"Oh, I don't know," replied the youth with the lofty air of eighteen. "It is rather poky at times, you know. A fellow longs to cut loose. Of course the Brothers are all right though." There was a suspicious break in the lad's voice as he uttered the last words.

As the party made their adieus at the door, Brother Ambrose drew Mr. Ransom, unobserved, aside and said: "You have a good son, Mr. Ransom. Frank is a studious, clever boy, but he is apt to be a trifle wilful and may require a strict hand. But you will have no trouble with him, I am sure. Frank has been excellent in conduct as was shown by his winning the medal, but I, who have been so close to him, understand better perhaps than any other the undercurrent of his nature."

How often did this warning recur to the mind of Mr. Ransom in after days! Very gradually indeed, but none the less surely, the realization of his son's imperfections came home to him with a bitter pang. At first Frank was a model, the leader in all the societies his parish had set on foot for the advancement of its youth, the cleverest in debate, the most skilful in athletics, he promptly became the center of an admiring group who were ever ready to do his bidding. A stronger character might have risen by the very spur of this adulation to better and higher things, but Frank belonged, alas, to that too large. body of young men which present day society embraces. His head was turned by flattery; his wilful spirit soon learned. to chafe against the wholesome restraints of home and Church, and the call of pleasure did not pass unheeded. Very quickly he tired of his parish companions. "They were too ignorant, too narrow," he would assert with a lofty sneer. So it was that presently he made friends among more worldly, even dissolute men, an association his family viewed with grief and disfavor.

Had Mr. Ransom been spared to his family this budding propensity might have been checked at the first sign, but unfortunately he succumbed to a malady of which he had long been a victim, and to the mother was left the responsibility of governing the proud spirit of her son.

For a while all went well. Frank had secured an excellent position with a large manufacturing plant in the little town where they resided. The situation was a clerical one and there was opportunity for advancement. Subdued by the loss of his father, Frank settled down to business for some months. The three lived very comfortably in the neat home which Mr. Ransom's thrift had acquired for his family. Their income was sufficient for their needs and Frank's salary was taxed but little for the general support. Ruth had turned her attention to vocal music and, having been graduated at the convent academy of which the prosperous town was justly proud, she was now devoting her time as much as possible to the cultivation of a rare contralto voice that promised great power.

One night, a glorious June night it was, Ruth had returned from choir practice and now hurried up the garden walk to the porch where she had left her mother sitting. "Well, Mother, here I am. I was not gone so long, was I-why, Frank-why, Mother, what's the matter?" she cried.

Without answering, Mrs. Ransom broke into silent tears. Frank, with his arm caressingly about his mother's shoulders, replied: "Now, nothing to worry over, little woman. You see,

Ruth, old Davis and I had a dispute today and I simply quit, that's all. There's no other position in this dull town for a fellow, so to-morrow I'm going to New York to try my luck."

"Oh, Frank, I'm so distressed," murmured Ruth dolefully, as she sank down on the low porch step and looked first at Frank, then at her mother's face.

"I do wish you were not so proud and hasty. I dread to see you step into the maelstrom of a great wicked city."

"Fudge, kid! You talk as if you were forty. I can take care of myself, rest assured. Now cheer up both of you. I have the best of references and know I'll find something worth having."

And Frank did. He wrote from New York at the end of a few days that he had been engaged by a large and wealthy firm and that he should enter at once upon his duties. He had secured board with a respectable old lady in a fair neighborhood and everything looked promising.

At first letters came frequently. Visits were necessarily scarce but he made. flying trips whenever possible to do so. After a while, these also, grew "few and far between." Mrs. Ransom's health had become so delicate that Ruth could never leave home for long at a time or she would have taken occasional journeys to the great city in order to keep Frank under sisterly surveillance. The advisability of leaving their native home and removing to New York in order to be near him was more than once considered, but the income that warranted a comfortable maintenance in a village, would, they well knew, barely furnish the necessities of life in the vast metropolis. As they had, however, almost resolved to risk all and for the sake of their loved one break old ties, a letter came from Frank stating that he had been ordered West on business of importance for his firm and, being compelled to go immediately, the opportunity of making them a long anticipated visit was denied him.

A chill went to the heart of each patient, waiting woman as they read this. letter. Something was wrong, they felt. That instinct which is said to guide woman aright, without direct knowledge, served now to raise a doubt as to the plausibility of this story. When, therefore, Ruth said, "Mother, could you

"Ransom-Miss Ransom? No, I do not recall the name, but be seated Miss Ransom. What can I do for you?"

It was the private office of Newcome & Co., and a gray-haired, kindly gentleman spoke the words, as with old time courtesy he placed a chair for her beside his desk.

"I have called," murmured the girl, her embarrassment overcome by the encouraging gentleness of the other's eyes, "I have called to inquire about my brother, Frank Ransom, who is in your employ and whom you have ordered West on business."

"Frank Ransom-why, Miss Ransom, we have no such young man with us— never had-but wait! I remember now we once did have a clerk by that name but he remained with us only a few months. And you are his sister?" 'Ruth detected a note of sympathy in the last words and her face blanched. "Why, why, he told me there must be some mistake; would you mind-saying why he left you?"

