notwithstanding my gloomy forebodings, i find that father letheby has eagerly grasped the idea of writing on the historical and philosophical subjects i had suggested. where he got books of reference i know not, nor can i conjecture; but he has a silent way of accomplishing things that would seem to a slow-moving mind like my own little short of a miracle. when, therefore, one fine day in early april i strolled in to see him (for that little tiff about the sick child has only cemented our friendship), i gasped to see a huge pile of quarto manuscript paper in a fair way to be soon well blackened, and by the side of his writing-table several heavy, leather-lined folios, which a certain visitor described as "just the kind of book you would take with you for a stroll by the seashore, or your annual holiday at lisdoonvarna."

"hallo!" i cried; "so you're at it. i thought you had given it up."

"i'm in for it," he replied modestly, "for good or ill. you see, i recognized some truth in what you said, and i determined to do a little to take away our reproach."

"i must say you are a singularly acute and deep thinker to recognize my far-seeing, almost promethean wisdom; but to tell you the truth, i haven't the faintest idea of what i said to you, except to recommend you to do something for the spread of catholic literature."

"never mind, father dan," he replied, "the seed is sown; the die is cast. i intend to scribble away now and to submit my manuscript to the editor of some ecclesiastical journal. if he accepts it, well and good; if he doesn't, no harm done. by the way, you must help me, by looking over this translation of the funeral oration of st. gregory nazianzen on st. basil. i depend on your knowledge of greek a great deal more than on these garbled versions of scotch or oxford translators."

isn't that a nice young man? what could i do but go over, then and there, that famous panegyric, that has made the author as great as his subject. at the end of his papers on the "three cappadocians," father letheby intends to give in greek, with english translation, passages from their sermons and poems. a happy idea!

"now, so far so good!" said father letheby, after this little conference. "the metaphysical subject is more difficult to tackle,—a fellow can be tripped up so easily; but we'll postpone that for the present. now here are three matters that concern us. i think ormsby is on the point of coming over. the prayers of the little children and of that poor dolores, alice, have nearly pushed open the gates of the kingdom. at least, they're creaking on their hinges. secondly, i'm beginning to get afraid of that young girl. under her awful cross she's developing such sanctity as makes me nervous about guiding her any longer. she is going up the eternal hills, and my spiritual sight cannot follow. thirdly, we open the shirt-factory on the 20th. i give you timely warning, father dan, for you are to be chairman, and your speech is to be the event of the occasion."

"quite an anti-climax from the eternal hills," i said, noticing his tendency to practical issues rather than to supernatural evolutions; "but now, let us see. are you sure of ormsby?"

"nearly so. i have left him severely alone—told him the matter concerned himself altogether. he has given up reading and argumentation of every kind. he says the veni creator every day. but i think, under heaven, it is the patience and divine serenity of this poor child that affect him most deeply."

"then he isn't shocked at her appearance?"

"oh, dear, yes! he cannot bear to look at her. he says it is more like oriental leprosy than anything he has seen in these countries. but her gentleness and patience and her realization of the unseen startle him—"

"it has startled me more than once," i replied.

"and me. i begin to feel almost nervous about directing so high a soul. i am glad you have noticed it, because you can give me lights."

"h'm. you are becoming sarcastic, young man. but i feel we are treading on holy ground. let us look to ourselves. how often do you give the child holy communion?"

"every sunday and holiday."

"has she asked for more frequent communion?"

"yes, indeed; but i hesitated."

"hesitate no longer. digitus dei est hic."

of course, i had seen all this myself; for in a quiet, unconscious way this poor child had manifested even to my purblind eyes the dealings of god's munificence with her. by degrees all the old vain regrets after her beauty had yielded to perfect resignation; and resignation had grown into peace, and peace had been transformed into rapture.

"i used be thinking, daddy dan, a good deal of what you said to me—how these poor bodies of ours were but a little lime, and phosphorus, and water; and that we must all go through the terrible changes of death; and what you told me of that great saint in spain and the dead queen; but it was only when father letheby read to me about our lord, 'a worm and no man,' 'a leper and accursed by god and afflicted'; 'and one huge sore from the crown of his head to the sole of his feet'—that i began to think he had made me like himself, welcome be his will, and holy be his name!"

then i got her a fine big brass crucifix from the passionist fathers at mount argus, and left her to her wonder-working and merciful master. but she has impressed ormsby profoundly. "the weak things of the world hast thou chosen to confound the strong." "thy ways are upon the sea, and thy pathway on the mighty waters, and thy footsteps are unknown."

"well, now," i said to father letheby, getting out of my reverie, "to come down from the holy mountain, what's this you are saying about the shirt-factory? you don't mean to aver it is a fait-accompli?"

