One morning--it was a Christmas morning--Mat was walking with his father in the "Big Meadows." Snow had fallen heavily the night before; and as they passed a bush, they saw the impress of a woman's form; it was evident that an unhappy being had there spent her Christmas Eve. "My God!" said Mat, "a woman has slept there." Mat's father was the kindest and most humane being in all the world, but "Serve the wretch right!" was his comment. Her story wound up in a tragic climax. One night she made more violent resistance than ever to the attempts of the police to arrest her, and when she was at last captured, she was torn and bleeding. They put her into a cell by herself; she could be heard pacing up and down with the infuriate step of a caged tiger. The policeman on duty afterwards told how he had heard her muttering to herself, and that he thought he caught the words, "These eyes! These eyes! They have undone me! They have undone me!" Soon afterwards he heard a wild, unearthly shriek that froze his blood. He rushed into the cell, and there, horrible, bleeding.... But I dare not describe the sight. * * * * * Betty Cunningham was taken once more into the Mary Magdalene Asylum. Her voice was trained, and after some years she sang in the choir. A strong hush always came over the chapel when her voice was heard. People still told in whispers the terrible story of the blind lay sister; and Mat, sitting in the chapel years afterwards, was carried over the whole history of her career and his own and that of Ballybay generally as he listened to her rich contralto singing second to the rest. He had always thought that there was something wondrously pathetic, at least in sacred music, in the voice that sings seconds, and the impression was confirmed as he listened to the blind girl's accompaniment to the other voices; low when they were loud, sad when they were triumphant, following painfully their quicker steps with that ever plaintive protest and soft wail--fit image of life, where our highest joys are dogged by sorrow's quick and inevitable step. Conclusion next month. * * * * * CHARITY's mantle is often made of gauze. Alone. "CANST thou watch one hour with me?" How long since fell these words from Thee? Before Thy blood-wept vigil in dark Gethsemane, How many since to Thee have bent the knee? And yet too few, for here, O Lord! art Thou; Deserted? No! for angels crowding to Thee bring Sweet, holy homage to their God, their King. While--as Thy chosen ones forgetful slumbered-- Thy people passeth on the road unnumbered, With never a thought of Thee, O God, beside. 'Tis well, O Lord! 'tis well for human kind, Thy love is ever wondrous, great and wide, Thy heart with golden mercies ever glowing, Thy reaping not always Thy people's sowing. DESMOND. A Midnight Mass.