fluence of that sympathy? Can anyone say that she ever forgot a friend? An old Roman poet has said that while you are in good circumstances you will number many friends; but when poverty or reverses come upon you they will give you a wide berth. Such was not the friendship of Mother Gonzaga. On the contrary, it was precisely when sorrow or adversity was severest that her friendship was deepest and most sincere; to this hundreds can testify.

Her love, like that of her Divine Spouse, was strong as death. It was this universal sympathy which drew all hearts to her and knitted them to her soul with bands of steel. It was this that gave her that wonderful' influence over all who came within the circle of her acquaintance; but over her nuns this influence was quite phenomenal-her least word was obeyed to the letter, the slightest indication of her wishes was immediately translated into action. Nor was her sympathy confined to the members of her own order; it extended to all the institutes of the Church that are doing the work of God. She heartily rejoiced in their success and sorrowed with them in their trials.

So far I have only been dealing with those characteristics which adorned her outward life. But what shall I say of her interior virtues? The beauty of the King's daughter is from within. Notwithstanding her many duties and cares it might be truly said of her that she was buried with Christ in God: His holy will was her Polar star to which she ever looked for guidance. Remember," she would say, "it is the pure intention that merits the eternal reward before which all that is earthly pales and fades into insignificance." It was this constant union with God that gave such efficacy to all her words. It was this which made her a link between souls and God. It was this which gave her superhuman courage to undertake works which to human prudence might seem reckless folly. It was this also that made her lay the foundations. of this exquisite church; she knew God would not fail her, and He did not. In a very wonderful way the funds were supplied which enabled her to erect and complete this graceful temple, a veritable gem of ecclesiastical architecture. In all her cares her soul clung to the strong, living God Whose omnipotent Hand always upheld her. Cling to God, my

66

children," she would say. Cling to Him as to a wise and loving Father Who knows what is best, and always gives it to His children, even though that best may not always be the pleasantest." In her heaviest trials this confidence never failed her. "Sometimes," she said, "I sit with a lump in my throat, and I laugh at it, for I cannot afford to let myself be down-hearted; and we should remember that the failure of our dearest hopes will appear as successes in the light of eternity." Truly we may apply to her the words of Our Lord to the Canaanite woman on the coasts of Tyre and Sidon, "O, woman, great is thy faith!"

66

With this absolute confidence in God' was united a most tender and childlike devotion to Our Lady. In her early childhood, as we have seen, one of her favourite recreations was to pick the most beautiful flowers she could find to deck Our Lady's altar, and ever through her long life the feasts of Our Lady were as landmarks to her, and she never failed earnestly to exhort both her nuns and pupils to this devotion. It was love for Our Lady that led her to consecrate her life and labours to God in the Institute of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Like the heroic foundress of the Institute, Mary Ward, love of the Institute was an absorbing passion of Mother Gonzaga. To consolidate that Institute she devoted all her talents and prayers for many years. Her fervent wish was that she might live to see that work accomplished. Here again her confidence in Our Lord and His Blessed Mother was amply rewarded, and I believe the happiest day of her life was that on which she received a cable from the Mother-General announcing that the Holy See had confirmed the new constitutions of the Institute."

Her death was a fit ending to such a life. "It was the death of a saint," full of joyous confidence mingled with tender thoughts for others." During over forty years in the sacred ministry," Father Ryan added, "I have stood by many a deathbed, but never have witnessed a death scene more consoling, more edifying, more saintly than the passing of Mother Gonzaga Barry." She was in her eighty-first year, and had spent sixty-two years in religion. Forty years ago she had brought out to Australia a little company of ten

nuns; when she died, she was ruling over some two hundred nuns, the communities of eleven houses. These few words contain an epitome of her strenuous life work. She was no unworthy follower of the heroic missioners of early Ireland who traversed Europe, bearing God's message and founding monasteries, having made themselves pilgrims for Christ.'

PARTHALON

Oh why comes Parthalon o'er moor and through bogland, From Erne's shining stream that cries shame on the night? Does he come as a warrior, helmet-crowned, fierce-browed, To Ares devoted in truculent might?

No, not as a warrior-chief comes Parthalon;

No echoing war-cry his followers raise;

And the cliffs of Ben Edar look out on no carnage,
As Phoebus' bright-arrows shoot swift through the haze.

