the apartment. 
 
 For a few seconds after his departure May stood 
 like a statue, revolving the past and future in her soul. 
 In those few seconds her prompt and energetic mind 
 had seized upon all the bearings of her position, and 
 laid down the whole plan of her future life the edu- 
 cation of her cousin in the religion of his forefathers 
 the resignation of the property into his hands as 
 soon as he had arrived at years of discretion, and her 
 own subsequent entire renunciation of and retirement 
 from the world. How well and religiously she ad-
 
 BLIND AGNESE 153 
 
 hered to that plan it is easy to conceive, for hers 
 was peculiarly one of those happy characters with 
 whom to will and to do is almost one and the same 
 thing. While still wrapt in deep thought, she left 
 the room, walked to that occupied by Agnese, placed 
 the packet received from the squire in Lady Oran- 
 more's hands, and said, like one awakening from a 
 dream 
 
 "Grandmama ! you asked me but a minute ago what 
 good He did, when borne in the Blessed Sacrament 
 through the streets below, and now I can answer your 
 question for my enemy has been here and I have 
 forgiven him." 
 "Your enemy, dear May." 
 
 "John Netterville, the murderer of my father and 
 my mother, and of one who was even more than father 
 or than mother unto me." 
 "John Netterville ! and here !" 
 "He has but this moment left the house!" 
 Lady Oranmore, who knew her grandchild's strong 
 feelings and unyielding will, looked upon her, aston- 
 ishment mingling with her admiration. "Then you 
 have forgiven him; my child, you have acted nobly. 
 Well, I know it was a difficult, almost I had called it 
 an impossible deed." 
 
 "It would have been either or both, had I not so 
 lately been kneeling before Him in the sacrament of 
 His love. But the recollection of Him, and of His 
 abundant forgiveness of His enemies, so softened my 
 heart that the task was easy." 
 
 "Now, indeed, dear May," said Lady Oranmore, 
 affectionately embracing her grandchild, "I am willing
 
 154 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 to confess that He did not walk through the streets 
 in vain." 
 
 Agnese started from the sofa, and threw herself at 
 her grandmother's feet. So quick was the movement 
 there was no time either to foresee or prevent it. 
 
 "Oh, grandmama, you believe in His eucharistic 
 reality. You say Him. Then you will belong to the 
 church where only He is to be found in the sacrament 
 of His love?" 
 
 "I do I will, my precious one," whispered Lady 
 Oranmore, clasping Agnese to her bosom, and weep- 
 ing like a child. 
 
 May saw that the effort had been too much for Ag- 
 nese; so she gently untwined Lady Oranmore's arms 
 from around her, and laid her on the couch. 
 
 "Go you with her to the church," whispered Lady 
 Oranmore ; "I will follow soon ; at present I would be 
 alone." 
 
 She left the room, and there was a long pause 
 during which May hung anxiously over her pale 
 sister. 
 
 "May," whispered the latter, as soon as she had 
 breath to speak, "you have made her a Catholic." 
 
 But May shook her head. 
 
 "I think, dear Agnese, you have done more with 
 your quiet love than I with my vehement and im- 
 petuous nature. I would I knew how you did learn to 
 love Him so." 
 
 "I think I can tell you," said Agnese, hesitating; 
 "at least in part.". 
 
 "Do, dearest, if it will not weary you, for you are 
 quite as much a mystery to me, with your deep and
 
 BLIND AGNESE 155 
 
 holy thoughts, as I fear my fiery ones sometimes make 
 me be to you." 
 
 "I should like to tell you," said Agnese; "it would 
 be a kind of relief to me, for I have been thinking 
 very much about it this morning, and it almost seems 
 as if my thoughts went back of themselves to things 
 I had nearly forgotten, and to the very beginning of 
 my love for Jesus. I remember the first time I ever 
 thought about it ; I was a very little child, and I asked 
 what was my name. Benita said it was Agnese, and 
 that Agnese meant Lamb and that Jesus also was 
 called a lamb, and so, as my name was the name of 
 Jesus, I ought always to try and be resembling to Him. 
 And I asked how that might be and she said that 
 lambs were gentle creatures, and very meek, and so, 
 therefore, I ought to be meek likewise ; and from that 
 time I did try very hard to be meek, and never to 
 make the least movement like impatience; but still I 
 could not help feeling very sad, because people used 
 to call me poor Agnese, and poor blind child, and I 
 knew, therefore, it was a misfortune to be blind; ancj 
 this made me weep sadly that I could not see. The 
 children, also, would talk to me of seeing this or 
 seeing that, and I could not see at all, but I could hear 
 them play, and laugh, and run around me, and I was 
 afraid of running, for fear of falling, so I used to 
 sit at the door and listen to them, and to feel so lonely 
 in the midst of their merry romps, and so sad that 
 the tears were often in my eyes whether I would or 
 no. Sometimes, also, the little ones who did not know 
 me, came to ask me to join in their games, but the 
 others would check them, and say Hush, that is
 
