and turning; and little boys in their little albs that keeps all the saints’ days, running about the streets, the darlings, in all sorts and kinds of mischief. Oh, I was so delighted, and so thankful, and the music and the velvet, and the painted windys with the sun shining through them, and the beautiful things, put me a-past all judgment—if I could have had you there just to see what a picture it was! But by ’n by, I heard one of their reverences in the pulpit, though I was so bewildered I never saw him go there, and I said to myself, ‘Mass can’t be half over yet,’ think-it was soon for the _sarmint_[11],—and then I thought again may be it was the difference of the country, and looking round I saw all the ladies had crosses on their Prayer-books, and that set me right again, for I was sure none but ourselves would have that. Then the organ and the little boys in their little albs began again; and I was fairly transported, for never had I heard such music—not _singing-music_, but _talking-music_ it was. Oh my heart beat quick with joy, to think how I had got into the right place, and how in the very thick of a nation of heretics, there was every thing natural-like in my own faith. I cried down tears of joy, and indeed others did the same. Then another priest—a fine man intirely—got up into another pulpit, and gave us I must say a fine _sarmint_, I never could desire a better—and it’s the truth I’m telling you—he spoke of fasts, and saints, and gave out the services on next saints’ days—and reminded us of confession. Oh, aunt darling, don’t you or Father Joyce think bad of it if I say—and it’s thrue as if they were the last words I should write in this world—that no holy priest of Rome could pay greater honor to the saints than himself; or insist finer on confession and fasts, or bow with more devotion to the altar; I don’t care who gainsays it, but he was a fine man. Oh glory! says I, aint I in luck? aint I blessed? aint I happy? and I thought to myself I’d make bould to ask a fine grand ould waiting gentleman, who carried his head high, and was all over fine: I asked him where I could get spaking with any of their reverences? and he said some of _the sisters_ were in the vestry then, as they were going to change the _hour of vespers_, and, indeed, he _was_ mighty civil, and said if I wanted to ask a Christian question I might wait there, and he took me near the little room where they keep the vestments, and presently a fine, grand lady came out, and I heard her complain how she caught cold _at Matins_, and one of their reverences came out and bid her good day by the name of ‘_Sister Mary_,’ and then the grand ould waiting gentleman bustled on bowing (not to the altar, but to the lady), and called out for Lady Jane Style’s carriage. I had a great mind to call out ‘Whist,’[12] for I thought it no way to be shouting for carriages at the open door of a holy place. Well; one young priest passed, and another, backing out and making obadience to