HE chance meeting of four wo

T men incites this babble:

Ella "How perfectly lovely your new gown is, Sarah!" Lilian "Isn't it just too sweet for anything!"

Anne-"Oh, I think it's just too cunningly beautiful-"

Sarah, feigning surprise-"This old thing? Why, I've had it for ages."

Quartette "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh, ha, ha, ha, ha."

That they are pedestrians, and may be heard in the next square matters not to them. Their minds are trained on raiment and gush. They own the assured positions in society that money buys and are boisterously, unconventionally unafraid. And having thus had their say, they pass their ways, Sarah in one direction, the babbling trio in another, whereupon this talk takes place:

Ella "The very idea! As though any one with half an eye wouldn't know that old rag done over in that perfectly horrid fashion."

Lilian-"Isn't it just too awfully outlandish and silly for anything-to think that anybody-"

Anne "So do I! Why, it's just too awfully-"

Ella-"And did you notice the old-" Lilian "I should say we did the last year's pl-"

Anne-"And the horrid old rib-"

Ella "Oh, but wasn't she the horrid fright?"

Sarah hears the laughter. Sarah's dear friends, Ella, Lilian and Anne are aware that Sarah is within ear shotaware that Sarah is up in feminine diplomacy and will understand it.

Mentally Sarah says: "The deceitful wretches! I know it's about the ribbon and plume on my hat, and this lace I had over from my last year's walking gown. The jealous apes-they're only sorry that they haven't as good as mine that's what they are-and I hate them-bah!"

Two business men in converse say these things:

Maker "How's Arnold getting along-do you happen to know?"

Jobber "Yes, I know something about him, but I think, considering the circumstances, I'd rather not say anything."

Maker "Well, I've had my suspicions regarding him as a credit risk. Of course I don't ask you to expose your customer-you might have to protect yourself suddenly some day, and, of course, inside knowledge is power. I'll remember the hint, however, and when he comes after a line of credit from us, I'll let him down the easy way-"

Jobber-"Don't misunderstand me. I don't mean to say that Arnold is—"

Maker "Not another word. I understand. He wants to push his credit and take on goods from first hands. I

Anne "That's what I say-but isn't it just too jolly for anything, being such a silly-such a perfect goose-"

Trio "Ha, ha, ha-a-a-a-ha; ha, ha, ha!"

the credit he has."

Maker goes about his business, leaving Jobber to soliloquise within the privacy of his own office: "So Arnold. is trying to pass up the wholesaler and buy direct from the maker, eh? Well,

I fancy I drove that nail home into his credit coffin. Of course, I said nothing against the man-I wouldn't do that about any of our customers, especially a discounter like Arnold. No, indeed, I wouldn't say ill of him; not at all."

Maker, in confidence to his credit man-"Turn Arnold down the easiest way possible. He's into Jobber to the extent that Jobber daren't squeal on him, and having got the limit there he wants to hang us up for a line. But we're too old for that. Turn him down."

Mr. Arnold owes neither Jobber nor Maker a penny-never has owed either beyond the earliest stipulated day of payment, yet out of avarice he is made the victim of that vilest of detractors, the insinuator-that cowardly, miserable speciman of mortality. mortality that knows-nor ever dreams of the grandest luxury in life-Integrity.

never

A lady caller has but a moment to stay. She is on her way to church and has dropped in merely to inquire about the state of her neighbor's health-that is, the lady says she is pressed for time, and that she has called solely with the object stated. As a matter of fact the lady has timed her visit so that she will have more than half an hour at her disposal. She does not mean, when she says so, that she has only a moment to stay. She makes that utterance from force of habit, and in apology for coming at all. Her neighbor's health concerns her not at all, a fact mutually understood. But, since the caller is a habitual babbler, any excuse, just so it fills a space in the prefatory gossip, is made to serve her purpose. She came

taking a well woman's part in the dialogue.

"Mercy, no! For goodness sake don't ever say I said any such thing, for I am very particular what I say-so anxious to always have everything exactly right, you know I really do think it's just terrible to tell things differently from the way they happen, don't you? I do; and I can't bear to hear any one-"

"When did you say they were married?" the sick woman breaks in; she will wait no longer.

"As I was just going to say," resumes the visitor, "I think it's just too mean for anything to circulate stories unless one knows all about them-for my part I hardly ever talk about other people's affairs unless it's to some friend I can trust you know just how that is-you know I hardly ever talk to any one but you and I am sure I could tell you anything and it would be just as safe as if I'd never said a word about itI'm just―"

"Who brought the news?" the sick woman manages to interject.