 156 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 blind Agnese, she cannot play about as we do do not 
 remind her of her misfortune. They did not mean me 
 to hear them, but I could not help doing so; at other 
 times, it has happened that ill-natured children have 
 mocked me for the blindness which the others pitied. 
 I could not cry then ; it would have been a relief if I 
 could; but I felt too desolate to cry. Still I did not 
 answer them unkindly. I tried rather to be kinder to 
 them than before, for I had not forgotten that Jesus 
 was meek, and that, to be like Him, I also must be 
 meek likewise. One day my grandmama, Benita, said 
 to me, 'Agnese, my little one, come with me, I am 
 going to see some nuns, who love the Lamb very much, 
 indeed, and who pray night and day before him.' 'Do 
 they see Him, grandmama?' I asked; for I did not 
 then know whether He were visible or invisible to 
 those who had eyes for other things. 'They see the 
 Blessed Sacrament, in which He dwells upon our al- 
 tars, my child,' replied Benita. I was very glad to 
 think I should see those who lived with the Lamb, 
 and could tell me what the Lamb was like; and so I 
 went with Benita to the convent, where Lady Oran- 
 more took me just before we left Naples. Though I 
 was such a very little child, I remember that first 
 visit just as if it took place yesterday. Benita talked 
 for a long time to the Superioress; but I was think- 
 ing so much of the Lamb, and longing to go visit the 
 altar where they always prayed before Him, that I 
 did not much attend to what they were saying. At 
 last one of the nuns asked me if I would come to the 
 church. 'Is the Lamb there?' I asked, quite inno- 
 cently; 'Because, if he is, I should like to go.' 'Yes,
 
 BLIND AGNESE 157 
 
 my child, the Lamb is ever on our altar/ replied the 
 nun. Directly I heard that, I gave her my hand, and 
 very joyfully accompanied her to the church. When 
 we approached the altar, the air felt very warm; she 
 told me it was the immense number of lights burn- 
 ing upon it that made it so, and leading me to the 
 side of one of the adorers of the hour, whispered 
 'Kneel down, my child; the Lamb is before you, on 
 His altar throne.' I knelt down all was so calm, so 
 solemn, and so still, I felt as if I had entered heaven. 
 It was, indeed, as though Jesus Himself was at my 
 side, speaking a new language to my heart, and steal- 
 ing all His sweetness over it. I did not say anything 
 to Him, or ask anything of Him; I only felt that He 
 was near, and that was joy enough for me. By de- 
 grees the quiet happiness grew more quiet, and the 
 calm feeling calmer still; and I suppose," continued 
 Agnese, making evidently a great effort to overcome 
 her reluctance to speak upon the subject "I suppose 
 I fell asleep for all that followed must, surely, have 
 been a dream. I thought I was still kneeling between 
 His two adorers at the altar" 
 
 "Agnese," interrupted May, "did you think you saw 
 them then?" 
 
 "At the moment I thought I did. But it is all now 
 like a vision, the memory of which has passed away, as 
 is so often the case with dreams, and I cannot tell 
 you in the least what they were like. I only remem- 
 ber feeling that I might have thought them figures cut 
 in stone, they were so unbreathing and so still, had 
 not something about them seemed to say, that though 
 the bodies were so motionless, the living souls within
 
 158 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 were wide awaKe, and full of life, bowed down before 
 the 'Holy of Holies,' and only silent from intensity 
 of love." 
 
 "Agnese, you must have seen them," cried May; 
 "you describe them to the very life, just as I saw 
 them yesterday at the convent." 
 
 Agnese's pale face flushed a little "I do not know, 
 May, how that could be, as I have said it was all a 
 dream and mystery to me. After I had watched these 
 mute adorers for a few minutes in silence, a lady 
 seemed to stand beside me; I do not know how or 
 from whence she came, but there she was a lamb in 
 her arms, and her eyes fixed upon me, until I felt 
 their soft, sweet glances penetrate my soul." 
 
 "Did you see her too, Agnese?" 
 
