child whose loving care was less mature and less lively
than the man's.

And as he spoke the despairing words, "My God, my God, wherefore is my
spirit heavy, and why dost Thou afflict me?" the priest was indeed the
image of Jesus suffering on the hill of Calvary, but the man remained in
the celebrant--the man, conscious of himself, and himself experiencing,
in behoof of his personal sins and his own shortcomings, the impressions
of sorrow contained in the inspired text.

Meanwhile his little acolyte had words of comfort, bid him hope; and
after repeating the _Confiteor_ in the face of the congregation, who on
their part purified their souls by the same ablution of confession, the
priest with revived assurance went up the altar steps and began the
Mass.

Positively, in this atmosphere of prayers crushed in by the heavy roof,
Durtal, in the midst of kneeling Sisters and women, was struck with a
sense as of some early Christian rite buried in the catacombs. Here were
the same ecstatic tenderness, the same faith; and it was possible even
to imagine some apprehension of surprise, and some eagerness to profess
the faith in the face of danger. And thus, as in a vague image, this
sacred cellar held the dim picture of the neophytes assembled so long
since in the underground caverns of Rome.

The service proceeded before Durtal's eyes, and he was amazed to watch
the boy, who, with half closed eyes and the reserve of timid emotion,
kissed the flagons of wine and of water before presenting them to the
priest.

Durtal would look no more; he tried to concentrate his mind while the
priest was wiping his hands, for the only prayers he could honestly
offer up to God were verses and texts repeated in an undertone.

This only had he in his favour, but this he had: that he passionately
loved mysticism and the liturgy, plain-song and cathedrals. Without
falsehood or self-delusion, he could in all truth exclaim, "Lord, I have
loved the habitation of Thy house, and the place where Thine honour
dwelleth." This was all he had to offer to the Father in expiation of
his contumely and refractoriness, his errors and his falls.

"Oh!" thought he, "how could I dare to pour out the ready-made collects
of which the prayer-books are full, how say to God, while addressing Him
as 'Lovely Jesus,' that He is the beloved of my heart, that I solemnly
vow never to love anything but Him, that I would die rather than ever
displease Him?

"Love none bu