orable. It was quite true that
he "wore the white flower of a blameless life"; but that is expected and
found in every priest; it was something else,--his manliness, his truth,
that made him

"--my own ideal knight,
Who reverenced his conscience as his king,
Whose glory was redressing human wrongs;
Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it.

* * * * *

... We have lost him; he is gone;
We know him now; all narrow jealousies
Are silent; and we see him as he moved,
How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise,
With what sublime repression of himself,
And in what limits, and how tenderly!"

My poor boy! my poor boy! I thought he would be over me in my last hour
to hear my last confession, and place the sacred oils on my old limbs,
and compose me decently for my grave; but it was not to be. _Vale, vale,
longum vale!_

There was a letter from the bishop, and a large brown parcel before me
when I reached my home. I opened the letter first. It ran thus:--

My dear Father Dan:--The prebendary stall, vacated by the death of
the late Canon Jones, I now have much pleasure in offering for your
acceptance. I suppose, if the [Greek: to prepon] always had force
in this world, you would have been canon for the last twenty or
thirty years; but at least it is my privilege now to make
compensation; and I sincerely hope I may have the benefit of your
wise counsel in the meetings of the Cathedral Chapter. It will also
give you a chance of seeing sometimes your young friend, whom I
have so suddenly removed; and this will weigh with you in accepting
an honor which, if it has come tardily, may it be your privilege to
wear for many years

I am, my dear Father Dan,
Yours in Christ,
----

"Kind, my Lord, always kind and thoughtful," I murmured.

Then I cut the strings of the parcel. It contained the rochet, mozzetta,
and biretta of a canon, and was a present from some excellent Franciscan
nuns, to whom I had been formerly chaplain, and who were charitable
enough not to have forgotten me. So there they were at last, the dream
of half a lifetime. God help us! what children we are! Old and young,
it's all the same. I suppose that is why God so loves us.