 "I cannot tell you, May," replied Agnese, with a 
 little uneasiness in her voice and manner. "I can 
 only tell you that I felt as if a vision of beauty were 
 at my side; and while I yet knelt, in awful admira- 
 tion, her voice fell on my ear. May ! only to hear one 
 tone of a voice like hers would make a paradise of 
 the most desolate heart upon earth." 
 
 "And what said the Mother of the Lamb? for 
 surely it was she who showed herself to your sleeping 
 fancies." 
 
 " 'Namesake of Jesus, what would you have ?' It 
 was thus she spoke and then, as if she had read the 
 instant thought of my heart, she added 'that you 
 may see ? Oh, ask it not. Rather pray that the light 
 may be given to your soul which has been withheld 
 by infinite wisdom from your body; for though with 
 your corporal vision you might behold his Sacramental
 
 BLIND AGNESE 159 
 
 presence, still it is by the eye of faith, never refused 
 even to the poor blind child, that man is taught to 
 see Him there, as the angels do in heaven, in His 
 divinity and His glorified humanity. Child of sor- 
 row, I am your mother ! The mother of all the chil- 
 dren of sorrow, as I am of Him who took their af- 
 flictions on Himself all their afflictions. Not a pain 
 of body, or of mind, that His creatures are given to 
 endure, which He Himself did not first make sacred, 
 and consecrate in His own person. For in the spirit 
 He made desolate, and full of anguish and in the 
 body, from the crown of His Head to the sole of his 
 foot, the words of the prophecy were accomplished 
 to the full, and there was not a sound spot left about 
 Him no, not one single spot without its separate and 
 distinct allotment of woe.' " 
 
 "I have told you, May," continued Agnese, "that 
 the voice of the Lady was very sweet so sweet, it 
 was like being in paradise only to sit and hear it. And 
 sweeter and sweeter it seemed to grow, as she pro- 
 ceeded sweeter and sweeter yet. But, oh! so sad. 
 And when she spoke about His woe, it moved my very 
 soul to tears, filling and steeping it, as it were, in her 
 own sorrow; and then, for the first time, I came to 
 comprehend how she, like the Blessed One of whom 
 she spoke, kept all the unmingled bitterness of her 
 chalice to herself, giving only of its more soft and 
 soothing sadness to her children. Yet, would you be- 
 lieve it May, even at that moment the thought crossed 
 my mind and a wicked one it was for such a mo- 
 ment that if He had endured all other woes, He had 
 not taken mine upon Himself? It was but a passing
 
 160 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 thought, repented of almost as soon as I was con- 
 scious of it. But, as before, the lady answered to 
 that thought. 
 
 " 'Yes ! Agnese, of Him it may be truly said, that He 
 saw and that He saw not. For you and with you He 
 was blind, indeed, and yet, because of you, and even 
 for your very sake, He refused not Himself the fa- 
 culty of seeing. Blind He was to your sins, blind to 
 all consolations of heaven or of earth. Closing His 
 eyes even upon His divinity, one glance at which 
 would have robbed His cross of its ignominy His 
 passion of its woe. But blind He was not, to those 
 who passed beneath His cross, wagging their heads in 
 cold derision; and He opened them wide, and fixed 
 them unshrinkingly on the mangled humanity in which 
 He was atoning for the crimes of the scoffers : nor did 
 He refuse them to look upon His mother. He was, 
 indeed, a very prodigal of His woe; not merely con- 
 tent to drink up the chalice which His Father gave 
 Him, but rather sipping it, as it were, drop by drop, 
 that He might more fully taste and savour all its bit- 
 terness; and therefore it was, Agnese, that He would 
 not lose His sight, since by that very sight He could 
 draw suffering to His soul. And now, my child, you 
 need not speak, for I know your thoughts. You will 
 gladly suffer with Jesus, and as Jesus wills. Bow 
 down, then, your heart, and bow down your very soul, 
 and receive Him into your arms, and learn of Him, 
 who was alone a victim but a willing victim-coffered 
 solely because He willed it." 
 