"certainly," he replied, "everything is arranged; and on the 20th a dozen sewing-machines will be clicking merrily in the old mill."

"you have the lamp of aladdin," i said admiringly. "now, who's to be there?"

"all the gentry and the élite of the neighborhood," he said.

"rather a limited audience for a great occasion," i couldn't help saying.

"no matter," he cried, rising up; "it is a good work, however. but you'll take the chair, father dan, won't you?"

"all right," i replied, but with a little misgiving, for no one knows what necromancy this fellow is capable of, and i had already conjured up visions of the lord lieutenant and the dowager this and the countess that—"but mind you, my speech is to come in at the end; and i promise you they won't have to look long at their watches."

"very good, sir," he replied, "all is now arranged."

i went down to see my little martyr, for she is pleased to say that i do her good by my visits. there she lay meekly, the big crucifix in her hands, and her lips always moving in silent prayer. the children often come in to see her, she told me, and read by her bedside; for now there is no jealousy, nor triumph, but all have begun to think that there is a saint in the parish. the little milliner used come at the beginning, and bring her little novelettes and journals, and talk about the fashions, which only made the sufferer unhappy. all that is now stopped; and the "clock of the passion" and the "visions of catherine emmerich" are now her only reading.

"mr. ormsby was here again to-day," she said.

"indeed. and was he as inquisitive as usual?"

"nearly," she said, with a smile. "but do you know, daddy dan, i think he'll become a catholic. isn't it an awful thing not to be a catholic, daddy dan?"

"'tis, my child. it's worse than being born blind."

"now, what would i do if i had not our dear lord"—kissing the crucifix—"and his holy mother? i'd rather a thousand times be as i am than queen of england."

"of course. who brought these flowers?"

"miss campion. she calls them lilies of the valley. is it a sin to smell them, daddy dan?"

"no, child, it is no sin. nay, 't is a prayer if you glorify god for the wonders he has wrought in these tiny leaves."

"but they'll fade away and die in a day or two, daddy dan!"

"so shall all beautiful things, my child, only to be transplanted where there is no rust or fading."

"thank you, daddy dan. that's just what i said to mr. ormsby. 'do you really believe,' he said, 'that it is the love of god that has smitten you?' 'yes,' i said firmly. 'do you believe that you are all the dearer to him for that he has smitten you?' 'yes,' i said, 'i'm sure of it.' 'and do you believe that god will take you out of the grave and build you up far fairer than you have been?' 'i believe it most certainly,' i replied. 'it's the sublime and the impossible,' he cried. and then he said,—but i shouldn't repeat this, daddy dan,—'mind, little one, if i become a catholic, it's you have made me one.' but it would be so nice, if only to repay miss campion for all her goodness."

then i began to think of some holy man that said: there should be an invalid and an incurable one in every religious community, if only to bring god nearer to them in his great love.

as i was leaving, mrs. moylan pulled me aside.

"is there any chance at all, your reverence, of her recovery?"

she looked with a mother's wistfulness at me.

"for i do be praying to the lord morning, noon, and night, that if it be his blessed and holy will, he would take her out of suffering, or restore her to me."

i made no answer.

"you could do it, your reverence, if you liked. sure, i don't want you to do any harm to yourself, god forbid; but you could cure her and restore her to me, if you plazed."

"i couldn't, mrs. moylan," i replied; "and what is more, i wouldn't now take her away from god if i could. i was as bitter as you about it; but now i see that god has his own designs upon your child, and who am i that i should thwart him?"

"perhaps your reverence is right," she replied; "but the mother's heart will spake up sometimes whin it ought to be silent."

i passed by my little chapel as i went home, and knelt down for a prayer. i thought the blessed virgin looked queer at me, as if to say:—

"well, are you satisfied now? who was right—you or my son?" and i went home very humbled.

the great day at last arrived. and if i was surprised the evening of the concert at the transformation effected in the old mill, i was still more surprised when, entering its precincts on the opening day of the kilronan shirt-factory, i came face to face with quite a distinguished gathering. there were carriages drawn up at the door, the liveried coachmen hardly able to hold the prancing horses' heads; and the owners were in the great room upstairs, chatting in groups or examining the machines, that, clean and bright and polished, only awaited the soft touch of human fingers to work wonders. and there, on the large table filling up the whole centre of the room, was displayed an assortment of linen and flannels cut up into as many sections as you could take out of all the diagrams of euclid. and there, of course, was the stage, undisturbed since the evening of the concert; and there were the same flowers and palms, and the same little girls dressed in satin, and the same piano, and miss campion, only waiting the signal to commence.

i moved up through the long hall, making my bows to right and left. father letheby was chatting gayly with some very grand people, and pointing out his little improvements here and there. he was in his best optimistic humor, and was quite at his ease in the groups that surrounded him. it is curious how we differ. i did not feel at all comfortable, for i'd rather be talking over the cross-door to any old woman about her chickens, or settling the price of a bonham, or lecturing about the measles and the croup, than conversing with the grandest people of the land. but every one to his tastes; and sure, i ought to be proud that my good curate—

"i move that the parish priest take the chair."