Though Greece rocked his cradle, he loves fair Iernë,
And fain would a home in her green island make;
To" the plain of the bird-flocks" he leads his brave brothers,
By pasture, and river, through forest and brake.

In peace there he dwells until death overtakes him,
The colonists still for three centuries thrive,
But pestilence, black as a hawk in the sunshine,

Swoops down on the plain and leaves no man alive.

So runs the old legend, and Tallaght's green hillside
Is dotted with grave mounds that gave it its name;
And a fair granite city where once hovered bird-flocks
Has graven her mark in the Temple of Fame.

ANNIE MARGARET PIKE.

[NOTE.-There is a legend that a Greek colony under Parthalon settled on the plain where Dublin now stands, after having first lived on the island of Inish-Samer in the river Erne.

Tallaght (Irish Tamlacht)=plague grave.]

B

THE PRIZE COMPETITION

By EDITH STANIFORTH

EATRICE CAVANAGH lived in a small house in
Chelsea, not far from the river, with her mother and

her half-sister, Julia Mansfield. Mrs. Mansfield was a widow, and Beatrice was her daughter by her first husband, a penniless young Irishman with whom she had run away from her father's house. But when poverty comes in at the door love often flies out at the window, and Mrs. Cavanagh's affection for her husband was not proof against the shifts and discomfort of her married life. After. five years of struggle against adverse circumstances, embittered by remorse for having tempted her away from her home where at least she was comfortable, Cavanagh died, leaving his wife and child very badly provided for.

Just at this time Mrs. Cavanagh inherited a small legacy, which enabled her to begin a wandering life from one hotel or boarding-house to another, in the course of which she picked up a second husband, sufficiently well off to leave her no cause for anxiety on that score. But there are other drawbacks in life besides want of money as she soon found out. John Mansfield had a violent temper, and the sound of his voice upraised in anger sent Beatrice cowering to the furthest corner of the house to be out of his way. His wife stood up to him better, she was less sensitive, and in his own way he was fond of her, but he disliked Beatrice whom he considered an incubus, and let her feel it, for he had a coarse tongue on occasions. The child had inherited her father's temperament, dreamy, poetic, keenly susceptible to the moods of those around her, and a harsh word struck her like a blow.

No one regretted John Mansfield very much when he took himself off to another world, and the house was certainly more peaceful without him, but those early years had left their imprint on Beatrice's character. She was shy and

retiring, diffident of her powers of pleasing, and as her sister grew up she retired more and more into the background. Julia was the mother's favourite, she ruled the house and dominated

everyone.

It was the elder girl's fault, no doubt, for not asserting her claim to priority, but she had a resource in herself which made her indifferent to outside circumstances. She could write, and had done so for years, and found in this a consolation for all the disappointments of life. When sheretired to her own room and closed the door she shut out the whole world and entered into a new one which was all her

own.

She was not a great writer; she knew her limitations and that she would never attain to the first rank of living authors, but hers was a dainty gift which gave pleasure to others and brought much happiness to herself. She had a tender touch and a delicate fancy; her characters were living; she loved them and grieved to part with them when the story came to an end. She had a peculiar aptitude for describing scenery, born of her intense love for nature, an appreciation so keen it was almost pain. Her family took no interest in her writ-ing her mother had never taken the trouble to read one of her stories. But Beatrice had her own public for whom she wrote and who looked out for her name on a book or story.

But now Beatrice was faced with the hardest trial she had ever known in her life. Julia took it into her head to begin. to write. The chance remark of a visitor on a recent story by Beatrice had led to this unfortunate and most unlooked-for result. Fired by the spirit of emulation she declared that what Beatrice could do she could, and better, and her mother supported her. She was lost in admiration of Julia's clever-ness, and spoke of it to everyone who came to the house.

This was hard enough to bear for Beatrice, whose own work had never met with any recognition from her family, but what was far worse was the effect it had on her own writing. It simply paralyzed her; the knowledge that Julia was working in the next room, working against her, took away all power from her pen. Her kingdom was invaded, her solitude broken. In vain she told herself that the field of literature was a large one, that there was room in it for them both; she knew that Julia's ambition was to excel her, and that the