the mountains from
the terrible stress of the southwest winds. Land and sea were wiped out
in the cataracts of rain that poured their deluges on sea and moor and
mountain; and the channels of the village ran fiercely with brown muddy
water; and every living thing was housed, except the ducks, which
contemptuously waded through the dirty ruts, and only quacked
melodiously when the storm lifted their feathers and flung them from
pool to pool of the deserted street. I called on Father Letheby.

"This is dismal weather," I said, "enough to give any one a fit of the
blues in this awful place."

He looked at me, as if this were an attempt to draw him. There was a
roar of wind that shook his window-sashes, as if it said, "We will get
in and spoil your pleasure, whether you like it or not"; and there was
a shower of bullets, as from a Maxim, that threatened to smash in and
devastate all the cosey comforts.

"By Jove," said he, turning round, "I never felt happier in my life. And
every roar and splash of the tempest makes me draw closer and closer to
this little nest, which I can call my own home."

It was a cosey nest, indeed. The fire burned merrily,--a little coal, a
good deal of bogwood and turf, which is the cleanest fire in the world;
there was cleanliness, neatness, tidiness, taste everywhere; the
etchings and engravings gave tone to the walls; the piano lay open, as
if saying, "Come, touch me"; the books, shining in gold and red and blue
and purple, winked in the firelight; and, altogether, it was a picture
of delight accentuated by the desolation outside.

"What do I want?" he continued. "Ease? here it is; comfort? here it is;
health? thank God, perfect; society? here are the kings of men on my
shelves. I have only to summon them,--here Plato, Aristotle, AEschylus,
Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare! come here, and they come; speak, and they
open their dead lips; be silent, and back they go to their shelves. I
have not got your Greek Fathers yet; but they'll come. You notice that
my theological library is rather scant. But I can borrow St. Thomas,
Lugo, Suarez; I cannot borrow the others, for you are so jealous about
your books."

"Rather clever economy!" I said. "But now tell me what you do without
the morning paper?"

"Well, now, there you touched a sore point. At least it was; but it is
healing. For the first few weeks it was my daily penance. I used always
breakfast in England with the paper propped against the tea