goodness' sake see that the potatoes are properly boiled.'

He took up a great English weekly paper, with copies of which Canon
Beecher supplied him at irregular intervals, and propped it against
the dish-cover while he ate. The article which caught his attention was
headed 'Angels in Connaught.' It contained an idealized account of the
work of the Robeen nuns, from whose shoulders it seemed to the writer
likely that wings would soon sprout. There was a description of the once
miserable cabins now transformed into homesteads so comfortable that
English labourers would not disdain them. The people shared in the
elevation of their surroundings. Men and women, lately half-naked
savages, starved and ignorant, had risen in the scale of civilization
and intelligence to a level which almost equalled that of a Hampshire
villager. The double stream of emigration to the United States and
migration to the English harvest-fields was stopped. An earthly paradise
had been created in a howling wilderness by the self-denying labours of
the holy ladies, aided by the statesmanlike liberality of the Congested
Districts Board. There was another page of the article, but Hyacinth
could stand no more.

He stood up and glanced at his watch. It was already nearly five
o'clock. He pushed his way down the street, where the country-people,
having completed their week's marketing, were loading donkeys on the
footpath or carts pushed backwards against the kerbstone. Women dragged
their heavily-intoxicated husbands from the public-houses, and girls,
damp and bedraggled, stood in groups waiting for their parents. He
turned into the gloomy archway of the mill, unlocked the iron gate, and
crossed the yard into the Quinns' garden. The lamp burned brightly in
the dining-room, and he could see Mrs Quinn in her chair by the fireside
sewing. Her children sat on the rug at her feet. He saw their faces
turned up to hers, gravely intent. No doubt she was telling them some
story. He stood for a minute and watched them, while the peaceful joy
of the scene entered into his heart. This, no doubt, a home full of such
love and peace, was the best thing life had got to give. It was God's
most precious benediction. 'Lo, thus shall a man be blessed who feareth
the Lord.' He turned and passed on to the door. The servant showed him
in, not, as he expected, to the sitting-room he had just gazed at, but
to Mr. Quinn's study.

It was a desolate chamber. A plain wooden desk