period in which he taught his body to be submissive to his will.

But one day he heard the Voice of God saying: "It is enough." The saint rejoiced and thanked God. The mortifications had always remained painful to him, and therefore he was happy when he could dispense himself from them. He began to eat and drink, sleep and rest freely. This state did not last very long, however. Again God appeared to him, and said: "Until now you have suffered lightly compared with that which is to follow. Learn to accept fearlessly and cheerfully whatever others do to you and say about you. You have been my servant till now; henceforth be my knight. You shall not be free from suffering, but your suffering will be of a different nature."

This revelation frightened Blessed frightened Blessed Henry, and in his fear he asked God to show him the number of trials that still awaited him. But God answered him beautifully, saying: "Lift your eyes to the stars. If you can count their number, you can also count the number of your sufferings. Even as the stars appear small, so will your sufferings seem small in the eyes of the world, but you will find them hard to bear."

The saint then asked God to reveal to him the nature of his sufferings. But God answered him by giving him only a little idea of what they were to be, saying: "Till now you have chosen your own crosses; henceforth you will receive them from others. Till now you have received consolations; henceforth you will meet with unkindness and unfaithfulness, and those who remain true to you will have to suffer with you. You will be abandoned by God and men; you will be persecuted by friends and enemies."

Blessed Henry understood this prophetic answer. He turned pale and began to tremble. Seeing a dog in the courtyard playing with a rag, tearing it with his teeth, dragging it through the dust

and throwing it up in the air, he exclaimed: "I am the old rag; I shall be treated in a similar way." He descended to the yard, picked up the rag and kept it in his room for many years. Whenever, in later years, he was tempted to become impatient, he would look at the rag and say: "It was patient and silent, and so will I, too, be patient and silent." From now on the saint was misrepresented, misunderstood, misjudged and abused, even by his own brethren. He was accused of the vilest crimes, and more than once escaped violent death in a miraculous manner. Among his accusers and persecutors were his dearest friends.

Doubts of faith began to trouble him. Hours and days of great sadness and depression followed. For ten years the thought that he would be lost, no matter what he would do, haunted and martyred his soul day and night.

How constant these bitter persecutions were, and with what holy indifference he learned to bear them, we read in a simple answer given to the members of a religious community inquiring about him: "I am getting along very poorly," he said; "during four weeks my honor and life have not been attacked. God must have abandoned me."

Hardly had he uttered these words when a brother entered in haste and asked him to conceal himself, as two men, who had sworn to kill him, were looking for him.

How such persecutions destroyed in his heart all pride, self-love and selfwill, and how they taught him to seek and do God's will always, and to rely on His love and goodness for strength and protection, we learn from the following little incident:

One day a brother, a shoemaker by trade, reproached the saintly priest, though he was innocent, and said some very unkind and bitter words to him. Blessed Henry listened patiently, and then walked away in silence, with a

T

HERE was a tired look on Hilda Markham's face as she ascended the hill that led from the little village of Northborough to the cottage where she and her widowed mother resided. Usually the girl would have found something to admire as she mounted the hill. The red-roofed houses of the little hamlet lay on one hand, peeping out through the green leaves of the sycamores and elms that bordered the one long street. Beyond the village were pleasant glimpses of broad meadow lands where the mower was already at work and green corn fields shimmering in the sun. A broad stream showed like a silver ribbon in the distance as it flowed slowly to the sea, that showed a blue-grey line on the horizon. The country on the other hand was well-wooded; and two or three stately mansions were partly visible. The roadway along which the girl went was rich in hedgerows of wild roses and honeysuckle; but it was not till the little grey stone cottage was in sight that Hilda tried to banish the tired look from her face.

"My best paying pupils, too!" she sighed, "but, of course, it is quite time the Bensons went to school!"

The cottage stood back from the highway, and Hilda stood plucking the red and white roses from the hedge till she felt able to meet Mrs. Markham with her customary bright smile. The latter lady was an invalid and her couch was drawn up to the open window of the sittingroom. She hastened Hilda's approach with an impatient movement of her hand.

"Yes," Hilda admitted, when she had laid aside her outdoor attire, "I did dawdle on the way. The day is hot, and

the children, or I, or both perhaps, were stupid."

Mrs. Markham sighed.

"I never thought you should spend your life teaching the grocer's childrenscales and exercises," she said.

Hilda laughed.

"Luckily, I teach other children be-sides the grocer's, mother," the girl said. "Mrs. Benson tells me that Kate and Mattie go to school in September."

"They should have been at a public school long ago," Mrs. Markham replied, and Hilda marvelled. She had expected tears and lamentations over a decreasing income.

"They are rough, good-natured children, and Mrs. Benson remembered the quarter days," days," the girl girl remarked. "Now, mother, we will have tea."

Mrs. Markham found fault with the quality of the tea and cream. She had been a beautiful woman in her youth, and still retained something of her former graces. Hilda was unlike her mother. Her face had never been called anything but plain. The delicately cut features lacked coloring and vivacity, and it was only at rare intervals the hazel eyes brightened sufficiently to make the small face wonderfully attractive despite its lack of beauty.

"Perhaps the tea is overdrawn," Hilda apologised. "Shall I make some freshtea?"

"Oh, no," Mrs. Markham replied hastily. "I had a visitor to-day, Hilda." "Mrs. Trevor?"

"Well, yes, Mrs. Trevor did call. She wishes you to take charge of the children during the absence of the French governess."

"How lucky!" Hilda's face brightened. "That will make up for the loss

of the Bensons. Mrs. Trevor has always been nice."

"Oh, I suppose so."

"She certainly has. Look how often she has put engagements in my way; and she is never a bit patronizing."

Mrs. Markham nodded. It was at Trevor Court Hilda had first met John Lester, she reflected.