"That's it-I'm just going to find out for my own satisfaction the truth about it, and until I know all about it, I don't mean to put myself in a position that any person can say I ever said anything. I'm sure I can't think what Miranda could wear to get married in—maybe she's had a new gown made on the quiet-well, she'll surely have to have a new hat-that old fall thing would never do for a bride-but it's none of

my business and, for one, I don't

care—I—”

"Who married them?" The sick woman is nervously impatient now.

"Dear me! Are they really married, then," gasps the startled visitor. "Why didn't you say so at once?"

"I didn't say so; I understood you to say so," says the sick woman, falling back onto the cushions in languid disappointment.

The visitor: "Oh, mercy no, I didn't say they were married-how could I when all I heard was that they were published at the early Mass to-day. Indeed I don't know a thing about it-and that's why I mean to say nothing until I know just all about it-you know that's always my way. I'm sorry I have to run away, but it's time for the next Mass and I think it's just horrid to be late, don't you? I hope you will soon be out again. Yes, I'll come in often. Maybe I'll have time to stop as I go home." And having said nothing, in her way of measuring her words, the babbler departs.

The sick woman sends for the doctor

܀ ܀ ܀ .and collapses

***

Two aged men are "killing time" with words. One is a confirmed loafer, the other works between whiles of gossipmonging. They are old enough to have learned to give good example; if not otherwise, at least by the use of their tongues.

Says Seldom Toil: "Do you reckon that chastity is a virtue?"

Replies Never Work: "I don't just exactly know what to think about it.'

After resting a while Seldom Toil pursues the query: "St. Paul says it is."

"Yes, I know he does," asserts Never Work, "but how does he know? I think St. Paul is one of those old religious fellows that don't have any particular knowledge on the subject. What do you think about it?"

Seldom Toil: "I guess you're right about it."

Then they fall upon the doings and

the reputations of their neighbors with a want of charity and common sense in keeping with their indolent infamy quoted.

Have you thought on the ill accomplishments of the babbler-of the woeful diversion of time from useful pursuits; of the damaging-too often wilfully false evidence voiced against his or her neighbor by the tattler; of the words, words and words vomited forth in conglomerated, hyphenated frenzy by that nasty nuisance, the giggling gossip; of the possible sum of injury to mankind by habituals of the magpie vocal register; of the crimes committed by the careless, the indolent, the reckless and vicious classes who employ the gift of speech and the endowment of understanding to no good purpose?

Have you thought that perhaps the modern babbler is more nearly master or mistress of individual infamy and woe than at any former period since the days of Babylon? That the talk terror more nearly approaches a condition of social epidemic and business peril than ever heretofore?

The latitudinous wanderings of vocabularies and their wedding through linguistic intercourse; the shortening of flights and periods of transit, and the consequent accessibility of scandal marts to scandal mongers; the usurpation of license in the name of liberty-many thoughtful persons hold-sinks the scale of human folly to the lowest depth of record, hoists the scale of tongue-tied wisdom high in air.

T

HE snow was falling in heavy flakes, whitening momentarily the dull surface of the broad river, and anon disappearing

in its tawny depths. The streets on either side of St. Scholastica's sloped steeply down to the water's edge;thronged with the children of the poor; little denizens of a great town, their pinched faces prematurely eager and alert with the keenness and quickness that only children of the poor, in a great city can display. The neighborhood was one that had known better days; "an excellent locality for a Settlement House." St. Scholastica's itself rose square and grey; a large stone building, having once been a country-seat of considerable beauty and value, in the days when the river was fringed by green lawns running down to the rocks at its edge. Innocent of the huge, unsightly chimneys, gas retorts, brick yards, docks and wharfs which now lined its banks and lifted their unshapely masses against the leaden sky, rendering it duller and greyer with the grime of their outpoured smoke. In the old days, long past, St. Scholastica's had borne the name of "Archbrook," from the partly subterranean brook running through its lawn and arched over, on the river front, to form the entrance to a boathouse; while in the meadows toward the city, it had emerged above ground and widened into a miniature lake. Almost all these features were now obliterated, but the boathouse and a portion of the 1.wn still remained as an outlook for the dwellers at St. Scholastica's, gathered

together to study the condition of life in a great city, and to learn, as well, the means of toiling efficiently for God and His Church amid the seething waves of a humanity existing in such conditions.

