ndering at that justice so soon to be measured out to him. "You are
again right. Oh, but we are feeble ... but we are foolish ... to think
it. What is our hate any more than our justice ... both impotent and
ridiculous."

There followed a long pause, then, for Monsignor had finished his
argument, and only waited to control his own emotion before saying
good-by.

"I die content," said Ledwith with a long restful sigh, coming back to
earth, after a deep look into divine power and human littleness. "Bring
me to-morrow, and often, the Lord of Justice. I never knew till now that
in desiring Justice so ardently, it was He I desired. Monsignor, I die
content, without hate, and without despair."

If ever a human creature had a foretaste of heaven it was Honora during
the few weeks that followed this happy day. The bitterness in the soul
of Owen vanished like a dream, and with it went regret, and vain
longing, and the madness which at odd moments sprang from these
emotions. His martyrdom, so long and ferocious, would end in the glory
of a beautiful sunset, the light of heaven in his heart, shining in his
face. He lay forever beyond the fire of time and injustice.

Every morning Honora prepared the little altar in the sick-room, and
Monsignor brought the Blessed Sacrament. Arthur answered the prayers and
gazed with awe upon the glorified face of the father, with something
like anger upon the exalted face of the daughter; for the two were gone
suddenly beyond him. Every day certain books provided by Monsignor were
read to the dying man by the daughter or the son; describing the
migration of the Irish all over the English-speaking world, their growth
to consequence and power. Owen had to hear the figures of this growth,
see and touch the journals printed by the scattered race, and to hear
the editorials which spoke their success, their assurance, their
convictions, their pride.

Then he laughed so sweetly, so naturally, chuckled so mirthfully that
Honora had to weep and thank God for this holy mirthfulness, which
sounded like the spontaneous, careless, healthy mirth of a boy.
Monsignor came evenings to explain, interpret, put flesh and life into
the reading of the day with his vivid and pointed comment. Ledwith
walked in wonderland. "The hand of God is surely there," was his one
saying. The last day of his pilgrimage he had a long private talk with
Arthur. They had indeed become father and son, and their mutual
tenderness was