"i beg to second the proposal," said a dapper young fellow, who looked as if he had stepped out of a bandbox. and before i knew where i was, i was on the stage ensconced in a comfortable chair; and then there was a burst of music around me, which gave me leisure to look about and take stock. it was all very nice. there was a great group of fine ladies in front, and they were all staring at me as if i were a dime-museum prodigy. i was "gorgonized from head to foot with a stony, british stare"; a cool, unblushing, calculating stare, that made me feel as if i were turning into stone. i did not know what to do. i tried to cross my legs coolly, but the arm-chair was too low, and i fell back in a most undignified manner. then i placed my hands on my knees, thinking that this was the correct thing; but it struck me immediately that this was the attitude at high mass, and i gave it up as out of place. then i assumed an air of frigid composure, and toyed with my watch-chain. but a little girl screwed her eyes into me, and said, evidently, in her mind: "that old gentleman is a fidget." then i leaned back gracefully, but something whispered: "that's all right at home, father dan, but please remember that the convenances of society require a different posture;" and i sat bolt upright in a moment. my eye caught in a blissful moment my new handsome umbrella that lay against my chair. i took it up and leaned with dignity upon it; but that aforesaid little girl looked at me, and looked at her mamma, and said—i know she said in her own mind—"that old gentleman thinks it is going to rain, and he wants to open his umbrella. mamma, tell him that there is no danger of rain here." i put down my umbrella. then miss campion—god bless her! she always comes to my relief—tore her little fingers along the keys in a grand finale, and then tripped over to her old pastor, and said gayly:—

"hurrah! now, father dan, for the grand speech. won't you astonish these heretics?"

i believe i did astonish them. for, after a few preliminaries, i settled down coolly into a quiet, deliberate talk; and i saw by degrees the stony stare melt away into sunny smiles, and the sunny smiles broadened into genteel laughter, and there was great clapping of hands, and suppressed cheers, and altogether i felt that i held them all in the palms of my hands. but that wicked little girl in the front seats held out a long time. she did not know whether to laugh or to cry. she blinked her eyes at me, as if to be sure it was not a spectral vision; then looked dreadfully alarmed; then consulted her mother's face, now wreathed in smiles; and then, when her brother was falling off the seat laughing, and poking her with his stick, she condescended to relax her awful stare, to smile, to look surprised at herself for smiling—at last, to laugh. i knew then i had the victory, and i sang, lo triumphe! in my own mind.

it is curious and interesting to notice how thoroughly these protestant folk warm to a priest the moment they discover he is not quite an ogre. all these great people gathered round me; they were so delighted, etc.

"what's your name, my dear?" i said to the wicked little girl.

"nonna!" she replied.

"by jove!" i exclaimed, "st. gregory's mother!"

"naw," she said, "it's grandmaw's name."

"it's a pretty name all the same," i replied; "may you wear it as long as grandma."

the girls were all sitting at the machines waiting. down near the end of the hall were two individuals in close conversation. they looked prosaic and dull amid all the excitement. when i got near them i saw the man, who was looking at me steadily, with one eye closed, whilst i was speaking. he was an infidel, a giaour, an incredulous, questioning, calculating unbeliever in all my rosy forecastings. he was the manager over from loughboro'. the lady was manageress, and had come over to superintend the initial proceedings at kilronan. somehow i didn't like them. they chilled the atmosphere. there was that cool, business-like air about them, that l. s. d. expression that shears off the rays of imagination, and measures and weighs everything by the same low standard. i saw father letheby buoyant, enthusiastic, not merely hopeful, but certain of the success of his enterprise. i saw these two business people chatting and consulting together, and i knew by their looks that they were not quite so sanguine. it was "the little rift within the lute."

as i went home, pondering and thinking,—for i didn't wait for the tea and cake that are supposed to be essential to all these gatherings,—i heard the patter of a light foot behind me, and in a minute bittra was by my side.

"dear me!" she panted, "you are so young and active, father dan, it is hard to keep up with you."

by which kind sarcasm i knew that bittra had something good to tell me.

"shall i call you bittra or beata?" i replied, looking down at her flushed face.

"beata! beata! beatissima!" she said, in a kind of ecstasy; "it is all right; and god is so good!"

"i always object to the fireworks style of elocution on the part of my curate," i said, "and if you could shed a calm, lambent light on this ecstatic episode, it would suit my slow intellect."

