Run, then, to your Father and sue for mercy; for He will relieve you, and will not despise your desires founded on sorrow for sins committed; He will even receive you with affection. Alas! alas! where have all your good desires flown to? And how am not I to be pitied to see the demon carrying away your soul and all your noble aspirations! The world and the slaves of the world have snared and held you in their seductive toils and sinful pleasures. Come, now; hasten and take the remedy: awake, to sleep no more. Bring some comfort to my soul; and be not so cruel to your own as to tarry in the coming. Let not the devil deceive you by fear or shame. Break the bonds that bind you, and make haste to come, dear son of mine. And truly I may call you dear, considering all the tears and sorrow and infinite bitterness you have caused me. Yes; come now home to your nest. All the excuse I can offer to God is that I can do more. And whether you come or whether you stay all I ask of you is that you do the will of God." The wild bird tarried long on the way, but flew home at last.

Those whom Catherine had charmed away from a perverse generation to live unspotted from the world; those whom she led to clearer heights upon the narrow path they had already chosen, constituted her friends, her disciples, her family. Those are they whom she speaks of when she says to God: "I offer and recommend to Thee my most dear children, for they are my very soul." She held them for life, for death, and for eternity. The blessed in heaven, she says in the "Dialogo," participate in a particular manner in the happiness of those with whom they were most closely united in affection while on earth. Their love made goodness grow in them. They were for one another an occasion of glorifying the name of God in themselves and in their neighbour; and as the affection that united them is not destroyed in heaven they enjoy it in a fuller measure, and this very love augments their blessedness.

DOWN BY THE DODDER.

N

ATURE I love in all her moods,
But I more oft have sought her
Where on the silence of green woods
Breaks in the rush of water.

The noise of streamlet's ceaseless flow
Has soothed my spirit ever—
Blank seems fair Nature's fairest show
Without some gleaming river.

Had I to own a grand estate-
(The notion makes me shiver)—
For these three things I'd stipulate:
A lake, a hill, a river.

Your dull, flat, woody parks may be
Baronialler and broader-

A glen for me 'twixt hills and sea,
With a live stream like Dodder.

Too long have I thy neighbour been,
Dear Stream, without exploring
Thy course amid the meadows green,
Thy purling and thy roaring:
For thou, too, placid Stream, hast roared,
While in wild, wintry weather
Thou hast thy mountain torrent poured
Between the crags and heather.

Thy mountain cradle's far away,
Thy race is run; and mine is
Nearer perhaps-ah! who can say
How near?-unto its finis.
And so from Life's loud, dusty road,
A somewhat jaded plodder,

I steal to this serene abode,

And thee, suburban Dodder!

I lean me on this orchard wall

And smell the pears and cherriesEach shrub and tree, both great and small, Stoops 'neath its load of berries. That redbreast thieving yonder, see!

Poor innocent marauder,

The Seventh Commandment binds not thee A-robbin' near the Dodder.

And now our seaward ramble meets
A rustic, quaint, and still town,
Which you must spell with double —
God bless it, dear old Milltown!
Yet here, even here, one likes to dine
Rich scenery's poor fodder
For poet going up the Rhine,

Or going down the Dodder.*

My song must cease, but thine goes on-
Thy musical, meek murmur

Broke Nature's silence ages gone-
Thy voice has but grown firmer.
In shade and shine, grave, gay, sing on,
And scoop thy channel broader;
From dawn to dark, from dark to dawn,
Flow on, sing on, O Dodder!

Flow on!

Poor Moore once warbled here
"Flow on, thou shining river!"
Thy race is run, the sea is near,
My muse grows sad-forgive her.
And as we've strewn upon thy banks
Our very softest sawder,

Flash back thy sunniest smile in thanks
Upon thy Laureate, Dodder! ·

I leave thee. Shall it be for aye,
A river's long Forever?

"I will return,' we often say,

And yet return, ah ! never.

Well, on Life's road, through dust or flowers,

A not less useful plodder

I'll be, please God, for these calm hours
Spent on the banks of Dodder.

M. R.

"I think I'll go up the Rhine this summer," said a certain Baronet. "And I," rejoined a certain Alderman, "will go down the Dodder."

A PEARL IN DARK WATERS.

