en courted, and who were willing
therefore to wait upon the plague-smitten, or to carry the Cross
amongst wild and savage tribes. Those who are skilled in quibbling may
say that neither in the case of the Catholic missionary nor in that of
the Sister of Mercy is there any particular merit. What they do is
done not from any pure desire for man's welfare, but because there is
no healthy passion for enjoyment. Nothing is idler than disputes about
the motives to virtuous deeds, or the proportion of praise to be
assigned to the doers of them. It is a common criticism that a sweet
temper deserves no commendation, because the blessed possessor of it is
naturally sweet-tempered, and undergoes no terrible struggle in order
to say the sweet word which he who is cursed with spite only just
manages to force himself to utter. What we are bound to praise or
blame, however, is the result, and the result only--just as we praise
or blame perfect or imperfect flowers. If it comes to a remorseless
probing of motives, there are none of us who can escape a charge of
selfishness; and, in fact, a perfectly _abstract_ disinterestedness is
a mere logical and impossible figment.

To revert to what was said a moment ago, it may be urged that no
sufficient cause is shown for Miriam's determination. What had she
undergone? A little poverty, a little love affair, a little sickness.
But what brought Paul to the disciples at Damascus? A light in the sky
and a vision. What intensity of light, what brilliancy of vision,
would be sufficient to change the belief and the character of a modern
man of the world or a professional politician? Paul had that in him
which could be altered by the pathetic words of the Crucified One, "I
am He whom thou persecutest." The man of the world or the politician
would evade an appeal from the heaven of heavens, backed by the glory
of seraphim and archangel. Miriam had a vitality, a susceptibility or
fluidity of character--call it what you will--which did not need great
provocation. There are some mortals on this earth to whom nothing more
than a certain, summer morning very early, or a certain chance idea in
a lane ages ago, or a certain glance from a fellow-creature dead for
years, has been the Incarnation, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection, or
the Descent of the Holy Ghost.

A man now old and nearing his end is known to Miriam's biographer, who
one Sunday November afternoon, when he was but twenty years ol