the hair from their eyes, and look me straight in the
face, whilst they tell their little story to me and God. They are now
well trained in the exact form of confession. Father Letheby has drilled
them well. But dear me! what white souls they are! Poverty and purity
have worked hand in hand to make them angelic, and their faces are
transfigured by the light that shines within. And their attenuated
bodies show clearly the burning lamp of holiness and faith, as a light
shines soft and clear through the opal shades of porcelain or Sevres.
And the little maidens always say, "Tank you, Fader," when they receive
their penance; and the boys say, "All right." I sometimes expect to hear
"old fellow" added. Then the old women come; and, afraid to touch the
grand carpet with their feet, they leave rather vivid impressions in
brown mud on the waxed floor, which is the very thing that Miss Campion
does not want; and they throw themselves backward whilst they recite in
the soft, liquid Gaelic the _Confiteor_; and then raise themselves
erect, pull up their black cloaks or brown shawls with the airs and
dignity of a young barrister about to address the jury, arrange the coif
of shawl or hood of cloak around their heads, and then tell
you--nothing! God bless them, innocent souls! No need for these
elaborate preparations. Yet what contrition, what sorrow, what love they
pour forth over some simple imperfections, where even a Jansenist cannot
detect the shadow of a venial sin! No wonder that my curate declares
that we have material in Ireland to make it again a wonder to the
world,--an Island of Saints once more! But something is wanting. He does
not know what, nor do I. But he says sometimes that he feels as if he
were working in the dark. He cannot get inside the natures of the
people. There is a puzzle, an enigma somewhere. The people are but half
revealed to us. There is a world of thought and feeling hidden away
somewhere, and unrevealed. Who has the key? He is seeking for it
everywhere, and cannot find it. Now, you know, he is a transcendentalist,
so I don't mind these vagaries; yet he is desperately in earnest.

But he is very kind and tender towards his old pastor. When he "started"
the devotion of the Nine Fridays in honor of the Sacred Heart, of
course he set them all wild. Their eternal salvation depended on their
performing the Nine Fridays successively. And so one Thursday night,
when the wind was howling dismally, and the rai