Notwithstanding my gloomy forebodings, I find that Father Letheby has eagerly grasped the idea of writing on the historical and philosophical subjects I had suggested. Where he got books of reference I know not, nor can I conjecture; but he has a silent way of accomplishing things that would seem to a slow-moving mind like my own little short of a miracle. When, therefore, one fine day in early April I strolled in to see him (for that little tiff about the sick child has only cemented our friendship), I gasped to see a huge pile of quarto manuscript paper in a fair way to be soon well blackened, and by the side of his writing-table several heavy, leather-lined folios, which a certain visitor described as "just the kind of book you would take with you for a stroll by the seashore, or your annual holiday at Lisdoonvarna."  
"Hallo!" I cried; "so you're at it. I thought you had given it up."
 
"I'm in for it," he replied modestly, "for good or ill. You see, I recognized some truth in what you said, and I determined to do a little to take away our reproach."
 
"I must say you are a singularly acute and deep thinker to recognize my far-seeing, almost Promethean wisdom; but to tell you the truth, I haven't the faintest idea of what I said to you, except to recommend you to do something for the spread of Catholic literature."
 
"Never mind, Father Dan," he replied, "the seed is sown; the die is cast. I intend to scribble away now and to submit my manuscript to the editor of some ecclesiastical journal. If he accepts it, well and good; if he doesn't, no harm done. By the way, you must help me, by looking over this translation of the funeral oration of St. Gregory Nazianzen on St. Basil. I depend on your knowledge of Greek a great deal more than on these garbled versions of Scotch or Oxford translators."
 
Isn't that a nice young man? What could I do but go over, then and there, that famous panegyric, that has made the author as great as his subject. At the end of his papers on the "Three Cappadocians," Father Letheby intends to give in Greek, with English translation, passages from their sermons and poems. A happy idea!
 
"Now, so far so good!" said Father Letheby, after this little conference. "The metaphysical subject is more difficult to tackle,—a fellow can be tripped up so easily; but we'll postpone that for the present. Now here are three matters that concern us. I think Ormsby is on the point of coming over. The prayers of the little children and of that poor Dolores, Alice, have nearly pushed open the gates of the Kingdom. At least, they're creaking on their hinges. Secondly, I'm beginning to get afraid of that young girl. Under her awful cross she's developing such sanctity as makes me nervous about guiding her any longer. She is going up the eternal hills, and my spiritual sight cannot follow. Thirdly, we open the shirt-factory on the 20th. I give you timely warning, Father Dan, for you are to be chairman, and your speech is to be the event of the occasion."
 
"Quite an anti-climax from the eternal hills," I said, noticing his tendency to practical issues rather than to supernatural evolutions; "but now, let us see. Are you sure of Ormsby?"
 
"Nearly so. I have left him severely alone—told him the matter concerned himself altogether. He has given up reading and argumentation of every kind. He says the Veni Creator every day. But I think, under Heaven, it is the patience and divine serenity of this poor child that affect him most deeply."
 
"Then he isn't shocked at her appearance?"
 
"Oh, dear, yes! He cannot bear to look at her. He says it is more like Oriental leprosy than anything he has seen in these countries. But her gentleness and patience and her realization of the unseen startle him—"
 
"It has startled me more than once," I replied.
 
"And me. I begin to feel almost nervous about directing so high a soul. I am glad you have noticed it, because you can give me lights."
 
"H'm. You are becoming sarcastic, young man. But I feel we are treading on holy ground. Let us look to ourselves. How often do you give the child Holy Communion?"
 
"Every Sunday and holiday."
 
"Has she asked for more frequent Communion?"
 
"Yes, indeed; but I hesitated."
 
"Hesitate no longer. Digitus Dei est hic."
 
Of course, I had seen all this myself; for in a quiet, unconscious way this poor child had manifested even to my purblind eyes the dealings of God's munificence with her. By degrees all the old vain regrets after her beauty had yielded to perfect resignation; and resignation had grown into peace, and peace had been transformed into rapture.
 
"I used be thinking, Daddy Dan, a good deal of what you said to me—how these poor bodies of ours were but a little lime, and phosphorus, and water; and that we must all go through the terrible changes of death; and what you told me of that great saint in Spain and the dead queen; but it was only when Father Letheby read to me about our Lord, 'a worm and no man,' 'a leper and accursed by God and afflicted'; 'and one huge sore from the crown of his head to the sole of his feet'—that I began to think He had made me like Himself, welcome be His Will, and Holy be His Name!"
 
Then I got her a fine big brass Crucifix from the Passionist Fathers at Mount Argus, and left her to her wonder-working and merciful Master. But she has impressed Ormsby profoundly. "The weak things of the world hast Thou chosen to confound the strong." "Thy ways are upon the sea, and Thy pathway on the mighty waters, and Thy footsteps are unknown."
 
"Well, now," I said to Father Letheby, getting out of my reverie, "to come down from the Holy Mountain, what's this you are saying about the shirt-factory? You don't mean to aver it is a fait-accompli?"
 