 "Dearest May," added Agnese, after a little pause 
 of thoughtful recollection, "she had read my thoughts
 
 BLIND AGNESE 161 
 
 aright. So I bowed myself down body and soul, and 
 held out my arms, and received the Lamb-child, Jesus, 
 in them. He did not seem to stay there, but rather 
 to sink into my very heart of hearts, and penetrate it 
 so in sweetness that I felt quite dissolving in love and 
 joy. Tears rushed into my eyes; and, though I could 
 not speak, it seemed as if my spirit said to Mary 
 'Oh ! sweetest lady, leave Him with me thus, and never 
 again will I ask to do ought but suffer.' And Mary 
 answered, with heavenly gladness in her voice: 'He 
 is yours, Agnese ; only try and will as he wills, and be- 
 lieve never, in joy or in sorrow, will He cease to make 
 His dwelling in your heart.' I awoke, dear May 
 quite awoke, when she said these words ; for the nun 
 touched me on the shoulder, and we left the chapel. 
 But always since that day He is ever in my heart ; and 
 though I do not see Him, I feel him there. And now, 
 if I could see, I would not see; and if by a miracle 
 my eyes were to be opened to the light, I would close 
 them again, and never open them, if I could help it, 
 until I was in heaven. For I would not willingly look 
 upon thing or creature, however beautiful or however 
 blest, before Ihad rejoiced in the vision of my God. 
 And I shall see Him soon, dear May soon, although 
 not quite yet. But soon very soon it will be now, 
 as I think and hope." 
 
 "Why, Agnese, you surely do not mean to go to 
 heaven, and leave us all just yet?" said May, trying 
 to laugh through the tears that were choking her. 
 
 "I am sure I shall not live long, May. I know well 
 I have been dying ever since I left Naples; only, 
 at first, I was dying slow, and now I am dying
 
 162 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 fast. Do not cry, dearest, dearest May do not cry 
 so sadly." 
 
 "How can I help it, when I hear you say such ter- 
 rible things? So short a time to have had a little 
 sister, and now to lose her. No, no, Agnese! I can- 
 not spare you yet." 
 
 Tears came into Agnese's eye, as she answered 
 
 "To leave you, May, is almost my only sorrow, I 
 love so much to feel that you are near me. But 
 though I leave, I do not lose you, nor you lose me, 
 dear May; for then I shall love you with a double 
 love the love of the sister who, on earth, so relied 
 upon your care, and the love of the guardian spirit, 
 who will watch over you from heaven. And, oh ! my 
 sister, when I see Him if I see Him surely my first 
 thought will be ^of you my first petition for you. 
 Never, believe me, never shall I weary of kneeling at 
 His feet, and praying for your welfare." 
 
 Agnese looked so beautiful, as she made this prom- 
 ise, that May felt inspired with something of the 
 same heavenly longing so visible on her features. She 
 kissed her brow, and whispered in a tone which had 
 more of exultation than of sadness in it 
 
 "You shall go to Him when he wills it, dear one; 
 only remember to bequeath to me your sweet and lov- 
 ing thoughts of Him, that I may also, for the sake of 
 Jesus, close my eyes to all that is not Jesus ; and be to 
 Him, as you have been, a very spouse in the sacra- 
 ment of His love." 
 
 "Ah!" said Agnese, "long ago the children used to 
 call me His sposina; but I never really was so, and 
 I never really felt so until the other day."
 
 BLIND AGNESE 163 
 
 "The other day! What do you mean, Agnese?" 
 replied May, struck by the peculiar expression of her 
 sister's countenance. 
 
 "I was his spouse," whispered Agnese, "on the day 
 when he came to me in the sacrament of His love, 
 for then I promised to be His and His alone. And I 
 don't mean half His, but wholly and entirely His own ; 
 as in life, so to be faithful even unto death. Yes, 
 May," continued the blind child, making a great and 
 Evident effort to speak her secret, "I promised Him 
 faithfully oh! so faithfully to be His; not only 
 His, a child, but His, a woman. I asked Him, indeed, 
 to take me away directly ; but if He chose to leave me 
 here, I said I would live but for His love. So you 
 see that was really my spousal day; and soon He 
 ivill come and take me to Himself, and then I shall be 
 with Him as His spouse, indeed." 
 
 "Agnese ! but you should not have done this without 
 asking." 
 
 "I did not intend it, May ; but that instant it seemed 
 as if I were so entirely His own that it was the most 
 natural thing in the world to do; and then," Agnese 
 added, seeing her sister's grave and anxious looks, 
 "it is no great matter, for I shall not live to the trial. 
 He is coming to take me away so soon." 
 
 "I know not that I know not that!" said May, 
 clinging, as human nature often does, to the expres- 
 sion of a hope which yet it does not feel. "The doc- 
 tors say there is no disease, and where there is no 
 disease surely it is impossible not to hope." 
 
 "Do not hope, my sister; the doctors do not know 
 how entirely I have offered my life to Him."
 
 164 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 "But He may not accept the offering," answered 
 May; "or He may receive it in another sense, giving 
 you now to live, in order that, at a later period, you 
 may consecrate to Him, in very deed, what now you 
 have only given in desire." 
 