A TALE OF THE TIMES OF BLESSED MARGARET MARY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "TYBORne," etc.

CHAPTER XX.

It was a few days after the secret conference between Marguerite and Philip; night had closed in; the noise and stir of a large household had died away; all had retired to rest, and Father de la Colombière was, as usual, wrapt in prayer before the Tabernacle, when he was startled by a low knock at his door. A little boy stood on the threshold who bore a note.

Father de la Colombière unfolded it and read the following lines in Margery's handwriting:

"FATHER-Rita is going. In half an hour it will be too late. Laure has only just discovered it. They are to meet in the garden; he has by some means procured a key to a side gate. She will fly with him and be married by the Protestant rite. O Father, save her! Laure and I are waiting for you in the garden; the side door by the fountain is open. Dismiss this child."

With a few kind words the child was sent away. Father de la Colombière wrapped himself in his cloak, drew a low Spanish hat over his brows and descended to the garden. At the spot appointed he met Margery and her waiting maid, the former pale and trembling. She pointed to a tree at some distance from them, where stood two closely veiled and muffled figures. They were Marguerite and her attendant.

Just as May and her two companions reached this spot, Philip Engleby with rapid steps entered the garden from a side gate and approached the party, saying: "There is no time to be lost, Rita."

He started back as he saw the intruders. "Ha! what means this?" he cried.

"That you cannot take Lady Marguerite Clymne at this unseemly hour from those who are bound to protect her," said Father de la Colombière.

"Mon Père," exclaimed Marguerite, "I pray you, do not interfere. I am mistress of my own actions. I go with my cousin and future husband by my own free act and will.”

"Hearest thou what the lady says?" said Philip, his face darkening with rage. "We want no spiritual fooling and priestly domination here. Stand back, Monsieur l'Aumônier, or by Heaven I'll make you repent it."

"I shall not yield," said the priest. "I am parleying thus,

only to shield Lady Marguerite's name from scandal; but if you do not instantly withdraw and allow her to regain her chamber in safety, I will alarm the Household."

Philip paused a moment as if irresolute. Father de la Colombière turned his gaze on Marguerite, to see the effect of his words; but Margery's eyes were fixed on Philip.

The priest moved nearer to Marguerite. In an instant something glittered in the moonlight. May threw herself upon his arm. A low cry burst from her lips, and a gush of warm blood welled from her side. The blow aimed at the Father had struck the

faithful child.

With a gasp of horror Marguerite started forward and caught her sister in her arms. Philip, not even yet losing his self-possession, whispered to Marguerite: "Leave her to her maid and fly. In the confusion we shall escape."

Marguerite did not answer even by a glance. With sobs of anguish she hung over the apparently lifeless form, while Father de la Colombière assisted by Laure and Victoire endeavoured to stanch the life-blood that was ebbing fast away.

Muttering a curse, Philip bit his lip and turned away. "The game is up," said he between his teeth, as he let himself out at the garden gate.

Victoire succeeded in bandaging the wound; and then Laure, a strong, vigorous woman, lifted May's light form in her arms and carried her towards the palace. There was a sort of unspoken consent among the four actors in this strange scene to keep the occurrence if possible secret. They had been standing upon soft earth, and the rain which was beginning to fall would soon efface all evidence of the fray.

Father de la Colombière regained his room unobserved, changed his dress, and anxiously awaited a summons to Lady Margery's chamber.

In about an hour came the expected knock, and Monsieur Bonjean, the little, fat, good-natured French doctor to the Duchess of York entered.

"What! up again, Mon Père?" said he, rubbing his hands; "if all the world thought as little of their lives as you do, my occupation would be gone. I have come to tell you that Lady Margery Clymne is very ill."

"Indeed!" said the Father, "that is very

sudden."

"Very much so," returned the doctor: "stabs in the side have not, as far as I know, any premonitory symptoms. Now sir," continued the little man, dropping his tone of banter, "I can keep a secret, if need be, as well as a priest. Lady Margery did not stab herself; that is certain from the position of the wound. Neither do I think the little angel that she is would tell a lie to save a life. 'Tis a wonderful creature that. With those great eyes of hers fixed on you with a pleading look, a man feels he must do what