ood, and so far up in the clouds, nothing low or base could reach
you. Well, it was not to be. You were only clay, after all--the
porcelain of human clay, perhaps, but very brittle stuff withal. Trouble
did come; the man you had made a sort of idol of, to whom you had given
your whole heart, with a love so intense as to be sinful--this man
abandons you. The sister you have trusted and been fond of, deceives
you, and you find that trouble is something more than a word of two
syllables. You have been very great, and noble, and heroic all your
life, in theory--how do we find you in practice? Why, drooping like any
other lovelorn damsel, pining away without one effort at that greatness
and heroism you thought so much of; without one purpose to conquer
yourself, without one effort to be resigned to the will of Heaven. You
rebel against your father's marriage; everybody else ought to be lonely
and unhappy because you are; the world ought to wear crape, and the
light of the sun be darkened. But the world laughs and sings much as
usual, the sun shines as joyously. Your father's marriage will be an
accomplished fact, and our modern heroine says 'yes' to the first man
who asks her to marry him in a fit of spleen, because she will be Grace
Danton's step-daughter, and must retire a little into the background,
and look forward to the common humdrum life ordinary mortals lead. She
doesn't ask help where help alone is to be found; so in the hour of her
trial there is no light for her in earth or Heaven. Oh, my child! stop
and think what you are going to do before it is too late."

"I can't think," she said, in a hollow voice. "I only know I am a
miserable, sinful, fallen creature. Help me, Father Francis; tell me
what I am to do."

"Do not ask help from me," the young priest said, gravely; "ask it of
that compassionate Father who is in Heaven. Oh! my child, the way to
that land of peace and rest is the way of the Cross--the only way. There
are more thorns than roses under our feet, but we must go on like
steadfast soldiers to the end, bearing our cross, and keeping the
battle-cry of the brave old Crusaders in our hearts, 'God wills it.'
Your trouble has been heavy, my poor child, I don't doubt, but you
cannot be exempt from the common lot. I am sorry for you, Heaven knows,
and I would make your life a happy one if I could, in spite of all the
harsh things I may say. It is because I would not have your whole life
miserable that I talk