t of rightly directing souls."

"I'd like to carry her off from him!" said the cavalier, between his
teeth. "I will, too, if he is not careful!" Then he added aloud,
"Father, Agnes is mine,--mine by the right of the truest worship and
devotion that man could ever pay to woman,--mine because she loves me.
For I know she loves me; I know it far better than she knows it herself,
the dear innocent child! and I will not have her torn from me to waste
her life in a lonely, barren convent, or to be the wife of a stolid
peasant. I am a man of my word, and I will vindicate my right to her in
the face of God and man."

"Well, well, my son, as I said before, patience,--one thing at a time.
Let us say our prayers and sleep to-night, to begin with, and to-morrow
will bring us fresh counsel."

"Well, my father, you will be for me in this matter?" said the young
man.

"My son, I wish you all happiness; and if this be for your best good and
that of my dear niece, I wish it. But, as I said, there must be time and
patience. The way must be made clear. I will see how the case stands;
and you may be sure, when I can in good conscience, I will befriend
you."

"Thank you, my father, thank you!" said the young man, bending his knee
to receive the monk's parting benediction.

"It seems to me not best," said the monk, turning once more, as he was
leaving the threshold, "that you should come to me at present where I
am,--it would only raise a storm that I could not allay; and so great
would be the power of the forces they might bring to bear on the child,
that her little heart might break and the saints claim her too soon."

"Well, then, father, come hither to me to-morrow at this same hour, if I
be not too unworthy of your pastoral care."

"I shall be too happy, my son," said the monk. "So be it."

And he turned from the door just as the bell of the cathedral struck the
Ave Maria, and all in the street bowed in the evening act of worship.

* * * * *

A NIGHT IN A WHERRY.

As the summer vacation drew near, and the closed shutters and
comparative quiet of the west end made one for a moment believe in the
phrase, "Nobody in town," I had, after some thought, determined to
resist the many temptations of a walking tour, and, instead of trusting
to shoe-leather, try what virtue lay in a stout pair of oars, and make a
trip by water instead of land.

But first, in what direction? The careful search of a