ny domestic
importance will not be surprised that Elsie's few moments of projected
talk lengthened imperceptibly into hours.

Agnes came forward anxiously to meet her uncle. He seemed wan and
haggard, and trembling with some recent emotion.

"What is the matter with you, dear uncle?" she asked. "Has anything
happened?"

"Nothing, child, nothing. I have only been talking on painful subjects,
deep perplexities, out of which I can scarcely see my way. Would to God
this night of life were past, and I could see morning on the mountains!"

"My uncle, have you not, then, succeeded in bringing this young man to
the bosom of the True Church?"

"Child, the way is hedged up, and made almost impassable by difficulties
you little wot of. They cannot be told to you; they are enough to
destroy the faith of the very elect."

Agnes's heart sank within her; and the monk, sitting down on the wall
of the garden, clasped his hands over one knee and gazed fixedly before
him.

The sight of her uncle,--generally so cheerful, so elastic, so full of
bright thoughts and beautiful words,--so utterly cast down, was both a
mystery and a terror to Agnes.

"Oh, my uncle," she said, "it is hard that I must not know, and that I
can do nothing, when I feel ready to die for this cause! What is one
little life? Ah, if I had a thousand to give, I could melt them all into
it, like little drops of rain in the sea! Be not utterly cast down, good
uncle! Does not our dear Lord and Saviour reign in the heavens yet?"

"Sweet little nightingale!" said the monk, stretching his hand towards
her. "Well did my master say that he gained strength to his soul always
by talking with Christ's little children!"

"And all the dear saints and angels, they are not dead or idle either,"
said Agnes, her face kindling; "they are busy all around us. I know not
what this trouble is you speak of; but let us think what legions of
bright angels and holy men and women are caring for us."

"Well said, well said, dear child! There is, thank God, a Church
Triumphant,--a crowned queen, a glorious bride; and the poor,
struggling Church Militant shall rise to join her! What matter, then,
though our way lie through dungeon and chains, through fire and sword,
if we may attain to that glory at last?"

"Uncle, are there such dreadful things really before you?"

"There may be, child. I say of my master, as did the holy Apostles: 'Let
us also go, that we may die with him.' I feel a