portrayed
upon the walls in vermilion_."

The other is an Audran engraving of that same man grown old and
stripped of beauty and of glory, as the leaf that falls and the flower
that fades. The somber habit of an order has replaced scarlet and
gold; and sackcloth, satin. Between the two pictures hangs an old
crucifix. For that is Armand De Rance, glorious sinner, handsomest,
wealthiest, most gifted man of his day--and his a day of glorious men;
and this is Armand De Rance, become the sad austere reformer of La
Trappe.

My mother rose, walked over to the Abbe's pictures, and looked long
and with rather frightened eyes at him. Perhaps there was something in
the similarity to his of the fate which had come upon me who bore his
name, which caused her to turn so pale. I also am an Armand De Rance,
of a cadet branch of that great house, which emigrated to the New
World when we French were founding colonies on the banks of the
Mississippi.

Her hand went to her heart. Turning, she regarded me pitifully.

"Oh, no, not that!" I reassured her. "I am at once too strong and not
strong enough for solitude and silence. Surely there is room and work
for one who would serve God through serving his fellow men, in the
open, is there not?"

At that she kissed me. Not a whimper, although I am an only son and
the name dies with me, the old name of which she was so beautifully
proud! She had hoped to see my son wear my father's name and face and
thus bring back the lost husband she had so greatly loved; she had
prayed to see my children about her knees, and it must have cost her a
frightful anguish to renounce these sweet and consoling dreams, these
tender and human ambitions. Yet she did so, smiling, and kissed me on
the brow.

Three months later I entered the Church; and because I was the last
De Rance, and twenty four, and the day was to have been my
wedding-day, there fell upon me, sorely against my will, the halo of
sad romance.

Endeared thus to the young, I suppose I grew into what I might call a
very popular preacher. Though I myself cannot see that I ever did much
actual good, since my friends praised my sermons for their "fine
Gallic flavor," and I made no enemies.

But there was no rest for my spirit, until the Call came again, the
Call that may not be slighted, and bade me leave my sheltered place,
my pleasant lines, and go among the poor, to save my own soul alive.

That is why and how the Bishop, my old and dear fri