 "No, May, do not deceive yourself; I feel that He 
 has accepted the offering, in the sense and spirit in 
 which I made it; the hand of death is upon me, dear- 
 est. It is true, I have no disease, but " 
 
 And May long remembered afterwards how the 
 child had unconsciously laid her hand on her heart, 
 in concluding the sentence 
 
 "It is as if He Himself were stealing away my 
 life." 
 
 May made no answer; she was weeping bitterly. 
 
 "May," said Agnese, after a silence of some min- 
 utes, "what are you doing?" 
 
 "Making a wreath of white roses for the novice 
 whose clothing takes place next week, at the Convent 
 of the Perpetual Adoration." 
 
 "May, could you not make another for her, and 
 give me that one?" 
 
 "You shall have it, dearest." 
 
 "And May," continued Agnese, feebly, "I wish you 
 would change my dress, and put me on the one I wore 
 when He came to me for the first time." 
 
 May put aside the roses, which were all besprinkled 
 with her tears, and she had soon wrapt her sister 
 in the spotless folds of a white muslin wrapping- 
 dress, and parted her soft, shining hair, upon her 
 brow, and smoothed the long curls upon either 
 side, but when she was about to crown them with
 
 BLIND AGNESE 165 
 
 her white roses, Agnese put aside the wreath, and 
 said 
 
 "Not just yet, dearest May; wait until He comes to 
 take me away, for then I would be dressed as a bride, 
 indeed, and brides always wear a wreath of flowers, 
 Benita says. Ah, here is Francesco," she added, with 
 a happy smile, as her quick ear caught the sound of 
 
 the old man's footsteps on the corridor without. 
 ****** * * * 
 
 The poor children lingering near the Church of the 
 Blessed Sacrament crowded round Agnese, as Fran- 
 cesco lifted her from the carriage. Many of them 
 had known, and loved, and reverenced her, even as a 
 poor blind child, and now, in her better fortunes, it 
 was one of Agnese's sweetest pleasures to repay their 
 former kindness, by a thousand little generosities, as 
 well as by the tenderest interest in all that concerned 
 them. No wonder, therefore, they now crowded round 
 her, saying to each other, in their great delight at her 
 re-appearance among them "It is blind Agnese ; how 
 glad I am she is not too weak to come; and now that 
 she is once in the open air again, our sposina will 
 grow as strong as she was before the foreign lady 
 took her to that cold land, where the sun, she says, 
 never shines so brightly as it shines on us." 
 
 "You must pray for me very much to-night, dear 
 little ones," said Agnese, pausing ere she ascended the 
 steps of the church, in order to distribute her presents 
 among them. "These are the last gifts I shall ever 
 bring you." 
 
 Francesco took her in his arms, and carried her 
 into the church, for she was too weak to walk so far.
 
 166 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 "Where Colomba died, there let me pray for the 
 last time," she whispered ; and, in compliance with the 
 wish, the kind old man carried her, as nearly as he 
 could, to the altar upon which the Blessed Sacrament 
 reposed. 
 
 There she knelt down she would kneel down, she 
 said, as it was for the last time. So May knelt down 
 beside her, and put her arm round her waist. She 
 had grown so feeble, that without this assistance she 
 could not have knelt upright. The service began, and 
 May felt Agnese lean every moment more heavily 
 upon her, as if every moment she lost more and more 
 the power of self-support. Once or twice she whis- 
 pered "You are weary, darling," but the child did 
 not seem to hear her, and May desisted, for she did 
 not like to disturb her more than was needful. "It 
 is for the last time," thought she, "and so it is no 
 matter." Something, indeed, seemed to say to her, 
 that there was no hope, and that the child was dying 
 fast. Suddenly, she felt her sinking from her grasp; 
 it was at the very instant when the Benediction of the 
 Blessed Sacrament was being given, and, with a calm 
 courage, that afterwards seemed strange to her, she 
 put both her arms round the dying child, and clasped 
 her tightly to her bosom, until that sweet and solemn 
 blessing had been given. For worlds she would not 
 have deprived Agnese of His benediction at such a 
 moment. When it was over, she made a sign to Fran- 
 cesco, who soon saw how the matter stood, and car- 
 ried Agnese into the open air. 
 
 "Is she dead?" whispered May, turning in her 
 anguish to the old man for comfort.
 
 BLIND AGNESE 167 
 
 "No," he replied, in the same tone; "but I greatly 
 fear me she is dying." 
 
