I needn't have done so. I saw by the
whitening under my curate's eyes, and the compression of his lips, and
his eyes glowing like coal, that our dear little Queen's honor was safe
in his hands. Father Duff couldn't have stumbled on a more unhappy
example for himself. Father Letheby placed his elbows on the table and,
leaning forward, he said in a low, tremulous voice:

"You may be very learned, Father, and I believe you are; but for all the
learning stored up in those German universities, which you so much
admire, I would not think as you appear to think on this sacred subject.
If anything could show the tendency of modern interpretations of the
Holy Scriptures, it would be the painful and almost blasphemous opinion
to which you have just given expression. It is the complete elimination
of the supernatural, the absolute denial of Inspiration. If the
_Magnificat_ is not an inspired utterance, I should like to know what
is."

There was a painful silence for a few seconds, during which I could hear
the ticking of my watch. Then the Master of Conference arose, and,
kneeling, said the _Actiones nostras_. We were all gathering up our
books and papers to disperse, when the Bishop said:--

"Gentlemen, the annual procession in honor of our Blessed Lady will be
held in the Cathedral and College grounds on the evening of May the
31st. I shall be glad to see there as many of you as can attend. Dinner
at four; rosary and sermon at seven o'clock. Father Letheby, would you
do me the favor of preaching for us on that occasion?"

Father Letheby blushed an affirmative; and then the bishop, with
delightful tact, turned to the humbled and almost effaced Father Duff,
and said:--

"Father Duff, leave me that paper; I think I'll adopt the admirable
suggestion of our friend, Father Dan."

Some of the young fellows, wits and wags as they were, circulated
through the diocese the report that I tried to kiss the bishop. Now,
there is not a word of truth in that--and for excellent reasons. First,
because like Zacchaeus, I am short of stature; and the bishop--God bless
him!--is a fine, portly man. Secondly, because I have an innate and
congenital dread of that little square of purple under his Lordship's
chin. I'm sure I don't know why, but it always gives me the shivers. I'm
told that they are allowing some new class of people called
"Monsignori," and even some little canons, to assume the distinctive
color of the episcopate. 'T is a great