66 She hobbled to the corner of her one little room, and rummaged and fumbled until she found a red handkerchief with some coins tied in the corner of it. "You'll say Mass for thim that's dead belongin' to me," she said, pressing a stipendium into my hand, as I left. You know I'm rich now; since I got the pension I get a Mass said every month for the dead, or for myself, because, your Reverence, sure I'm only waitin' for the call, thanks be to God, Who's so good to me! Aye, only waitin' for the call." And she seemed so serenely happy, as she raised her eyes heavenward, that I fancied she already saw the glint of the golden gates opening to receive her. As I proceeded on my way I met the young people of the parish, the boys and girls whom perhaps I baptized, or maybe prepared for their first Confession, or hectored and heckled in the Confirmation class, and we passed by with a formal salute, not knowing the tender, the sacred ties that bound us together. As I neared the little village I had known so well, I felt somehow like that immortal hero, Rip Van Winkle, on returning home, after his charmed sleep of twenty years in the Kaatskill Mountains. New names figured on the shop signboards; many of the unlovely thatched hovels had disappeared to give place to up-to-date, modern dwellings; and there was a new pump and a weigh-bridge-ay, and a nice little Parish Hall. I now wondered why I never thought of attempting such things in my time. But, then, Father John was not progressive in this material sense, and I was only a curate, with no power of initiative, independently of him. I found the Church and Parochial House improved and beautified almost out of recognition. Amidst the spickand-span newness of everything around me I searched with the z st of an antiquary for some relic of the dear old disorder and clutter of the past, but I found none. The reforming new parish priest, bent on changing the face of the earth, had obliterated every vestige of the Iron Age in Rathmore. I had wished he had left standing that tall, ancient whitethorn bush, in front of the parlour window, under which Father John used to read his Breviary, while, in summer, the goldfinches in its branches sent showers of milky blossoms fluttering on his snowy head, and, in winter, the thrushes and blackbirds pelted his tonsured crown with redripe haws. And I felt a pang of regret, when, on entering the parlour-drawing-room, I found that the hearthstone fireplace and turf barrel were replaced by a grate and coalbox, while a piano stood in the place of the old chest of drawers. But, it was only when I strolled down the village street, later on, that I fully realized the changes which twenty years had brought about. A young girl on a free-wheel bicycle came skimming along, with graceful swallow-like motion; but, of course, no one took the slightest notice of a spectacle so familiar. Now, when I was curate in Rathmore that young lady would be mobbed for attempting such an outrageous feat of daring and indecorum. And I think the women of the parish would have gone the other side of the street to avoid her. While I moralised within myself on this startling innovation on the old-world ways of Rathmore a be-goggled, dust-begrimed motor-cyclist came tearing along, filling the sleepy village with quick, explosive sounds, as if bombs were bursting, and yet the loiterers at the corner scarcely deigned to look at the phenomenon. And, crowning wonder of all, a big motor-car, soon after, rushed past with a "toot, toot," and even the dogs would not condescend to bark at it, while a brace of coupled goats wending their way home merely swerved aside somewhat to let it pass. Now, twenty years ago, that frightful motor-cyclist would, I think, be taken for Antichrist, and that awful rumbling motor-car would be regarded as a dead coach drawn by invisible horses, while the motor horn would be suggestive of the last trumpet. Ah me, how things have changed in Rathmore since the good old pedestrian days, when one could dream along the highways in peace, with no dangers of the road to encounter save a jog-trotting horse, or a creeping donkey. As for myself, I did my travelling through the parish in those days. by means of that primitive, but eminently serviceable, mode of conveyance known as "shanks' mare.” How well I remember that meeting with my first Parish Priest, dear old Father John-and, by the way, it was a remarkable date, the 1st of April, "All-fools' Day." He laughed heartily over the coincidence, and assured me it was a most auspicious occasion on which to enter on my new career, being the feast day of all men, according to the Wise Man, who has said, "The number of fools is infinite." Another curious circumstance about my first curacy was that I was also the first curate in the parish, which hitherto had been always a "one-horse" parish, as the saying has it. Hence, my prospects of revenue were not encouraging. Father John, however-who was a student of patristic lore consoled me on this score by quoting for my edification and material comfort, the story of St. Paul the Hermit, to whom a raven brought daily a half-loaf of bread for his sustenWhen St. Anthony came unexpectedly, one day, to visit the holy man, the latter was distressed, as was natural, at being found wanting in the duty of hospitality to the stranger; but the good old raven arrived opportunely with a whole loaf, and saved his reputation. Father John meant to convey that the parishioners would double their Christmas and Easter dues, now that they had a curate to support, as well as himself. And many of them did, too; so that I wanted for nothing during my brief stay of a year amongst them. They gave me generously of their poverty, but still more generously of the riches of their fond, deep affection and reverence for my sacred character. Gladly, oh, how gladly, would I live over again that happy year I spent in Rathmore. That pleasant time, that day of youth, and hope, and dreams of great things, will ever be for me a bright, luminous spot, shining out against the drab background of the years. 'Tis very lonesome in the house Amid its fields, where cattle roam, The chime singeth: Be the day weary, be the day long, His little children ask her when The chime spelleth : Be the day weary, be the day long, At last it ringeth to evensong.) She envies sickly folk and old Because they have not long to stay; Seeing her own sweet life unrolled Like a grey rosary, cold and grey. (The chime tolleth The chime calleth: Be the day weary, be the day long, KATHARINE ΤΥΝΑΝ. WHEN THE WOOD IS GREEN By MADGE Blundell. CHAPTER III. When Giovanna stepped from the keen air in which the sting of frost was growing sharper every moment, into the dark hall of the Hotel Pension Edelweiss, she knew immediately what she was to have for supper, or abendessen' as the meal was called in view of the predominating nationality of the house's clientèle. There would be soup, made, she felt convinced, of odds and ends left on the plates at the 'mittagessen,' stewed with onions and spinach. It would be followed by kid and tinned vegetables served in a hot-pot under the title of navarin de mouton.' She wondered why the vapours of this dish should permeate every room for so many hours before it was to be eaten, but supposed her neighbours at table d'hôte appreciated the tendency, for she heard guttural voices on the stairs remarking upon the 'gutes riech.' She paused to sniff the heavy atmosphere herself. What was the third course to consist of? Why, roast goose without a doubt! She knew the whole of the evening menu now, and ascended to the third floor (there was no lift), congratulating herself on having at least missed the nine-course dinner. As she entered her Aunt's room another odour, equally familiar and nauseating, greeted her nostrils. "Aunt, if you will see your people in your bedroom, it would be nice if you would open the window afterwards," were her first words. "My dear," returned Miss Whyte, looking up from the writing over which she had been bowed, as she turned towards her niece, "you know how intensely the Italian |