strolled in to
see him (for that little tiff about the sick child has only cemented our
friendship), I gasped to see a huge pile of quarto manuscript paper in a
fair way to be soon well blackened, and by the side of his writing-table
several heavy, leather-lined folios, which a certain visitor described
as "just the kind of book you would take with you for a stroll by the
seashore, or your annual holiday at Lisdoonvarna."

"Hallo!" I cried; "so you're at it. I thought you had given it up."

"I'm in for it," he replied modestly, "for good or ill. You see, I
recognized some truth in what you said, and I determined to do a little
to take away our reproach."

"I must say you are a singularly acute and deep thinker to recognize my
far-seeing, almost Promethean wisdom; but to tell you the truth, I
haven't the faintest idea of what I said to you, except to recommend
you to do something for the spread of Catholic literature."

"Never mind, Father Dan," he replied, "the seed is sown; the die is
cast. I intend to scribble away now and to submit my manuscript to the
editor of some ecclesiastical journal. If he accepts it, well and good;
if he doesn't, no harm done. By the way, you must help me, by looking
over this translation of the funeral oration of St. Gregory Nazianzen on
St. Basil. I depend on your knowledge of Greek a great deal more than on
these garbled versions of Scotch or Oxford translators."

Isn't that a nice young man? What could I do but go over, then and
there, that famous panegyric, that has made the author as great as his
subject. At the end of his papers on the "Three Cappadocians," Father
Letheby intends to give in Greek, with English translation, passages
from their sermons and poems. A happy idea!

"Now, so far so good!" said Father Letheby, after this little
conference. "The metaphysical subject is more difficult to tackle,--a
fellow can be tripped up so easily; but we'll postpone that for the
present. Now here are three matters that concern us. I think Ormsby is
on the point of coming over. The prayers of the little children and of
that poor Dolores, Alice, have nearly pushed open the gates of the
Kingdom. At least, they're creaking on their hinges. Secondly, I'm
beginning to get afraid of that young girl. Under her awful cross she's
developing such sanctity as makes me nervous about guiding her any
longer. She is going up the eternal hills, and my spiritual sight cannot
follow. Thirdly, we open the