the heights had once seemed
the greatest thing in the world to him, but now it was less than the
marble altars Mark had ordered for the little church only yesterday.
He remembered the crowds that had hung upon his eloquence in the city,
but now he knew that his very soul was mirrored in the simple
discourses to his poor in Sihasset.

"I couldn't go back," he said to the burning log, "I couldn't be great
again when I know how much true happiness there is in being little."

Then he lifted his eyes to where, from above the fireplace, there
smiled down at him the benign face of Pius the Tenth. "Poor Pope," he
said. "He has to be great, but this is what he would love. He never
could get away from it quite. Doesn't he preach to the people yet, so
as to feel the happiness of the pastor, and thus forget for an hour the
fears and trials of the ruler?"

The fire was dying, but he did not stoop to replenish it. His thoughts
were too holy and comforting to be broken in upon. But they were
broken by Ann's knock.

"That McCarthy is sick ag'in," she said. "'Tis a nice time for the
likes of him to be botherin' yer Riverence. Will I tell them ye'll go
in the mornin'?"

"No, Ann, tell them I'll go now."

"Can't ye have wan night in peace?"

"McCarthy _is_ peace, Ann. You don't understand."

No, Ann didn't understand. She only saw more labor. She didn't
understand that it was only this that the priest needed to crown the
glory of his day.

So Father Murray took his coat and hat and, with a light step, went
out--a father going to the son who needed him.

He was not a bit tired when he came back to the blazing logs; but now
he was perturbed, borne down by a prescience of coming change. From
one point to another he walked--slowly, uneasily, pausing now and then.
Finally he stood by his desk. Above it hung a large crucifix. His
lips moved in prayer as he gazed on the crucified Christ. Then idly he
picked up a book. It fell open in his hand, and he gazed thoughtfully
at the oft-scanned page. How many times had he pondered those two
lines,

"I fear to love thee, sweet, because
Love's the ambassador of loss."

Thus read the priest who felt that peace was no longer possible. For a
little while, perhaps--but not for long. The call would come again,
and he would have to answer. He read once more, changing one word as
he spoke the lines softly to himself,

"I fear to love thee, 'peace,' because
Lo