ning; it is enough if I can say to myself, "I will be
content to endure the sorrow that philosophy has left me; without
it, it would be greater, and the gnat's bite would be the wasp's
sting."'

"Now, this is a tremendous admission from a philosopher in love with his
science. It shows that he cares for truth more than for mere wisdom--"

"Look here, young man, something has brightened you up; this is the
first day for the fortnight that you have condescended to turn your
thoughts away from the luxury of fretting."

"Ay, indeed," he said, and there was a faint halo around his face.
"Three things--work, Dolores, and my weekly hour. I have trampled all my
bitterness under the hoofs of hard work. I have my first chapter of 'The
Cappadocians' ready for the printer. I tell you work is a noble tonic.
It was the best thing Carlyle wrote,--that essay on Work. Then this
afflicted child shames me. She takes her crucifixion so gloriously. And
last, but not least, when I pass my hour before the Blessed
Sacrament--an hour is a long time, Father Dan, and you think of a lot of
things--and when all the Christian philosophy about shame, and defeat,
and suffering, and ignominy comes back to me, I assure you I have been
angry with myself, and almost loathe myself for being such a coward as
to whimper under such a little trial."

"Very good! Now, that's common sense. Have you heard from the Board?"

"Yes; that's all right. They are going to hold an investigation to try
and make that French steamer responsible, as I believe she is, for two
reasons: she was going full speed in the fog; and she should have
observed the rule of the road, or of the sea, that a steamer is always
bound to give way to a sailing vessel. And I am becoming thoroughly
convinced now, from all that I can hear, that it was no accident. I
should like to know what took that steamer away from the fleet, and five
miles out of her ordinary course. I'm sure the Board will mulct her
heavily."

"But has the Board jurisdiction over foreign vessels ten or twelve miles
from shore?"

"That I don't know. I wish Ormsby were home."

"So do I, except for the tragedy we'll have to witness with that poor
child."

"Have you heard lately?"

"Not since she wrote from Paris."

"Alice had a letter from Florence yesterday. Such a pitiful letter, all
about her father. There was a good deal that Alice did not
understand,--about Dante, and Savonarola, and the Certosa,--