e Blessed Virgin when he is talking of her. I
shouldn't be surprised."

"I think he'll have crosses, too, like you, my dear. No, no, I don't
mean illness; but crosses of his own."

"I should be sorry," she said, her eyes filling with tears.

"Of course, you want heaven all to yourself. Aren't you a selfish
saint?"

"I'm not a saint at all, Daddy Dan; but Father Letheby is, and why
should he be punished?"

"Why, indeed? Except to verify that line of Dante's of the soul in
Paradise:

"'E dal martirio venni a questa pace.'"

CHAPTER XXV

MAY DEVOTIONS

I often wonder if the May devotions in other countries are as sweet and
memory-haunting and redolent of peace as here in holy Ireland. Indeed, I
suppose they are; for there are good, holy Catholics everywhere. But
somehow the fragrance and beauty of these May evenings hang around us in
Ireland as incense hangs around a dimly lighted church, and often cling
around a soul where faith and holiness have been banished. I cannot
boast too much of the picturesqueness and harmony of our evening prayers
at Kilronan, at least until Father Letheby came. We had, indeed, the
Rosary and a little weak homily. Nevertheless, the people loved to come
and gather around the beautiful statue of our Mother. But when Father
Letheby came, he threw music and sunshine around everything; but I
believe he exhausted all his art in making the May devotions attractive
and edifying. He said, indeed, that they were imperfect, and would
always remain imperfect, until we could close them with Benediction of
the Most Blessed Sacrament; and he urged me again and again to apply for
permission, but, to tell the truth, I was afraid. And my dear old
maxim, which had done me good service during life--my little pill of all
philosophy--_lente! lente!_ came again to my aid. But I'll tell you what
we had. The Lady altar had all its pretentious ugliness hid under a mass
of flowers--great flaunting peonies burning in the background, beautiful
white Nile lilies in the front, bunches of yellow primroses between the
candles, great tulips stained in flame colors, like the fires of
Purgatory around the holy souls in our hamlet pictures. And hidden here
and there, symbolical of the Lily of Israel, and filling the whole
church with their delicate perfumes, were nestled lilies of the valley,
sweetest and humblest of all those "most beautiful things that God has
made and forgot to put a soul in." Then such