e
evidently thinking of Italy, for you ask for a description of where I am
staying, saying that a ray of Italian sunlight will cheer you. Come to
Italy. You can come here without danger of meeting us. We are leaving at
the end of the month.

'But I could go on chattering page after page, telling you about gardens
and orange-trees (the orange-trees are the best part of the decoration;
even now the great fruit hangs in the green leaves); and when I had
described Italy, and you had described all the castles and the islands,
we could turn back and discuss our religious differences. But I doubt if
any good would come of this correspondence. You see, I have got my work
to do, and you have got yours, and, notwithstanding all you say, I do
not believe you to be unable to write the history of the lake and its
castles. Your letters prove that you can, only your mind is unhinged by
fears for my spiritual safety, and depressed by the Irish climate. It is
very depressing, I know. I remember how you used to attribute the
history of Ireland to the climate: a beautiful climate in a way, without
extremes of heat and cold, as you said once, without an accent upon it.
But you are not the ordinary Irishman; there is enough vitality in you
to resist the languor of the climate. Your mood will pass away.... Your
letter about the hermit that lived on Church Island is most beautiful.
You have struck the right note--the wistful Irish note--and if you can
write a book in that strain I am sure it will meet with great success.
Go on with your book, and don't write to me any more--at least, not for
the present. I have got too much to do, and cannot attend to a lengthy
correspondence. We are going to Paris, and are looking forward to
spending a great deal of time reading in the National Library. Some day
we may meet, or take up this correspondence again. At present I feel
that it is better for you and better for me that it should cease. But
you will not think hardly of me because I write you this. I am writing
in your own interests, dear Father Gogarty.

'Very sincerely yours,

'NORA GLYNN.'

He read the letter slowly, pondering every sentence and every word, and
when he had finished it his hand dropped upon his knee; and when the
letter fell upon the hearthrug he did not stoop to pick it up, but sat
looking into the fire, convinced that everything was over and done.
There was nothing to look forward to; his life would drag on from day to
day,