madness possesses the world not to see that
this sublime assumption of God's greatest privilege of mercy is in
itself the highest dogmatic proof of the Divine origin of the Church;
for no purely human institution could dare usurp such an exalted
position, nor assume the possession of such tremendous power.

As I knelt down, and turned to leave the church, I felt my cloak gently
pulled. I looked down and faintly discerned in the feeble light some one
huddled at my feet. I thought at first it was one of the little
children, for they used sometimes to wait for the coveted privilege of
holding the hand of their old pastor, and conducting him homeward in
the darkness. This was no child, however, but some one fully grown, as I
conjectured, though I saw nothing but the outline of wet and draggled
garments. I waited. Not a word came forth, but something like the echo
of a sob. Then I said:--

"Whom have I here, and what do you want?"

"Father, Father, have pity!"

"I do not know who you are," I replied, "and wherefore I should have
pity. If you stand up and speak, I'll know what to say or do."

"You know me well," said the woman's voice, "too well. Am I to be cast
out forever?"

Then I recognized Nance, who had followed and blessed Father Tom the
evening he left us. She did not bless me nor address me. I had to speak
publicly of poor Nance; perhaps, indeed, I spoke too sharply and
strongly,--it is so hard to draw the line between zeal and discretion,
it is so easy to degenerate into weakness or into excess. And Nance
feared me. Probably she was the only one of the villagers who never
dared address me.

"What do you want here?" I gently said.

"What do I want here? 'T is a quare question for a priest to be afther
asking. What did the poor crature want when she wint to a bigger man dan
you, and she wasn't turned away aither?"

"Yes, Nance; but she repented and loved Christ, and was prepared to die
rather than sin again."

"And how do you know but I'm the same? Do you know more than the God
above you?--and He is my witness here to-night before His Blessed and
Holy Son that all hell-fire won't make me fall again. Hell-fire, did I
say?" Her voice here sunk into a low whisper. "It isn't hell-fire I
dread, but His face and yours."

I stooped down and lifted her gently. The simple kindness touched the
broken vase of her heart, and she burst into an agony of passionate
tears.

"Oh, wirra! wirra! if you had only said tha