 "What shall I do? the movement of the carriage 
 will kill her outright. Look up, my own darling 
 for God's sake, look up," said May, sitting down upon 
 the church steps, and receiving her dying sister from 
 Francesco's arms. 
 
 "If the signorina does not mind," said Francesco, 
 "there is a cottage close at hand, where I live; I 
 could easily carry her so far. It is but a poor place, 
 but I could easily carry her so far." 
 
 "Oh, never mind about that," said May, impatiently ; 
 "let us carry her there at once, and then I will go and 
 fetch my grandmother." 
 
 Agnese had by this time opened her eyes, and a 
 bright smile passed over her face, as she listened to 
 this little conversation. 
 
 "Yes, yes," she whispered; "the poorer the better. 
 For He was poor, and had no place whereon to lay 
 His head." She looked yet more pleased, when they 
 carried her into the little room, and she heard Fran- 
 cesco saying to her sister: 
 
 "The signorina must excuse my poverty; yonder 
 heap of Indian straw is all the bed I have to offer to 
 her sister." 
 
 May, however, could not resist a sigh, while she 
 smoothed down the poor couch, and covered it over as 
 well as she could with a velvet mantle, which Fran- 
 cesco brought up from the carriage. Upon this they 
 laid Agnese ; but the child looked distressed, and tears 
 rushed into her eyes. 
 
 "What is it, my own darling?" asked May, her
 
 i68 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 quick eye detecting in an instant the emotion of her 
 sister. 
 
 "He died upon a cross ; and would you have me go 
 to Him on velvet?" whispered the child; for she had 
 detected the soft nature of the material upon which 
 she was lying in an instant. 
 
 Tp many this might have been childlike, and of 
 little meaning, but happily May could comprehend 
 the feeling which made this child, who in her life 
 had been so devoted to her Divine Lord, anxious to 
 resemble Him even in His death. She made a sign, 
 therefore, to Francesco, and while he once more raised 
 Agnese, she gently removed the velvet mantle, so little 
 in unison with the poor bed it covered. The child 
 looked pleased at this new arrangement; but just as 
 he laid her down again some other thought appeared 
 to strike her, and she asked in which direction stood 
 the church. 
 
 "It is just behind," Francesco answered, wonder- 
 ing a little at the question. 
 
 "Dearest May," she said, imploringly, "could you 
 not put me the other way, with my face towards the 
 church ?" 
 
 "For what purpose, dear one? It will only fatigue 
 you, and, God knows, you are ill and weak enough 
 already!" 
 
 "To what purpose! O May, how can you ask? 
 That I may turn my sightless eyes towards Him, 
 and feel that His are bent lovingly upon me. 
 Thank you, thank you, my own May," she added, 
 as her sister silently re-arranged her pillow in 
 the direction in which she wished it to be placed.
 
 BLIND AGNESE 169 
 
 *Now, indeed, I shall feel that I am 'dying at His 
 feet." 
 
 "Will you stay and watch her?" said May, with 
 difficulty suppressing her heavy sobs. "I must go and 
 break this news to her grandmother. I dare not trust 
 it to the servants to acquaint her with such sorrow." 
 
 Francesco willingly undertook the office, and May 
 drove back rapidly to Naples. Lady Oranmore lis- 
 tened to her sad story ; but she could not bring herself 
 to believe that all would, indeed, be so soon over, as 
 was apprehended by May, and the latter had not the 
 heart to argue the matter with her. "She will know 
 it soon enough," thought she; and while waiting the 
 arrival of the physicians, who had been summoned to 
 attend, she left her grandmother, and went and sat 
 down sorrowfully in that room which Agnese had so 
 lately quitted, and which she felt the child would 
 never again enter, excepting as a corpse. Here the 
 half-finished wreath of roses caught her eye, and, re- 
 membering the request of Agnese, she took it up, and, 
 though her tears fell fast all the while among its 
 flowers, resolutely set to work, and succeeded in com- 
 pleting it before summoned to attend Lady Oranmore 
 and the physicians to the cottage of Francesco. They 
 found the child evidently sinking fast, and one glance 
 at her was sufficient for the medical men, who unani- 
 mously declared that she had not an hour to live. 
 This opinion was given to Lady Oranmore in so loud 
 a whisper, that May was certain the child must have 
 heard it, and, fearing the effect of so sudden an an- 
 nouncement upon her, she turned towards her sister. 
 Agnese was smiling brightly, and May felt she had
 
 170 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 both heard the fiat, and that the consequences were 
 somewhat different from any which might have been 
 expected in a similar case. She knelt down and 
 kissed her forehead, saying, although it seemed so 
 needless to ask the question: 
 
 "You are happy, dear one?" 
 
