l beginnings
that have been brought to a great success.

Father O'Connor was met at the door by a Sister in the black habit of
the Order, a sweet-faced, gentle nun, smiling as kindly as the priest
himself.

"Well, Sister Bernardine!" he cried. "What makes you always smile? One
would expect a serious face in a place like this."

"A smile never made a sick man worse," she answered. "The Mother
Superioress would like to speak to you before you see Mrs. Clarence."

"Certainly, Sister. I am never the worse for a word with Mother
Superioress. Where is she?"

"In the convent expecting you. I think you should be as quick as you
can; the poor woman is seriously injured."

The Mother Superioress beamed upon Father O'Connor. She had conceived a
great liking and respect for the young priest, for she recognised that
beneath his humour and high spirits was concealed a strong sense of
duty, akin to her own.

"I shall not detain you, Father," she said. "This poor lady met with a
motor accident outside our doors, and was carried in here. She is too
sick to move, otherwise we would have sent her to a private hospital.
Dr. Broxham has just seen her, and holds out no hope of recover. But the
trouble is this: she is a Protestant, yet she has asked to see a
priest."

"Does her husband consent?" Father O'Connor asked.

"The poor man was killed," the Mother Superioress answered. "We have not
told her that. But she does not ask for him. She asks constantly for a
priest--and for Denis Quirk."

"Denis Quirk?" cried the priest, "and her name is Clarence! Strange!
Have you sent for Denis Quirk?"

"Who is he?" she asked.

"You must surely know Denis Quirk, the editor of the 'Freelance.' Two
such important persons as you and he must have met."

"Of course I know him. He is one of our best friends. But are you
certain it is he she wishes to see?"

"I merely surmise, Mother. I will see her at once and ask her--the
Sister told me to lose no time."

In the big surgical ward of the hospital, the bed surrounded by screens,
Father O'Connor found a woman, her face of an ashen colour, and
constantly contracted in pain. She lay very quietly and in silence save
when a faint groan spoke of a spasm of agony. Her voice had sunk to a
faint whisper, so that the priest was compelled to bend over and listen
to that which she desired to say. But, in a low voice, and disjointed
sentences, she confided her sins to Father O'Connor's ears, and was then