yer
'Remember' that you taught us, Father; 'Remember;' and then I said:--

"'You won't let Him, Mother! you won't let Him! Didn't you say you
wouldn't let Him?'

"But the face stared down at me pitilessly, pitilessly. There was no
hope."

The poor child stopped again, and to relieve her from the pain of memory
I said:--

"But wasn't the doctor called in all this time? The doctor is very
clever, you know."

"Oh, he was, Father! And he was very kind. But he was very angry; and I
think, Father, he cursed when I told him about these London cosmetics.
And one day he asked mother a lot of queer questions about father and
grandfather; and then he said something about 'strumous' and
'hereditary;' and he has done me no good."

"Did Father Letheby call?" I asked.

"Oh, dear, yes, that was my only consolation. He calls twice a week,
sometimes three times; and he brought Miss Campion, and she comes every
day and reads for hours with me; and look at those violets and lilies of
the valley--'t was she brought them; and sometimes a strange gentleman
comes with her, and he sits down and talks and puts queer questions to
me--all about God, and what I do be doing, and what I do be thinking.
But since Father Letheby told me that there is something behind it all
that I don't understand, and that some day I will understand it, and see
it is all God's love and not His anger, I am quite resigned, Father, and
I do be saying all day: 'Thy Will be done! Thy Will be done.' But I
break down when I think of all I've gone through."

"Let me see," I said, as a light began to dawn upon me; "you are now
perfectly resigned, my poor child, are you not?"

"Oh! yes, Father; and really happy. Only for mother, who frets about me
so much, I wouldn't care to be well again. Sure, as Father Letheby
says, I don't know but that something dreadful was in store for me; and
that God, in His mercy, has just saved me."

"Quite right! quite right! my child. And tell me now,--this strange
gentleman,--has he ever asked you to pray for him?"

"He did, Father. And I didn't like it at first; but Father Letheby said
I should. And I have been saying a Rosary for him every day since. And
the last day he was here he asked me: 'Now, Alice, tell me the plain
truth. Are you glad this has happened you?' I hesitated for a moment,
then I looked at the Wounds of our Lord, and I said firmly: 'I am.' And
he said: 'Do you believe God will give you back your beauty, and make i