the second, and, I believe, the last attack for the poor chap. Well, I must go, but, should he calm down sufficiently for you to give him this " (handing the nurse a glass), " in the next half hour or so, it might send him to sleep; but do not bother him more than you can help." So saying, he left the room. The Angel looked at me. "A few minutes, nay seconds of calm, and there is another chance for him. Wilt thou give it to him?" I recoiled, frightened; then looking up, saw such sadness in the Angel's face, I was moved to courage and once more advanced bravely, and said, "I am ready." And, stooping over the sufferer, I took his hand in mine. The next moment I was falling, falling, into blackness, into horror, torment, terror, beyond anything I can express. Hate, anger, rage, making me battle against what was clutching and bearing me down and down into an abyss. But speedily something caught me and held me. Instead of terror, I felt relief, and, chased as by sunbeams, the shadows of my brain fled away. Come," said the Angel, whose hand was on my shoulder. "He will do. A chance of better life is in his hands once more." I arose and followed the Angel still. This time we went another way, and through another ward; finally turning into one with few beds, we came to one surrounded by a screen. On it lay a young woman seemingly near death. Her face was ashy-white and drawn. She had just been brought in, crushed by the wheels of a van, and her case was hopeless. Her large eyes were open and full of tears, with a yearning, beseeching gaze, while her lips moved in prayer. "This poor soul," said the Angel," was a child of God. The love of her Lord was her very being, and she wished above all to belong to Him, and to devote her life to Him alone. But the Tempter was watching. A great sorrow came into her life. She trusted in her own strength, and sought none from her Lord. Satan, the world, and the flesh strove together, and she fell. Then she lost all hope, all care, and all thought even. Now she lies dying, her soul sees clearer, and in an agony of remorse and penitence strives to free itself once more from all dross. Her heart is one ache of sorrow, not for herself, but for the pain she has inflicted on her once beloved God. Gladly would she now die for Him, but she fears it is too late. to live. They have sent for a priest, but he cannot be here for ten minutes. Oh! he will not be here in time!" The Angel stopped speaking. My heart felt riven for her, and I said, "Can nothing be done to prolong her life, even for a little while?" "Nothing, nothing," the Angel replied. "Yet, stay. Should one be found willing to give her ten minutes out of one's own life, her life might be so much prolonged." The Angel looked at me. "Why wouldst thou give ten minutes of thy own precious life? Thou mayest not lightly part with a minute of it. What is she to thee ?" "She is nothing to me," I answered. "Then what object hast thou in making this sacrifice ?" I felt a sudden thrill through and through me at these words, then, raising my hands high and clasping them together, I exclaimed, "For the honour and glory of God in the salvation of a lost soul !" The tears streamed down my face as I said this. The Angel's face glowed with light, and his bright smile met me. "Come," said he, placed me close to the dying woman, and I put my arms around her. I had this night felt the agony of bodily pain, the torture of a diseased brain. But now this was something far. far beyond efforts to tell. The pain of a heart, with the despair of a soul. “Oh, never, never! to see Him. Never to be able to say, how grieved how repentant I am! Oh! never to say how all the love of my being was His, and is His now." But stay! What is this light appearing in the distance? Very faintly it approaches nearer and nearer, dispelling like the sunrise all the gloom of night. The light advances and with a wondrous feeling of heart-joy. A door opens and shuts noisily; hurried feet approach; someone enters. An earnest anxious look meets mine. The dying woman recognizes the priest who is bending over her to administer the last Christian rites and to say, Proficiscere, anima Christiana! Come," said the Angel. I followed him; he turned his " face with a look of joy to me, and said, Go thy way in peace, child. The Lord be with thee. Thy work this night is done. When thy last hour approaches, be not afraid, I shall not be far from thee." With these last words in my ears, I awoke. My heart was beating fast, and somehow I felt happy, wondering at the vivid dream. Finally, I fell asleep, and-this time without a dream -I slept till morning. D. J. TO OUR LADY OF THE WAYSIDE OUR Lady of the Wayside, we hail thee with acclaim. While filial love Breathes forth thy holy name. Ah, name most sweet! Ah, name most meet! Guide of our wandering feet, Our Lady of the Wayside, wide be thy gracious fame. Our Lady of the Wayside, by sainted heroes