that run through my veins; and when I waken, it is with tears of joy. And, Michael, my mother comes to me-my little sister; and they tell me of angel children that play among flowers that do not wither-fountains that never run dry. And I am not afraid, Michael; for why-it was my mother-my sister that died so young."

Nothing would satisfy the child but that I should teach her all I knew; and it was sweet as we lay on sunny banks where fox-gloves bloomed and ragworts waved, to hear her rehearse the immortal lays of Greece and Rome, which she even repeated in her sleep. Many a question did she address on subjects which I was ill-fitted to resolve. ""Tis true," she said, "I am but a child, yet I think of the time that had no beginning the space that never ends."

There she sat gazing on the sky, her flaxen hair streaming down her shoulders; for pale and thin was Marion, sparing her raiment, and scant

her daily fare. Yet love and blessed hope animated those heaven-illumined features-beamed from those azure eyes! I see her yet, reclining by the spring, twining the wild rose and honey-suckle in her hair; and it was"Michael, brother, is it you," as she hung on my arm, or chased bird or insect in many a sportive turn.

Multitudes sought Father Duigenan's spiritual aid; for who so willing as he to rise at midnight call- to watch with the sufferer, pray with the sinner alike. "Alas!" he would say, "why peril your souls in vain processions, idle holydays, relics of the dead? The only penance is repentance; the only procession, the procession to heaven; the only holyday, to keep each day holy; the only relic, a pious, humble, yet faithful, striving heart! Help yourselves, and God will help you. I can but point the way: you must follow it."

And, truly, there was scope for exhortation. The substance was sacrificed to the shadow-the reality to the show. The needful tillage of the soil was neglected in favour of some reputed saint's day and precious time was squandered at station or holy well-forgetful, or unconscious, that to work is also to pray-to do our duty purest orthodoxy. Pity so much zeal had not a surer mark! They wot not that God's temple was the living spirit; and unless that temple were pure, that neither priest, nor prayer, nor so-called sacred environment, could avail.

No one can say under what circumstances heart and soul are destined to expand. The tree of life, perchance, finds sustenance in barrenest soil! We listened and we learned; and as our intelligence grew, so did we hold converse on sacred things. Often we spoke of Christ; how hypocrites, traders in religion, had sworn his life away; how he died, yet lived again.

And we took each other by the hand; and, with tears and yearnings, and infinite strivings of soul, vowed to bear the cross of trial, so that, pure and holy, we, too, might be free of the kingdom of God. No waxen tapers burned censer swung, nor did ancient hymns roll along vaulted roofs; but the loftier sky, heaven's own dome, with stars numberless, and voices from the infinite, testified to our sincerity.

no

"What think you of fairies, Michael? I have thought I heard their feet along the green, their voices 'mid the sunny flowers. Yet such creatures could not be in earth or sky. Those who give credence to them, or unto returning spirits, are alike mistaken. No, the soul that sets out for God is never seen of man again! Let us love, not fear the dead. They are happy away, and in their own country. They wander by sunny slopes-fountains that flow, and flowers that blow, in the paradise of God. There, too,

is my little sister, ever sweet, ever young, and waiting for me. And she will kiss me when she sees me, and call me her darling; show me birds, and precious flowers, and jewels to shine in my hair. O Michael, I feel so happy this night: do not you wish you were an angel with God?"

Now pestilence ran through the land, people loathed all sustenance; strength forsook their limbs, and they grew dark and chill ere they expired.

"God sends health, Michael; he also sends disease; let us take what comes at his hand. But why, oh, why is the baby cut off at its mother's breast-the father struggling for his infant's bread; the sister in the house, the brother in the field—oh, I understand it not."

"It is even so, Marion. God appoints the how and the when. But I have read that after

pestilence, people came to replace those that