y in my life, dear--joy in the beauty of the world,
in the sunshine and the moon and the stars and the flowers and the songs
of the birds, and then (apart from the divine love that is too holy to
speak about) in my religion, in my beloved Church, in the love of my
dear mother and my sweet child, and above all--above all in _you_.

I feel a sense of sacred thankfulness to God for giving you to me, and
if it has not been for long in this life, it will be for ever in the
next.

So good-bye, my dearest me--_just for a little moment_! My dearest one,
Good-bye!

MARY O'NEILL.

MARY O'NEILL'S LAST NOTE WRITTEN ON THE FLY-LEAVES OF HER MISSAL

AUGUST 9-10.

It is all over. I have given him my book. My secret is out. He knows
now. I almost think he has known all along.

I had dressed even more carefully than usual, with nurse's Irish lace
about my neck as a collar, and my black hair brushed smooth in my
mother's manner, and when I went downstairs by help of my usual kind
crutch (it is wonderful how strong I have been to-day) everybody said
how much better I was looking.

Martin was there, and he took me into the garden. It was a little late
in the afternoon, but such a sweet and holy time, with its clear air and
quiet sunshine--one of those evenings when Nature is like a nun
"breathless with adoration."

Although I had a feeling that it was to be our last time together we
talked on the usual subjects--the High Bailiff, the special license,
"the boys" of the _Scotia_ who were coming over for my wedding, and how
some of them would have to start out early in the morning.

But it didn't matter what we talked about. It was only what we felt, and
I felt entirely happy--sitting there in my cushions, with my white hand
in his brown one, looking into his clear eyes and ruddy face or up to
the broad blue of the sky.

The red sun had begun to sink down behind the dark bar of St. Mary's
Rock, and the daisies in the garden to close their eyes and drop their
heads in sleep, when Martin became afraid of the dew.

Then we went back to the house--I walking firmly, by Martin's side,
though I held his arm so close.

The old doctor was in his consulting room, nurse was in my room, and we
could hear Christian Ann upstairs putting baby into her darling white
cot--she sleeps with grandma now.

The time came for me to go up also, and then I gave him my book, which I
had been carrying under my arm, telling him to read the last