taught, For which they prayed And not in vain they sought That on our way We may not stray, But, through thee, save for aye, Our Lady of the Wayside, the soul thy dear Son bought. Our Lady of the Wayside! drear shadows fall around Life's ebbing tide : Oh, may thy help abound To guard from ill And lead us still, With step unfaltering, till, Our Lady of the Wayside, our home in Heaven be found. JOHN HUGHES, S.J. EDWARD KELLY, S.J. A FEW NOTES IN REMEMBRANCE IV N August, 1885, Father Kelly very willingly resigned the sceptre of Clongowes into the hands of one who was his IN junior by a quarter of a century, the present Provincial of Ireland, Father John S. Conmee. He had just another score of years before him, and they were all spent without a break in St. Francis Xavier's, Gardiner Street, Dublin, where he devoted himself with a quiet, sober enthusiasm that never flagged for a single day to all the priestly ministries that regard the salvation and sanctification of souls. He resumed his place in the confessional which he had before occupied in a corner of our Lady's Chapel. We have already got a glimpse of the pains that he took for the spiritual advancement of his penitents according to their individual needs. As I had the advantage of the written testimony of one who was his penitent during that first series of his Gardiner Street life, so I shall now ask another who knew him till the end to describe him as he was in the final term of his apostolic career. I may, first, however, give out of its time a letter belonging to the former period, which ought to have come between the two letters quoted at page 221 and page 224. It was probably written in 1880. MY VERY DEAR CHILD, ST. FRANCIS XAVIER'S, UPPER GARDINER STREET, I am delighted indeed to learn that your day is fixed and so near. But I do not know what fatality is over me: I have been laid up since Sunday week, with a sharp attack, now over indeed, of feverish cold and general sickness; and until yesterday an entire prisoner. I do not expect to be allowed to return to work till next week; and I am afraid in this state of things it would be useless for me to propose to go down to preach for your ceremony. I should not be allowed. I don't like to come to that conclusion, but I am afraid it is inevitable. Will you tell Reverend Mother Prioress how I am situated, and how reluctantly I put away from me the pleasure that is offered to me? I am well, but still feel very weak and altogether poorly; but in a few days that will pass away. I am getting an awful amount of scoldings and admonitions about being more careful, and I think it is this that makes me afraid to propose going down to you. For yourself, my dearest child, you need no words simple or eloquent to gild the refined gold of your happiness, though I know you would like to have some expression given to your grateful and happy thoughts by one who has so long and so well known them. May God bless you, and your offering and your vows and your life, my child, and make its future bear still more fruit than its present. Ever yours faithfully in J. C., EDWARD KELLY, S.J. Emerson says in one of his essays : "That which you are will teach, not voluntarily but involuntarily. Don't say things. What you are stands over you the while, and thunders so that I cannot hear what you say to the contrary." The witness that we now bring forward as to the last term of Father Edward Kelly's life begins by almost repeating this saying of the Sage of Concord. "Father Edward Kelly's retiring disposition and sweet humility make it difficult to tell much about him. He seldom talked about himself, and then he told but little. His actions preached more eloquently than words; nay, his very appearance was in itself a sermon. Strangers, seeing him celebrate Mass for the first time, have often asked me: Who was the saintly-looking priest who said Mass this morning?' There was a peace, a calm about him which communicated itself to all who came in contact with him. A friend of mine who had lived all her life in Italy, and had imbibed a good deal of the modern liberal spirit, by no means partial to priests, said to me once: Oh, I feel the better for meeting that priest-there is some strange peace about him.' I always felt this: it seemed as if no angry or sinful feeling could live in his presence. "He possessed the most exquisite gift of sympathy. Sorrow, suffering, poverty, was the key to his heart. He could soothe the bitterest grief. A lady distracted at the sudden death of an idolised little daughter, her only one, went to him one day by chance. She said afterwards to some person who did not know him: If ever you are in sorrow, go to Father Edward Kelly in Gardiner Street. I went to him in despair, and he sent me away reconciled to God's will and ashamed of my rebellion. And yet he sympathised with me, he acknowledged the greatness of my cross-he mourned with me, he did not preach to |