cheered by the frequent presence and blessing of his Lord in Holy Communion, he tranquilly awaited the end as it crept on day by day and hour by hour. He was still conscious when the end was plainly near, his dimmed eyes spoke a silent, farewell blessing to the loved ones around his bed, his feeble hand strove to trace upon himself once more the sign of redemption, and his heart's last throb gave voiceless expression to the aspiration that had been so often on his lips, "My Jesus, mercy!" and so dying the death of the just, he passed into eternity.

Though the thought of a death like this is the one great consolation to those who have the most reason to mourn his loss, yet, as long as hearts are human, the kindly sympathy of others has its own value, gives a comfort of its own to those who grieve. And that sympathy I would offer in your name and in my own to the devoted wife who, for well nigh forty years, was joined to him in a union of mutual affection on which never a shadow rested, the sharer of his joys and sorrows, and in latter years his constant companion, his loving support and unfailing strength; to his son whom he gave to God's service in the priesthood, and who will not fail to remember him when at the altar he offers the great Sacrifice for the living and the dead; to those who are left to take up his work here and fill his honoured place; and ah, yes, to those other two not here to-day, but who in their convent homes are following in spirit our mournful ceremony, and thinking with sad affliction of the father who loved them dearly, yet grudged them not to God. A good name is better than riches, and that precious inheritance he has left to his children. May they value it, and walk worthily in the footsteps of their father. But while we express our sympathy for the living, we must not forget the duty of charity we owe to the deceased. And that duty is to pray for him, if indeed he still needs the help which prayer on earth can give. Oh, may God have mercy on him, and bless him, and may He cause the light of His countenance to shine upon him! May He, through the merits of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and the intercession of Mary Immaculate, and all the Saints, grant his soul eternal peace and rest! Amen.

STATUE AND SOUL

THE marble wastes; the statue grows apace!"
So said the greatest Master of his art;

Had he some hidden meaning to impart,

Some lesson that he fain would teach his race?

The Poet's hidden thoughts 'tis hard to trace ;
In signs too fugitive they will depart

And leave to future dreamers' mind and heart
To sift the precious from the commonplace.

"The marble wastes !" The crumbling vesture falls As the white spirit to full stature grows,

And casts the slough of the frail flesh it wears. "The statue grows!" The stricken quarried walls The semblance of a perfect soul disclose

Silent, as waiting from th' eternal years.

P. A. S.

TO A WOUNDED SNIPE

Poor little Bird, why did I wound you? Why?
It seems so hard, so pitiful to die-

Yet here within my hand, inert you lie.

Those speckled wings will never bear you more,
Where I have seen them flashing oft before
Over the marshes and across the moor.

Your life was purely happy with no jar.
Oh, why, or wherefore, echoing from afar,
Your kinship with dear nature's soul to mar?

Yet have I robbed you of this lovely earth,
Wantonly slain a creature made of mirth
And joy the things we vainly seek from birth.

Only a bird, men say, why, if it fall,

Surely a trifle if it count at all.

Ah! but lost life what Power can e'er recall ?

KATHLEEN M. BALFE.

TERENCE O'NEILL'S HEIRESS

A STORY

CHAPTER XXIII

RAIN and storm, tempestuous days and wild wet nights had made the country desolate round Docwra. Fine trees had been blown down, and shrubs torn up by the roots. Several fields near the house were completely flooded; the garden was a wilderness.

"With all thy faults I love thee still," sighed Cecily Tiernan, looking up somewhat sadly at the leaden sky, as she tramped along a muddy lane, in a short and shabby blue serge, a black sailor hat, and a pair of strong, but unbecoming brown boots.

And here it

For all its rain and damp, I'd rather live in Ireland than in any other country in the world. And then, after all, perhaps, we haven't much more rain than they have over in England. Maura often speaks of a deluge' in London. does sometimes clear up in an unexpected way. 'Half sunshine, half tears.' So the poet speaks of Ireland's climate. Well," sighing, "it's been more tears than anything else lately, and in a way it suits us best at present. For we're all very downhearted-father and mother at having to give up, after years of struggle, the dear place where they have lived all their happy married life, and where the dad was born. I-because the necessity to earn my bread takes me to join Maura in the hospital at Poplar. Kathleen-No, sweet Kathleen suffers least, and as far as she herself is concerned, she has little to fret about; for she, having chosen the better part, is serenely peaceful. In her own trusting, holy way, she feels sure all will come right for us in time. God is trying us somewhat severely, she says, but all for our good. And she is right, I suppose. But, oh! 'tis hard to learn resignation. Kathleen will be a good and holy nun, but I-oh, my vocation is not for the wards of a hospital. It would, indeed, lead me far-very far from them. There was a time when I wasn't sure, thought I didn't care. But now I know better, and I feel I'd rather have life-poverty-even in Ireland with- But what a goose I am! It can never be -never." She stopped, and leaning against a little gate closed her umbrella and looked up at the sky again, crying out: "Well, to be sure, wonders will never cease. The rain is over, and

4

I declare, the clouds are scampering off. There is quite a large piece of blue, giving hope of better things. Is it an omen? Would that I could take it as such-a little signal that things were about to improve for us all. From poor Elizabeth with that tyrannical old uncle in his London flat, to Teddy in his Dublin bank."