"slow," she said, stopping,—"do you know, father dan, that is, you do know, that you have just made one of the nimblest, wittiest, drollest, most eloquent speeches that ever was made. i heard mrs. s—— say that she never could have believed—"

"beata," i interrupted seriously, "my purgatory will be long enough, i believe. indeed, if i get out in the general exodus on the day of judgment i shall consider myself happy. where's the use in your adding to it, and making an old vain man so much vainer? tell me about what is nearest to your heart to-day."

thus soberized, she gave me a fairly consecutive account of what had happened. i say "fairly," because, of course, there were many exclamations, and notes of interrogation, and "asides," which i let pass without comment.

ormsby had paid the suffering child a visit that morning, and had put his final theses and difficulties before her. disbeliever in miracles, he was face to face with a miracle. that such an awful affliction as befell alice should be accepted, not only with resignation, but with joy; that she would consider it a positive misfortune to be restored to her old beauty, and that she was forever thanking god that he had elected her to suffering, was either of two things—insanity or inspiration. and her faith in the supernatural—her intense realization of the existence and the daily, hourly influence of our lord and his blessed mother, and her profound conviction that one day her physical shame and torment would intensify her glory in heaven—all this struck him as a revelation, before which the antics of spiritualists, and the foreknowledge of brahmins, and the blank agnosticism of science paled into contemptible insignificance.

bittra, as usual, had been speaking to mrs. moylan in the kitchen. sitting on the straw chair, she spoke for the hundredth time her words of consolation to the poor mother. the murmur of voices came clear, but indistinct, from the little chamber of the sick girl. then, after a long conference, ormsby came out, grave and collected as usual, and bittra having said good by to the mother, and kissed the leprous face of the sick girl, they both walked on in silence, until they came to the bridge that spanned the fiord near the "great house." ormsby leaned on the parapet of the bridge looking out over the tumbling waters for a long time. then, turning, he said:—

"bittra, i must become a catholic."

then bittra put her hand in his gloved palm, and that was all.

"and was that all?" i exclaimed incredulously.

"that's all," said bittra, "and wasn't it enough?"

"that's not the way a novelist would wind up such a delightful romance," i said. "there would have been at least twenty or thirty pages of lurid description."

"ah! but this is not a romance," said bittra; "this is stern reality."

and she tried ineffectually to frown.

"it only remains now," she continued, "that rex shall be instructed, and that won't take long; and then received, and make his first communion, and that won't take long; and then—and then—"

she paused. i was studying attentively a seagull that was poised motionless over the heaving waters.

"father dan, you're becoming very unkind."

"indeed? i was only waiting for the date and circumstances of the 'then.'"

"well, you see, it can't be may; because the people have a foolish superstition about may; though i should so like to be—to be—married under our lady's auspices. but the first day in june. won't that be delightful? and it must be right under the statue of the sacred heart; and i shall put there such a mass of roses that day; and we shall both go to holy communion, and you'll say the nuptial mass, father dan—"

"i?"

"yes, of course. who else, i should like to know?"

"i thought you would be bringing down an archbishop or even a cardinal—"

"now, you're jesting as usual. i'll have no one but you—you—you—to marry me; and perhaps, if i were not asking too much, the choir might sing—"

"certainly! they must. but i won't promise you that wedding-march by that german fellow—"

"mendelssohn?"

"yes. that's his name, i believe. nor that other march of that other fellow, whom we see on the papers."

"i know. you mean the grand march in 'lohengrin.' why, father dan, what a musician you are! who would ever think it?"

"ah, my dear, i'm not understood at all. but i'll promise you one thing, my little child, such an ovation from the poor of kilronan as will make the angels cry with envy."

here bittra was silent.

"one word more, father dan," she said, wiping away a happy tear, "i must be running back. rex is waiting. but he doesn't speak enthusiastically about this sewing business. you know he has great experience of the world—"

i nodded "of course."

"and he has seen all kinds of things, and he is awfully shrewd and clever, and he knows people so well, and he understands business matters so thoroughly—"

"go on," i said, admiringly.

"well," she continued, with a laugh, "he does not like this affair at all, nor the boat business at all. he's afraid that father letheby, for whom he has the greatest admiration, will become embarrassed in money matters, and that there will be trouble—"

"don't let this imaginary shadow darken your sunshine, bittra. it will be all right. trust father letheby. he is very far-seeing."

"well, good-by, father dan. pray for me. and won't you go see our little saint, and tell her? i have no time to-day."

"good-by, and god bless you!" i said fervently.

it is these white souls that brighten the gray landscapes of life, and make death desirable; for shall we not meet their sisters and compeers in heaven?