"But Mrs. Trevor wasn't my only visitor. Mr. Lester was here," the elder lady remarked.

"I might have guessed from the flowers." Hilda bent over a vase freshly filled with exquisite roses.

"Hilda, John Lester wishes to marry you," Mrs. Markham went on. "He is rather old-fashioned, perhaps, in his ways, and sought my approval first. Of course I gave it most gladly." "Oh, mother!"

"I wonder, indeed, what he found in you, Hilda, to attract him. You are like your father in appearance. I often lamented your want of beauty when you were a child; and you are not accomplished either. I suppose it is because you and he are Catholics. I always remembered it was your father's earnest wish that you should be brought up in his faith, not mine. Did I not, Hilda?" Hilda made an affirmative sign. To tell the truth, Hilda had not been left to her Protestant mother's care. Doctor Markham had wisely sent his daughter to a convent for her education, and at his death he had been made happy by reflecting that he had done the best thing possible for his child.

“And I am now rewarded," Mrs. Markham went on in self-approval. "Mr. Lester is coming this evening for his answer."

"Oh, mother, I cannot marry him!" "Not marry him!" Mrs. Markham's voice rose high. "Do you not care for him?"

Hilda hesitated.

"Yes, I care for him-"

"Then, why on earth should you refuse him?"

"Mother, you forget Harold."

Mrs. Markham produced a lace-bordered handkerchief.

"Do I ever forget Harold? I, his mother! Hilda, Hilda, you are cruel!" she sobbed hysterically.

"Oh, mother, stop! You will bring on one of your bad attacks, and the little girl is still in the kitchen. She has not gone home yet."

It was the fact that the little servant who came daily to the cottage was still engaged in her domestic duties in the adjoining kitchen that enabled Mrs. Markham to control her tears. She

wiped her eyes, and laid aside the crumpled handkerchief.

"And the doctor says I should have change of air and scene. You know that, Hilda. And we can barely live on my annuity and your earnings.'

"The Lesters are one of the oldest families in the country," Hilda said.

"Yes, indeed. To be sure John belongs to a younger branch. He never expected to inherit the estate. His cousin, the late owner of the property, died suddenly on hearing of the loss of his two sons in a motoring accident. John was sheep-farming in New South Wales at the time."

"I know. But I mean he-Mr. Lester-would not care to have " Hilda

hesitated, fearful of wounding her er-in-law." mother's feelings-"Harold for a broth

"Why should he know? You would never be mad enough to tell him, Hilda!" Mrs. Markham exclaimed.

"With ordinary precaution he should never learn anything about that dreadful affair. When Harold is at liberty, you could supply him with a sum of money sufficient to start him in a new life abroad."

"That money would be Mr. Lester's." "Certainly. I don't think you would find him niggardly, Hilda. One seldom

sees a man of thirty-five so fond of a girl as he is of you," Mrs. Markham commented. "I can't say I find so much to admire in Mrs. Trevor as you do; but I shall be everlastingly grateful to her for introducing John Lester to you." "Oh mother, mother, hush! What you dream of cannot be!"

"Hilda! Oh, I might have known how you would act! For some fanciful, quixotic idea you will sacrifice every one and every one's good." Mrs. Markham began to display hysterical symptoms again. "You know how weak I am-how any excitement upsets me! But you were always peculiar and obstinate from a child."

"Give me time, mother, a little time! I am going out," and Mrs. Markham was wise enough to allow her daughter to slip away to where a small iron church had been erected, and in which Mass was said each Sunday for the benefit of the few Catholics around Northborough. Hilda was calmer when she left the church, and when John Lester came to the cottage in the purple summer dusk she met him at the door.

"Come outside, please," she petitioned; "I can say what I have to say much better there."

"How tragic that sounds, Hilda," John said, leading the way to a rustic

seat.

"My mother was a widow when she married my father," Hilda began hastily, "and she spoiled poor Harold, I am afraid. Harold is my half-brother. He did not get on well at college nor in London, where he went to read for the bar. My father died suddenly. He was a doctor with a moderately good practice. At his death it was found he had lost most of his savings through the dishonesty of his lawyer. My mother had a small annuity; and through the exertions of some friends Harold found a situation in Winchester. Soon afterwards he was accused of forging his em

ployer's name. He was tried and found guilty; and Harold Stanford is now serving his sentence of imprisonment in Dartmoor. We-my mother and Icame here where no one knows of this."

"My poor Hilda! And you think, perhaps, that this would make me less anxious to have you for my wife? No, no! Will you marry me, Hilda?"

Hilda gave a tearful assent, and after a few moments her companion asked: "What did you say your half-brother's name is?”

"Stanford-Harold Stanford. He said he was innocent."

"I seem to have heard the name;" John Lester rose and walked the length of the narrow plot of ground. "Stanford," he repeated. "By Jove! I remember!"

He came quickly back to Hilda's side. "Listen, Hilda. On the night previous to that on which I left England for Australia I journeyed to a little village in Hampshire to say good-bye to a school friend who was dying. I missed catching the Southampton train, and so remained at the village inn over night. I was roused from my sleep by the sound of voices in the room next to mine. The partition walls were slight and the voices were distinct. One-his name was Ashburton-spoke of the difficulty he had in imitating his employer's signature, and also the signature of a fellow clerk named Stanford. He spoke of Stanford as having a bad reputation through betting and gambling, and mentioned that he, Stanford, was deeply in debt. The two men had evidently been drinking, and I attached little importance to their talk. When I rose in the morning my neighbors were gone. The landlord of the inn knew one of the men as William Ashburton."

"William Ashburton was a fellow clerk of Harold's, and the chief witness against him."

"Well, we must inquire. And, Hilda, the old place is lonely, and long engage