liberties, and denounce their persecutors, if these
happen to be French or Dutch or Russian. For a Pole or an Irishman you
have no sympathy, and you would deny him any place on the earth but a
grave. Liberty is not for him unless he becomes a good English
Protestant at the same time. In other words liberty may be the proper
sauce for the English goose but not for the Irish gander."

"I suppose it appears that way to you," said Livingstone, who had
listened closely, not merely to the sentiments, but to the words, the
tone, the idiom. Could Horace Endicott have ever descended to this view
of his world, this rawness of thought, sentiment, and expression? So
peculiarly Irish, anti-English, rich with the flavor of the Fourth Ward,
and nevertheless most interesting.

"I shall not argue the point," he continued. "I judge from your
earnestness that you have a well-marked ambition in life, and that you
will follow it."

"My present ambition is to see our grand cathedral completed and
dedicated as soon as possible, as the loudest word we can speak to you
about our future. But I fear I am detaining you. If during the next few
days the papers in the divorce case are not served on me, I may feel
certain that Mrs. Endicott has given up the idea of including me in the
suit?"

"I shall advise her to leave you in peace for the sake of the Endicott
name," said Livingstone politely.

Arthur thanked him and departed, while the lawyer spent an hour enjoying
his impressions and vainly trying to disentangle the Endicott from the
Dillon in this extraordinary man.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE END OF MISCHIEF.

Arthur set out for the Curran household, where he was awaited with
anxiety. Quite cheerful over his command of the situation, and inclined
to laugh at the mixed feelings of Livingstone, he felt only reverence
and awe before the human mind as seen in the light of his own
experience. His particular mind had once been Horace Endicott's, but now
represented the more intense and emotional personality of Arthur Dillon.
He was neither Horace, nor the boy who had disappeared; but a new being
fashioned after the ideal Arthur Dillon, as Horace Endicott had
conceived him. What he had been seemed no more a part of his past, but a
memory attached to another man. All his actions proved it.

The test of his disappearance delighted him. He had gone through its
various scenes with little emotion, with less than Edith had displayed;
far less t