"Certainly," he replied, "everything is arranged; and on the 20th a dozen sewing-machines will be clicking merrily in the old mill."
 
"You have the lamp of Aladdin," I said admiringly. "Now, who's to be there?"
 
"All the gentry and the élite of the neighborhood," he said.
 
"Rather a limited audience for a great occasion," I couldn't help saying.
 
"No matter," he cried, rising up; "it is a good work, however. But you'll take the chair, Father Dan, won't you?"
 
"All right," I replied, but with a little misgiving, for no one knows what necromancy this fellow is capable of, and I had already conjured up visions of the Lord Lieutenant and the Dowager This and the Countess That—"but mind you, my speech is to come in at the end; and I promise you they won't have to look long at their watches."
 
"Very good, sir," he replied, "all is now arranged."
 
I went down to see my little martyr, for she is pleased to say that I do her good by my visits. There she lay meekly, the big crucifix in her hands, and her lips always moving in silent prayer. The children often come in to see her, she told me, and read by her bedside; for now there is no jealousy, nor triumph, but all have begun to think that there is a saint in the parish. The little milliner used come at the beginning, and bring her little novelettes and journals, and talk about the fashions, which only made the sufferer unhappy. All that is now stopped; and the "Clock of the Passion" and the "Visions of Catherine Emmerich" are now her only reading.
 
"Mr. Ormsby was here again to-day," she said.
 
"Indeed. And was he as inquisitive as usual?"
 
"Nearly," she said, with a smile. "But do you know, Daddy Dan, I think he'll become a Catholic. Isn't it an awful thing not to be a Catholic, Daddy Dan?"
 
"'Tis, my child. It's worse than being born blind."
 
"Now, what would I do if I had not our dear Lord"—kissing the crucifix—"and His holy Mother? I'd rather a thousand times be as I am than Queen of England."
 
"Of course. Who brought these flowers?"
 
"Miss Campion. She calls them lilies of the valley. Is it a sin to smell them, Daddy Dan?"
 
"No, child, it is no sin. Nay, 't is a prayer if you glorify God for the wonders He has wrought in these tiny leaves."
 
"But they'll fade away and die in a day or two, Daddy Dan!"
 
"So shall all beautiful things, my child, only to be transplanted where there is no rust or fading."
 
"Thank you, Daddy Dan. That's just what I said to Mr. Ormsby. 'Do you really believe,' he said, 'that it is the love of God that has smitten you?' 'Yes,' I said firmly. 'Do you believe that you are all the dearer to Him for that He has smitten you?' 'Yes,' I said, 'I'm sure of it.' 'And do you believe that God will take you out of the grave and build you up far fairer than you have been?' 'I believe it most certainly,' I replied. 'It's the sublime and the impossible,' he cried. And then he said,—but I shouldn't repeat this, Daddy Dan,—'Mind, little one, if I become a Catholic, it's you have made me one.' But it would be so nice, if only to repay Miss Campion for all her goodness."
 
Then I began to think of some holy man that said: There should be an invalid and an incurable one in every religious community, if only to bring God nearer to them in His great love.
 
As I was leaving, Mrs. Moylan pulled me aside.
 
"Is there any chance at all, your reverence, of her recovery?"
 
She looked with a mother's wistfulness at me.
 
"For I do be praying to the Lord morning, noon, and night, that if it be His Blessed and Holy Will, He would take her out of suffering, or restore her to me."
 
I made no answer.
 
"You could do it, your reverence, if you liked. Sure, I don't want you to do any harm to yourself, God forbid; but you could cure her and restore her to me, if you plazed."
 
"I couldn't, Mrs. Moylan," I replied; "and what is more, I wouldn't now take her away from God if I could. I was as bitter as you about it; but now I see that God has His own designs upon your child, and who am I that I should thwart Him?"
 
"Perhaps your reverence is right," she replied; "but the mother's heart will spake up sometimes whin it ought to be silent."
 
I passed by my little chapel as I went home, and knelt down for a prayer. I thought the Blessed Virgin looked queer at me, as if to say:—
 
"Well, are you satisfied now? Who was right—you or my Son?" And I went home very humbled.
 
The great day at last arrived. And if I was surprised the evening of the concert at the transformation effected in the old mill, I was still more surprised when, entering its precincts on the opening day of the Kilronan Shirt-Factory, I came face to face with quite a distinguished gathering. There were carriages drawn up at the door, the liveried coachmen hardly able to hold the prancing horses' heads; and the owners were in the great room upstairs, chatting in groups or examining the machines, that, clean and bright and polished, only awaited the soft touch of human fingers to work wonders. And there, on the large table filling up the whole centre of the room, was displayed an assortment of linen and flannels cut up into as many sections as you could take out of all the diagrams of Euclid. And there, of course, was the stage, undisturbed since the evening of the concert; and there were the same flowers and palms, and the same little girls dressed in satin, and the same piano, and Miss Campion, only waiting the signal to commence.
 
I moved up through the long hall, making my bows to right and left. Father Letheby was chatting gayly with some very grand people, and pointing out his little improvements here and there. He was in his best optimistic humor, and was quite at his ease in the groups t............