nd below the
level of the road. Light enters with difficulty. An obscure, suggestive
scene worthy of Rembrandt, who would have revelled in this combination
of mysterious gloom and human occupation.

The master, a stalwart Spaniard, bade us enter and gave us welcome. He
was probably a man who did not trouble himself about religion, but his
reverence and admiration, even affection for Father Anselmo were
evident.

"You honour me with your presence and bring back a sacred atmosphere to
this desecrated building," he said to the priest. "Not every day will
you come upon such a scene. Yet there is a certain fitness in it after
all. Was not Joseph a carpenter? and did not our Saviour work in the
carpenter's shop? So that, as it seems to me, it has become noble above
all other callings. And so, if this church must be turned to secular
use, we have chosen for the best. To me there is no sense of
desecration. You have San Pedro and the cathedral for worship, and there
is room and to spare in both."

"I fear you seldom add to the number of worshippers," said Anselmo, with
the mildest of rebukes. "Yet, Miguel, how often have I said there is
good in you--an apprehension of the beauty of a religious life--if only
you would not allow it to run to seed."

"Father," returned Miguel good-humouredly--it was curious to hear an
older man thus address a younger--"all in good time. I conceive that I
am living a fair life, working hard, treating my wife well, looking
after my children. But somehow I can't go to confession--what have I to
confess, in the name of wonder?--and I never feel a bit the better for
Mass, high or low. So I just make a religion of daily life, and
by-and-by, when I am old, I will try to find benefit in your set forms
and ceremonies."

Anselmo shook his head. We knew how closely he sympathised with at least
one part of Miguel's objections, though he could not tell him so. He
only looked a vain remonstrance, which Miguel received with the
good-natured smile that seemed a part of himself.

"Last Sunday," said Anselmo, placing his hand on Miguel's shoulder, "I
took for my text those words which are some of the most solemn, most
hopeless, most full of warning in the whole Bible: _'And the door was
shut.'_ There, Miguel, is a sermon in a nutshell. Bear it in mind and
ponder over it. Your door is still open; so is mine; but who can be sure
of the morrow? Forgive me," turning to us; "I did not come here for
this, but Mig