mother; yet she has saints
to show by the thousands. She has never been afraid to speak--always
has spoken; but the ages have not trapped her. She is the biggest,
most wonderful, most mysterious, most awful thing on earth; and yet, as
you say, those who study religion ignore her. I couldn't, and I have
been through the mill."

Mark shifted a little uneasily. "I can't ignore her," he said, "but I
am just a little bit afraid of her."

"Ah, yes." The priest caught his pipe by the bowl and used the stem to
emphasize his words. "I felt that way, too. I like you, Mr. Griffin,
and so I am going to ask you not to mind if I tell you something that I
have never told anyone before. I was afraid of her. I hated her. I
struggled, and almost cursed her. She was too logical. She was
leading me where I did not want to go. But when I came she put her
arms around me; and when I looked at her, she smiled. I came in spite
of many things; and now, Mr. Griffin, I pay. I am alone, and I pay
always. Yet I am glad to pay. I am glad to pay--even here--in
Sihasset."

Mark was moved in spite of himself. "I wonder," he said softly, "if
you are glad, Monsignore, to pay so much? Pardon me if I touch upon
something raw; but I know that you were, even as a Catholic, higher
than you are now. Doesn't that make it hard to pay?"

"To many it might appear that it would make things harder; but it
doesn't. You have to be inside in order to understand it. The Church
takes you, smiling. She gives to you generously, and then, with a
smile, she breaks you; and, hating to be broken, you break, knowing
that it is best for you. She pets you, and then she whips you; and the
whips sting, but they leave no mark on the soul, except a good mark,
_if you have learned_. But pardon me, here's a parishioner--" A
woman, old and bent, was coming up the steps. "Come on, Mrs. O'Leary.
How is the good man?"

The priest arose to meet the woman, whose sad face aroused in Mark a
keen thrill of sympathy.

"He's gone, Father," she said, "gone this minute. I thank God he had
you with him this morning, and went right. It came awful sudden."

"God rest him. I'm sorry--"

"Don't be sorry, Father," she answered, as he opened the door to let
her go into the house ahead of him. "Sure, God was good to me, and to
John and to the childer. Sure, I had him for thirty year, and he died
right. I'm happy to do God's will."

She passed into the house. T