 "Yes, dear May," she whispered, in return; "but it 
 was not for that I smiled." 
 
 "For what was it then, Agnese?" 
 
 "I was but smiling to think how they are mistaken, 
 May." 
 
 "Do you, then, think you are not dying ?" cried May, 
 eagerly so willing was she to take hope, even from 
 the thoughts of the poor child about herself. 
 
 "I am dying, May, but not so fast as they imagine. 
 To-morrow will be the Feast of the Sacred Heart, 
 and I shall die then, and not before." 
 
 May was silent ; she felt disappointed, though quite 
 conscious how idle it would have been to have founded 
 any expectations upon the fancies of a dying child. 
 But she checked her rising sobs, for Agnese was speak- 
 ing once again. 
 
 "May, do you remember what you once read me 
 about St. Elizabeth?" 
 
 "What, dearest?" replied May, vaguely unable al 
 the moment to think of anything but Agnese her- 
 self. 
 
 "Why, about all the little singing birds, that sang 
 so sweetly, so sweetly round her pillow, when she was 
 dying." 
 
 "I remember now," said May. 
 
 "I do not want them," replied Agnese, with a pecu
 
 BLIND AGNESE 171 
 
 liar expression in her voice. "The dove is the only 
 bird I would care to have." 
 
 "You will soon have your wish," said May, as she 
 now comprehended what Agnese wanted "Padre 
 Giovanni is at the door; Francesco went for him as 
 soon as I returned." 
 
 It needed no long time to arrange the conscientious 
 affairs of the pure-hearted child; and when the as- 
 sistants were once more admitted into the chamber, 
 the Padre told May to prepare, as well as she could, a 
 temporary altar for the reception of the Blessed 
 Sacrament, which he was about to bring from the 
 church, and administer as viaticum to her sister. 
 Aided by Francesco, May had soon accomplished this 
 task, lighted a couple of wax candles, and made what 
 other preparations shortness of time and the poverty 
 of the place would admit of. Afterwards, she rear- 
 ranged the folds of Agnese's spotless dress, smoothed 
 once more, and for the last time, the shining curls 
 that she loved so well, laid (and this while the child 
 did not withdraw it) the wreath of white roses upon 
 them, and then took her usual place at the pillow of 
 the invalid. Benita also knelt down by her nurseling ; 
 but Lady Oranmore could not trust herself so near; 
 so she went and sat at the open window. Agnese 
 was now lying as one in a deep sleep, her eyes closed, 
 and her hands folded on her bosom; but May knew 
 well that this stillness, which seemed like slumber, 
 was in truth but the very depth and quiet of her 
 prayer ; so she also prayed beside her. For some time 
 the room was wrapped in silence, only broken by the 
 heavy sobs of Lady Oranmore, and even these be-
 
 i;2 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 came fewer and fainter by degrees for the calmness 
 of those around Agnese seemed to rebuke her less un- 
 complaining sorrow something, too, there was in the 
 look and temperature of the evening, which carried 
 back her recollections to that of the preceding twelve- 
 month, soothing even while it deepened her sadness. 
 
 Just such a night as the one on which she had first 
 made the acquaintance of Agnese was this on which 
 she was now to take leave of her forever: and the 
 same Jesus, whom then the child had followed so 
 devoutly, was now coming Himself to visit her in 
 turn. Lady Oranmore dwelt upon this memory until 
 it almost seemed to her as if the visit of her Divine 
 Lord, which, to any other, would have been an act of 
 incomprehensible charity, was more like a deed of jus- 
 tice to this poor child, who so often in her short life- 
 time had followed in His footsteps. Just as this 
 thought crossed her mind the Hymn of the Blessed 
 Sacrament rose up through the open window, falling, 
 in the midst of the solemn stillness of the hour, upon 
 the hearts of all who heard it, like a strain from 
 heaven; an instant afterwards, a sweet, low voice had 
 joined itself to the melody. It was not in the streets 
 below, and May instinctively turned towards Agnese 
 it was, as she had suspected, the child was singing, 
 in an undertone, probably quite unconsciously to her- 
 self. May was about to check her, fearing the exer- 
 tion might hasten death ; but she thought of the sing- 
 ing birds of St. Elizabeth, and refrained. Francesco 
 now opened the door and Agnese ceased to sing. 
 "Hush," she whispered, "He is coming." May thought 
 she looked as if she were already with Him in heaven.
 