A man on a bicycle spun round the corner, and came swiftly and silently down the muddy lane. Catching sight of the girl near the gate, he pulled up sharply, and sprang off his machine. "What a happy chance!" he cried, his pleasant face lit up with a gleam of joyful excitement. Cecily, it's ages since we met."

"Three days, Jim, you mustn't exaggerate," laughing a little nervously, as, blushing to her eyes, she laid her hand in his.

"It seems more like three months," he cried, looking into her face. "Cecily, are you still bent on going to this hospital?"

"I must. There is nothing else to be done. Everything is at sixes and sevens at home-debt and difficulty rampant. My father and mother are leaving Docwra. Kathleen is going to her convent, and I-well," in a choking voice, her eyes filling up with tears, "I must go to London and earn my bread in some way.

He caught her hand and pressed it against his breast.

"I love you, Cecily, as you know, for I have told you so a hundred times. I am poor and have little to offer you. But, oh, my darling, be my wife. We'll struggle and fight together, and love and happiness will raise us above the sordid cares of life. We'll not feel poverty whilst we have each other. Our tiny house will be better, brighter than the wards of a hospital. Come, Cecily, say yes. Oh! my own, my own, I cannot live without you."

Cecily raised her head, and looked into his kindly honest eyes.

Yes-Jim-yes. And-and-I'll do my best, with God's help, to be a good wife to you."

My darling," rapturously, "you'll be that without a doubt. God bless you.'

Half an hour later, a bright colour in her cheeks, her eyes shining, Cecily walked quickly home.

"Shall I tell them now, or wait till Jim comes to see father this evening?" she asked herself, as she neared the house. "I hardly know which to do. They'll think us foolish, unwise, I feel sure, to marry on Jim's present salary. And, of course, n many ways they are right. But still-oh! we'll get on well.

I'll be so economical. I must talk to mother-get her to speak to father and prepare the way for Jim. Dear old Jim! He's splendid. And we'll be as happy as the day is long. But still," sighing heavily, "I do wish I had some money, even a tiny fortune, to help to make things comfortable. However, there's no use in longing for the moon, and Jim is a man in a thousand."

The old house seemed deserted. Not a sound was to be heard anywhere. The diningroom door was open, so was that of the drawing-room, and not a soul was to be seen.

"All gone out for a breath of fresh air, now that the rain has stopped," the girl thought. "Well, no wonder. But I wish mother would come in, I'm dying to tell her my news, longing to hear what she will say. She must take my part. She will, I am sure, for she loves Jim, and thinks all the world of him. But, oh! dear, where are they all? I—”

A door opened quickly upstairs, and Kathleen, her fair cheeks very pink, her usually calm eyes troubled, her smooth brow knit in anxious thought and pain, stepped out of Mr. Tiernan's study, and came with hurried feet, down into the hall. "What's the matter?" asked Cecily in alarm. "Oh, Katty, no one's ill, I hope?"

"No, dear. Thank God, no." Kathleen slipped her arm round her sister's waist. But Elizabeth is in great trouble. Uncle John has turned her out, quite late last night."

"The old wretch! I always feared he'd do something horrible. Where is the poor child ?"

At the Langham Hotel. Mrs. Ladbroke took her in for father's sake. Elizabeth has telegraphed for father to go for her."

he

Oh! Kathleen. What an expense! Just now, too. Will go?"

No. He means to send her money to bring her home. He and mother are greatly upset about the whole thing."

"I am not surprised, when any day Docwra may be sold. She ought to stay in London and get a situation."

"Father and mother think she ought to come home for the present. I am off to the post office to get a couple of orders for the poor girl. They must go at once.'

"Let me get them, Katty. I am ready to go out."

Very well, dear," handing her a couple of sovereigns. "I'd

be very glad if you would."

"Elizabeth is very unfortunate," Cecily said, buttoning up her jacket. "Things are always going wrong with her."

"

Poor child, yes. But I do hope she'll have better times