The lamps had been lighted in the "Red Room" and the curtains drawn, for the gathering gloom had been deepened by the heavy snowfall and night was closing in. A group of twelve were gathered around the table, intent on their work. The room itself bore an air of blended luxury and simplicity. The deeply tinted walls, the heavy crimson curtains, several paintings in quaint frames, and a few pieces of solid mahogany which completed its equipment;— all these were a heritage of the past, given to the work, with the house, and lending something of an old-time charm to the new modes of life now developing within its walls. Those of us who may have visited the Convent of the "Tor' de' Specchi," at Rome, and stood within the beautiful palace of St. Frances, now, for centuries consecrated, as a monastery, yet remaining in many ways unchanged, will have felt, more forcibly, this charm of the incongruous. In the stately refectory the veiled Oblate stands with bowed head and folded hands to entone her Latin grace, while in quaint contrast, one beholds upon the frescoed walls beyond classic portrayals of sybil or nymph, or glowing delineations of historic Rome; details from the ever present story of Romulus and the foundation of the city. A vague reminiscence of such past memories returned to us on our first introduction to St.

Scholastica's. But harken! a bell is ringing, and the little group around the table rise and reform for a class. There is a rustle of papers, an opening and closing of table drawers as each student seeks pencil and pad, together with her "Grammatica Italiana," for this is the Italian evening and "Prof. Cesare dei Sanctis" is expected shortly. A whiff of fresh air announces the arrival of some "outer" students, and four or five young women enter, shaking off the traces of freshly fallen snow. In all, a class of about eighteen pass into the library to meet the Professor. The study is a popular one, for the needs of the "Italiano" in America appeal strongly to the Catholic Settlement. worker. They are so lovable, and so easily won, these children of Italy, and yet so soon led astray, so hopelessly lost to the Church, that both the need and incentive to efforts are apparent; and now that proselytism is stretching forth its eager fingers to draw the little ones to itself the endeavors of loyal Catholics must be redoubled. A word in Italian to the soft-eyed mother, from the visitor as she enters; a kindly "Buon giorno, come stai?" or a greeting to the old "nonna," who is knitting in the corner and "non capisce inglese," how it wins its way to these impressionable hearts! Some knowledge of Italian is quite indispensable also for a practical working of the Catechetical and English-Italian classes for which St. Scholastica's students are preparing, so there is no lack of enthusiasm in the class. Prof. dei Sanctis is most "simpatico," also; a Roman with the true Roman accent, the "Lingua toscana in bocca romana," which Italians so admire; and moreover he is a "clerical;"a truly devout Catholic. He has no lack cf work and patronage now, as most of his hours are engaged by one of the city's best language schools, but he has never forgotten the helping hand extended to him by St. Scholastica's in

The

the days of his first arrival, friendless and alone, in the great Western Metropolis, and no persuasion will induce him to accept an increase of the modest fee first offered him for instruction. class has grown, and his work with it; but, "No; all that I do, it is a pleasure, Signorine," is the constant reply, and so the students feel that Signor dei Sanctis is a fellow worker with them in the good cause-the Church's cause, and God's, and is laboring with them for the preservation of the faith, "la fede," in the hearts of his countrymen and women. The "Adventures of Pinocchio," by Collodi, and a chapter from Silvio Pelico, form their reading matter for this evening. Then follows a little conversation, in which the weather and the falling snow are discussed, together with the probabilities for a lengthened winter, the professor placing rapidly upon the blackboard before him, the verb and substantive appropriate to every form of inclement weather, from the merest sprinkle of a rainbow shower down to Noah's own deluge. A stroke of the clock and a bell come just in time to save them from the latter.

"You must stay to dinner, Professor, it is snowing," comes from a chorus of eager voices. But the Professor raises his hand deprecatingly:

"Ah, young ladies, you are so hospitable at St. Scholastica's! But this evening I must not have the pleasure. It is a 'lezione particolare,' at seven o'clock. Another time, if the young ladies are so kind."

"Thursday evening then, that is the Social Evening you know, and Father Cappello will be here, and the President of the Dante Alighieri Society, from Boston, is coming too; he had scruples, for fear we were too clerical, a sort of lay sisterhood, I think he feared we were, but he was over-persuaded and is coming."

This was from the Senior Resident and the Professor bowed a smiling as