Mr. Newcome hemmed and hawed. It was a severe trial to look into the depths of those tender, pleading blue eyes and admit that it was the questionable habits of her brother which had caused his speedy discharge. The facts did not come out all at once, but after a while Ruth, by dint of persistent questioning realized the sad truth. Her brother had for many months pursued a course of deception. He had been in the employ of Newcome & Co. but a brief time when it was discovered that his habits and associates were such as to make him unworthy of confidence. When repeated persuasion and reprimand from Mr. Newcome failed to bear good fruit, Frank was discharged, after

which nothing had been seen nor heard of him. Ruth never forgot the fatherly kindness with which Mr. Newcome admitted these unpleasant facts, but it could not lessen the pain that the recital caused in her loving heart. With whirling brain Ruth left the office, proceeding with all possible speed to the address of Mrs. Ferry, the old lady with whom her brother had boarded. Here she learned other unpleasant details-how Frank had driftetd from one position to another, each one less remunerative than the last, and that just a few days previous to his sister's coming he had informed Mrs. Ferry of his intention of leaving the city for good. "I am going West,' he said, Miss, 'Perhaps in that far-away country I can begin life all over and lift my head again.' Ah, Miss, it was a sad sight to see how such a fine young man had come down in the world, and him with such an eddication, too. Why, Miss, one time he showed me a grand gold medal he'd won at school and he told me it was never out of his keepin'. It was a beauty, with the prettiest crown of pearls set just above his name. 'I'll never part with it,' he ses, ses he, 'but wear it over my heart inside this case with Ruth's and Mother's picture. When I make a man of myself, I'll hang it on my watch chain again.'

"You gave us a rare treat this morning, Miss Ransom. It is not often that our poor little church hears such a voice. It was good of you to favor us, especially when your beautiful singing is in such demand."

"Oh, come now, Father O'Neill, that is some of your Irish flattery," exclaimed Ruth, as a smile gayer than usually visited her face, curved her lips. "It is an honor and a great pleasure to sing in church again. It seems so long since I led the choir at home in the East. Since I took up concert work I have been a yeritable tramp, but now that Mother

and I have settled for a while in this pretty Western town you must let me sing often in your dear little church. And now, Father, I am told you have some rare vestments and altar vessels that you occasionally show to visitors. Will you let me look at them when you are at leisure?"

"Delighted, Miss Ransom. No better time than the present," cried the Father, whose great hobby was the collecting of elegant altar furnishings. Father O'Neill, on account of ill health, had been compelled to resign the charge of a wealthy church in the East, and in a picturesque hamlet among the Western hills had built a neat chapel to which his rich friends made frequent and valuable donations. With the eagerness of a schoolboy he promptly led the way to the sacristy where he unlocked a closet and a heavy iron safe. Soon Ruth, with all a woman's admiration for pretty things, was examining vestments of embroidered silk and satin and altar cloths of daintiest lace and linen.

"I have left the most beautiful till the last," he smilingly said, as Ruth completed her survey of these. "Here is a chalice that I prize most of all. It is made from old gold and jewels donated by my parishioners and friends. Today I used it for the first time. See, we have placed the gems just as they came from their original settings. Here is a diamond from a birthday ring. This ruby was in a bracelet given by our organist. But I like this little crown of pearls, and the story connected with it is interesting. Some time ago I was called to attend a young man at the Blue Crest Hospital here. Grace, apparently long dead, had been awakened in his heart. For many a day he had not received the Sacraments, and he led a wild, reckless life for years. But believing death to be approaching he sent for me. Well, I frequently visited him. and was glad to discover that a real change of heart had taken place. His

sorrow for the past was most edifying. The upshot was that when the doctors and nurses had pulled him through all right, I interested myself in securing a position for him at Creston, near here, and to-morrow, with health restored,. he goes to fill it. One day, hearing of my projected chalice, he drew from his breast pocket a large gold medal set with pearls. 'Father,' he said, 'this medal was won by me at dear old St. Edward's when life held out glad promise to my youth-a promise, alas, that through fault of my own, has never been realized. I prize this next to the pictures of my mother and sister that I wear with it above my heart, but you have done so much for me that you must take it for your chalice. When its gold touches the Precious Blood of Our Lord, it will speak my gratitude to Him for calling a poor lost sheep back to the fold.'"

"Father, you know all," gasped his hearer. "You have guessed the truththat this is my brother, my poor, erring brother that Mother and I have sought for years in vain! Oh, he told you of us, did he not? But where is he? Tell me at once that I may go to him-that I may take him to our Mother's arms that have waited for him so long!"

Tears made even more benignant the gentle smile with which the priest

replied "Yes, I do know all. True, I never expected to meet the beloved sister of whom poor Frank Ransom spoke to me so often, but Providence has

surely sent you to this place. When I heard you sing this morning, and was told your name I was struck with the coincidence and resolved to investigate. That was why I sent you a message requesting you to call on me this afternoon. Now be calm. I-I have sent for Frank, too, and he waits for you in my study there. You will find him changed, no doubt, but a woman's love makes every allowance. There, do not stop to thank me. That is the door; go in. I will come to you later."

And so it came about that Frank Ransom found the peace and strength to which his wayward spirit had so long been a stranger.

A pretty cottage, nestling among the hills of a Western town, shelters the reunited family. The aged mother grows young again in the presence of her recovered son, slowly but surely regaining his standing among his fellow men. Ruth, her glorious voice more beautiful than ever with its new notes of happiness, is thrilling great audiences with her bird-like melodies, but the applause of the multitude is not so dear as the welcome tribute of the returned prodigal whose restoration was brought about, as it were, from the heart of a chalice.