why wouldn't you tell me so? Do you wonder that I was amazed when I heard it ?"

"Or do you wonder that I was amazed," broke in Miss Daintree," and angry with you at the time? Was it pleasant to think I had shown I loved you if I was going to marry

another man ?"

"If you had been willing to forgive and to listen as I asked, it would all have been explained," declared Walter, preserving his sternness. "For a minute I thought you would, and oh, how I blessed you!'

"And when you found I was angry still, and ever since, what have you done?" she questioned apprehensively.

His answer was given rather sadly, but it reassured her. "I've never done anything but bless you since the first day I saw you,"

"If only" Miss Daintree began again, 'but she stopped. The thought of what might have been avoided if she had been willing to explain, came rushing before her and she resolved to make amends.

"O Walter!" she said, "I've been miserable all these months because I did not believe in your love. Now I'm sure of it, and about the rest I simply don't care.”

He turned to her with a broad smile of understanding, but he was determined to give his explanation all the same.

"Let us avoid even the possibility of any more mistakes,” he said, as he began to tell the story of that morning in the lemon-grove, and of the letter that fell into his hands. Sarah listened in silence, and, as he talked, the recollection of that steep climb up the path to the lemon-grove came back to her. Suddenly her face broke into smiles. She held the clue now to the whole mistake in the knowledge that her aunt had a German suitor who at the age of fifty-three still looked forward to the day when he should begin to get on. Since the morning when she had been sent to look for the lost letter in the grove, Sarah had posted numbers of those little blue sheets for Miss Dawes.

"I swear I fell in love with you from those lines though I had never seen you," Major Molesworth was saying, and Sarah laughed at him gently.

"But when it blew away, and you came for it, I forgot

all about the letter," he pursued. "You filled my heart at once-only its wants have gone on growing. It was not my fault that I loved you or that I told you so that day. I don't know what urged me."

"What urged you?" answered Sarah quickly, "why, I did. The whole aim of my thoughts was to make you love me as I did you-and shall do always."

Walter reached out for her hand and took it. In the west the sun was sinking in a crimson flood behind the range of trees; the two sat for a moment in silence, but Sarah's explanation had not yet been given.

"You know," she said, laughing again as she wondered what burning words had flowed from her little aunt's pen, "I didn't write that letter, Walter. Aunt Sally wrote it to her German professor, so you were probably right when you guessed it was a love-letter.”

At this, Walter threw back his head and laughed as only a man relieved and happy could do. It seemed too extraordinary to be true that the aunt with the delightful sense of the obvious should have written those words.

"I daresay,” Sarah ventured, "though I didn't write that letter, that I could probably write another."

Walter's arms were round her now, as they stood up to go. On all the hilltop there was not a living creature but these two; down in the darkness of the valley the little lights of the farmsteads sprang out, one by one.

"Have we far to walk, Sarah ?"

"Not far for two people who mean to walk together through life."

"Oh! my dear, do you know what that means ?"

"I know it, Walter, and I know what love is too, so I'm not afraid."

The descent from the hill began and the darkness increased at every step; in the sky now, only a streak of red to be seen behind the yew trees. Walter pointed to it.

"Do you see the sky? What does that mean?" "Red at night," she quoted, "giveth promise of a fair day."

"Fair weather at last, Sarah. Thank God for it."

L. D

"DORRIE "

WITH the first welcome breath of spring she came ;
"Snowdrop" might well indeed have been her name-
That pure white floweret, slender, sweet, and airy,
Christened of old "Fair Maid of February."

Three years she stayed, three dear, short years of bliss,
Gladdening a household with her smile, her kiss;
A little tender maid, a snow-white blossom,
The first-born treasure of her parents' bosom.

They called her Dorothy, name of that lovely saint
Who suffered sorrows sore without complaint;
For whom there bloomed full many a fragrant rose,
All white and red, amidst December snows.

And she for them, with sunny, winsome ways
Made summer 'midst the dark of winter days;
O little Goldenhead! their hearts are lonely,
Lonely and sad and cold for you, you only!

Your eyes are closed, your baby heart's at rest,
God wanted you, and sure He knoweth best.
He broke the blow as only He could do,
Yet they'll be always lonely, dear, for you.

The earliest breath of welcome springtime brought her,
Dear Dorothy, poor darling little daughter!

Now, through the sunshine and the wintry weather,
God draws their hearts to Him and her together.

NORA TYNAN O'MAHONY.

IN MY GARDEN

OUT in my garden are roses blowing

Heavy their red cups with by-gone rain, See, close beside them, tall lilies growing, Now swaying softly, now straight again.

Bees hum content in the scented hollows,
Gathering store for the distant hive;
Throstles, and linnets, and twittering swallows
Make with their voices the air alive.

In the sun-gilded stone basin yonder
Plashes the fountain o'er creepers gay,
Down the green alley my children wander,
Sauntering slowly at truce with play.

Smiling I watch them sedately pacing,
Heads close together, hand clasping hand,
Now, turning gently, my window facing,
Solemnly talking awhile they stand.

"God," says the elder, some truth instilling;
Far-off and dreamy her blue eyes shine,
"God," cries the other, her young voice thrilling
Deeper with reverence for things Divine.

Pauses in horror the baby-mentor,

Finger uplifted, emphatic nod

Then, with a courage all newly lent her,

Cries, "You should really say, Mister God!"

M. E. FRANCIS.

IRISH SAINTS IN IRISH SCHOOLS *

HERE is an old monastic legend told by Ængus and O'Clery,

TH

of St. Mocua, who passed to the woods to cut wattles for his church and heard a bird break into song; he followed the singing bird for what he thought was an hour or so, and on his return found himself a stranger at his own convent gate where scarcely his name could be recalled. How many of the greatest who illumined our land, were they to return to this Ireland of to-day, would find their name and their fame unknown ? Even if the names are known, how much more is forgotten? And if there is this ignorance of the kings and chiefs and rulers of our race, there is very much more ignorance concerning the Irish saints. Still, few of the chiefs deserve to be known as well as the saints. Many of the chiefs and kings were no such admirable beings; like their class anywhere else, they fought when they were angry, sometimes simply because they were angry; for bad causes or against good causes; church-wreckers some of them and countrywreckers. The end of all that in any nation is national failure. But the Irish saints have been no failure. Whoever else has

failed in Ireland, the Irish saints have not failed. They are no failures, the thousands and thousands of Irish men and Irish women who have passed to their heavenly home with banners flying. If we wish to boast of our race, these are the men and women to boast of. They were men, par excellencegreat men with great ends in view, who pursued these ends without consideration of self or aught save God's glory. No weaklings they; they stood up to do battle with the world and the devil. Though we have to a great extent forgotten who infused it, their spirit is the predominant Irish spirit yet; what the Irish saints thought on many subjects we are thinking yet. Thousands of people in Ireland to-day are far more akin to Kevin and Fintan and Declan and Adamnan and their

Through the too great kindness and humility of the author of this paper, excisions have been made which make the plea much less effective than when addressed to a conference of Teachers at the De la Salle Training College, Waterford.-Ed. I.M.