 BLIND AGNESE 173 
 
 The Blessed Sacrament was placed on the temporary 
 altar, prepared by May; Lady Oranmore fell on her 
 knees, and her agitation became too great to admit of 
 her attending very closely to the ceremonies which fol- 
 lowed. But all was at length concluded; and for a 
 long time after Agnese had received her Divine Lord 
 in the Blessed Sacrament, unbroken silence reigned 
 in the apartment. At last the clock struck eleven; 
 May started, she remembered her sister's words, and 
 she felt Agnese press the hand she held in hers. 
 
 The half hour struck, and then the quarter. "It is 
 time now," Agnese murmured; "I am going, May. 
 Let me bid my grandmother good-bye." In obedience 
 to this wish, May led her grandmother to the bed. 
 Agnese first embraced the sobbing Benita, then, as 
 Lady Oranmore folded her to her heart, she seemed 
 to collect all her remaining strength, to say, as earn- 
 estly as she could "Grandmother ! If you would die 
 happy, you must die in the church which alone can 
 give you Jesus for the comfort of that hour." Lady 
 Oranmore turned away in speechless sorrow, and May 
 bent in her turn over the dying child. "I love you best 
 of all," Agnese whispered, "and so I say to you 
 Love Him, and Him alone, and never creatures ex- 
 cepting for His sake." 
 
 "Never!" answered May firmly, after a moment's 
 thought; and she kept her word. 
 
 "May," continued the child, in an almost inarticu- 
 late whisper, "had I lived, I should have hoped to 
 serve Him in the perpetual adoration."* 
 
 * The Convent of the Perpetual Adoration. This devotion 
 was intended for the express purpose of repairing the neg-
 
 174 BLIND AGNESE 
 
 "Pray, dear one, that I may be an adorer in your 
 place." 
 
 A bright smile passed over the features of Agnese, 
 and for some time she lay quite still; but again some 
 disquieting thought cast its shadow over the serene 
 beauty of her brow, and she tried to lift her hand to- 
 wards her head. 
 
 "What is it, dearest?" May whispered through her 
 tears. 
 
 "His crown was of thorns, and shall I die wreathed 
 in flowers!" she said in a voice now barely audible. 
 
 "Content you, dear one. There are thorns even 
 among roses." 
 
 Agnese thanked her by a smile such a smile as a 
 seraph might have brought from heaven, and then 
 she unfolded her arms from her bosom, and stretched 
 them out until she lay like one extended on a cross. 
 Her sister thought at first it was only a convulsive 
 movement, and tried to refold the arms : but for once 
 the gentle child resisted, and May then knew why she 
 had altered her position, for Agnese whispered, "It 
 was so He died !" and in that attitude, which love alone 
 could have dictated to her heart, she waited for His 
 hour.* How May dreaded the next tolling of the clock, 
 
 lect, incredulity, and insult continually offered our Divine 
 Saviour in His Eucharistic presence; and in those convents 
 where it is established the nuns kneel in rotation, two and 
 two, hour after hour, before the altar, thus realizing (as 
 much as creatures may) our dream of heaven, and emulating 
 in their ceaseless prayer those mysterious creatures, who 
 rest "not night or day," saying, "Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord 
 God Almighty, who was, and who is, and who is to come." 
 * A fact.
 
 BLIND AGNESE 175 
 
 something in her own heart seeming to say it would in- 
 deed be the signal for the coming of the Bridegroom. 
 It knelled at last upon her reluctant ear. The Feast of 
 the Sacred Heart was come indeed ; but for yet a mo- 
 ment longer Agnese lay quite still, her pale face grow- 
 ing brighter and brighter in her celestial joy, until it 
 almost seemed as if a visible light were shedding 
 radiance on her brow. Suddenly she started up 
 "Francesco !" she cried in a clear, low voice, "The 
 Dove!" Even as she spoke, she extended wide her 
 arms, and opened her eyes ; and, oh ! the light, the in- 
 telligence, the love, that filled those once sightless orbs, 
 as she fixed them (so it seemed to the beholders) on 
 some object directly above her. But whether she saw, 
 or what she saw is a secret known only to herself and 
 to her God; for while yet in that attitude of rapt de- 
 votion, without a word, without a sigh, she gave back 
 her pure spirit to Him who had been the object of its 
 ceaseless desires, and her lifeless form sank down 
 upon the pillow, with arms still outstretched to the 
 semblance of that cross, upon which He had died for 
 the love of her. The soul of Agnese was with her 
 God, and she was dead!" 
 
 THE END
 
 ^SOUTHERN REGIONAL UBflARY FAdUTY 
 
 A 000127926 4